People refer to some bars as 'meat markets' if someone is trying to meet a new man. Boops had a slightly different experience, according to Beth Boswell Jacks.
Don't Mess With Boops
by Beth Boswell Jacks
People refer to some bars as 'meat markets' if someone is trying to meet a new man. Boops had a slightly different experience, according to Beth Boswell Jacks.
This article sponsored by:
Sponsor this site
Your message could be here. Sponsorship opportunities available now.
Don’t Mess With Boops
You'd never believe her real name is Mary Alice. I mean, my friend Boops is Boops; the nickname fits her like skin on a sausage.
I told her she should change it legally from Mary Alice to Boops, but she said the lawyers would screw it up and leave her with Boobs or something equally embarrassing. I said they wouldn't because nobody messes with Boops. She's tough as a nickel steak.
Actually, Boobs might not be a bad moniker for Boops--she needs some help. See, she's looking for true love and at this certain age, just cannot find it anywhere in these parts even though we all give her the best handed-down-through-generations advice we can scrape up.
I told Boops, for example, I'd read in PASSION STORIES that a really excellent place to meet single men is at the meat counter of the grocery store. The article didn't say why; it just said nice single men like to nose around the meat market long about 5:30 in the evening. We discussed this advice at length and decided married men probably wouldn't be there because their wives more than likely have their meat in the pot already. Then, too, fast-living guys wouldn't be there because they'd be on their second round of beers at Mario's pool hall. So, we figured, all in all, this meat market idea was a gold mine just waiting to be pickaxed.
Boops said she'd scout the Piggly Wiggly the next day.
First she stood by the chicken. She examined every package of chicken legs and every package of chicken wings and every package of chicken breasts and every dadgum package of chicken parts known to woman. She looked at those pitiful dead chicken pieces for at least twenty minutes, and not one man showed up. I take that back. One old geezer who was at least reaching ninety bought some already cooked chicken. (His wife's probably gone on before him.)
Well, then she moved to the pork. She studied it close. Several guys actually stopped at the pork. They scanned the chops and the ham, and she scanned the chops and the ham--but then they moved on to the beef, so Boops did too.
Over the beef, Boops had a conversation with one guy.
He seemed like a possible, until he said the wrong thing. The nerve! A pervert, that's what he was. Boops took offense.
He asked her what she marinated her meat with. Maybe it was the way he said it. I don't know. I wasn't there.
She whirled around and marched straight to the deli to get herself some supper. Now, my friend Boops may not act like a Mary Alice, but she's far from being a member of the fallen sisterhood. No sir. Nobody, but nobody, messes with Boops.
| 
