You’d have to imagine it was a retarded brain behind all the bad things about Smedley. For example, the terrible body odor. Smedley would forget to bathe. Then the smegma in Smedley’s penis would build up and putrefy. It was nasty. We have little idea what Eve put up with.
Smedley’s skin.
Smedley’s skin made Smedley’s skin crawl. Certainly Eve’s.
We’re talking uncouth.
We’re talking crude.
Which stands to reason, as the Wickershams were oil barrons.
Smedley ate lots of greasy foods. Sometimes Smedley ate handfuls of plain old grease. There were no grease fires whenever Smedley was in town. Smedley ate all the grease. If he couldn’t find grease, Smedley would eat Krisco. If he couldn’t find Krisco, he’d eat Spam. If he had Krisco and Spam, he’d dip the Spam in the Krisco. If he couldn’t find Spam, he’d eat what came up from dumpster diving. At the bottom of the dumpsters, it was usual to find greasy foods, and grease. Dumpsters were dumped, but usually not rinsed. Greasy foods and grease are sticky, lucky for Smedley.
Smedley’s mind worked very slowly. His southern drawl had a drawl and it wasn’t droll, or suitable for dawdling. Not that drawls are indicative of low IQ. What is indicative, here, is the trying of Eve’s patience as Smedley impatiently makes his demanding sexual demands known. Spoiled Smedley. So spoiled as to be stinking, but you can’t, or rather Eve couldn’t, toss him into the trash. Then take out the trash to the side yard garbage can, making sure to slam the lid down hard, to get a seal.
That southern drawling drawl comes forth and with it some top notch, creme de la creme, bad breath. It was as if, instead of brushing his teeth, Smedley stuffed his mouth with sour cream, went to bed, never swallowed, but drooled. This process sucked the sour out of the sour, intensifying it.
“Beat it because you’re better off beating it.”
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