The Feloni Family Chronicles as told by The Broad from Abroad

The following is a copyrighted work of fiction; none of the Felonis are real.  They are the product of the author's sick but brilliant imagination.  Please do not copy or reproduce without the author's position.  If you are a publisher, contact me directly, and check out my work on my Amazon.com author's page, LinkedIn, Goodread's Authors Page, and 917studio.  You can also find my work on Dissertation Abstracts International.  I can be even more shameless; just contact me :)

The Feloni Family Chronicles as told by The Broad from Abroad

                Let me tell you a little story about a family named Feloni, who also happen to be my former in-laws, some three husband’s ago.

                Since meeting them and suffering two other bad marriages, I’ve taken a vow of celibacy and have taken up race cars.  Actually racing them, not collecting little plastic models with teeny metal wheels.

                I’d like to start with a portrait of my ex-sister-in-law, Brindle Zima Feloni, mother of the Feloni heirs to the Feloni Family Trailer Park and Olive Oil Conglomerate, the Lovely Agnetta and Belladonna Feloni.

                Brindle has been married between boyfriends to the second eldest Feloni son, Grunt Feloni.  His real name, as you’ve guessed, is not Grunt.  It’s Giovanni Carlissimo Feloni.  We call him Grunt because, well, he grunts instead of talking.  Meet Grunt and you know where the missing link between Neanderthal and Homo sapiens seeded itself and flourished.

                When he isn’t grunting approval to himself at the Conservative talk radio shows he loves, Grunt is out hunting squirrels.  Brindle likes to sell the skins online.  She uses her proceeds to stock her subzero with Zima and to buy matching seat cushions for the window seat in her double-wide trailer.

                Carlissimo and Brindle Zima put the “fun” in dysfunctional before the word even gained common, household use.  Brindle, devoted daughter to her Daddy Craig Abhoresen, prefaces every sentence with “My Daddy says!!!”  At which point, you, the listener/opponent are meant to crumble in fear.  No one wants Daddy Craig and his child bride Jennifer waiting for you on the porch of your double-wide on a lonely, dark night.  No, the thought of Craig with his belt hiked up to his armpits, rheumy eyes bleary with rage and cheap beer, fly swatter in hand, was terrifying.  Jennifer alone was enough to strike terror into an in-law’s heart; you lived in fear those tight spandex shorts would one day pop off her and slap you right in the face.  Heaven knows what abrasions they might leave.

                Brindle managed Mamma’s Feloni cupcake/savings&loan business on the side.  She managed to skim off her own frosting fund to the tune of several thousand dollars. She could buy a lot of cases of Zima, her namesake beverage of choice, and throw pillows for that.  A lot of make up at the local dollar store, too. She had to look pretty for her guys, and she didn’t mean Grunt.  And then of course there were the girls.  Belladonna’s combination 8^th grade graduation/sweet sixteen party hadn’t come cheap. And of course, Agnetta had that wedding- christening thing coming up.  It was great being able to combine events, and Mamma Feloni always let them use her own double-wide as a guest house for Daddy Craig and the other relatives.

                Yes, I remember Feloni family gatherings well.  We were great at multitasking and even planning. Combined celebrations were our specialty.  One of the triumphs of the social season was the combination Papa Feloni’s “I was finally granted Parole party” with the 50^th Anniversary of the elder Felonis, Mama and Papa.   After we watched a “Desperate Housewives” narrative on the movie-sized flat screen, Brindle passed out the role we would play the ensuing, well – planned family fight.  Mine role was usually scapegoat; whatever everyone else did that could not be handled for any reason became my issue.   The script of answers I was given read “Yes, Brindle,” “Of course it’s my fault, brindle”, “You’re right, Brindle,” and “Yes, of course we should listen to Daddy Craig.”

                After years of such family fun, and enough heartburn from badly cooked pasta and flank steak diluted with the cheapest beer available and Two Buck Chuck, I divorced their oldest son, Danny Delight Feloni, much to their disbelief.

                When the ink to our divorce papers dried, my story really began.