“What the hell do you even do, Betty?” he asked. ”Why would anyone make you famous? All you do is pose and try to speak English. That’s like … a groupie or something.”
He’d said it: the G-word. A word that implied loose morals, talentless clinging, and limited lifespan. As he wandered off, she collapsed in the corner to cry. He was right. None of the weasel stars in Hollywood associated with poor, backwoods types like her; she’d never be famous unless she was a groupie.
Rockstar Betty straightened with resolve. She refused to be a groupie! She knew she had true talent to bestow on the world–she needed only to discover it. For the next several weeks, Betty experimented with avenues to fame. She first tried acting, thinking her voice lessons could be put to good use. However, weasel roles in Hollywood were few, and nonexistent in Wisconsin where she lived. Perhaps she could become a star writer, she thought. Failure: her paws could not grip a pen. This unfortunate fact also excluded careers in art, fashion design, and even “Star Sushi Chef.”
Lack of opposable thumbs, she lamented. Everything artistic and worthy of fame required hands with thumbs, not paws with claws. Betty, never the type to let a dream go unrealized, immediately pawed through her treasured copy of “The Yellow Pages” (marvelous book! A catalogue of anyone and everyone in the whole area, and who knew what sordid tales each name contained?) She paused at the “Cosmetic Surgery” section. Appointments were made. Consultations were had. Ridicule was heaped, and requests flatly denied.
“Betty, is it?” said one kindly old surgeon. “I can appreciate your ambition, but I’m afraid I wasn’t trained in veterinary cosmetic surgery.” He frowned and scratched his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of anyone who is. There’s just not a great need for it.”
“But surely I’m not the only weasel in town who wants a hand transplant?” she exclaimed.
The old doctor shook his head. “No, no, I’m pretty sure you are, actually.”
Betty stomped out the door. “Ok,” she muttered under her breath, “Plastic surgery and hand transplants are out.”
This would have been a great time for a wise fairy to appear and give Betty advice on how to achieve her dreams. But this did not happen due to Betty’s perception of reality and her belief that wise fairies didn’t exist. Unbeknownst to her was a long line of wise fairies pounding at the door between realities, desperate to rush into her awareness and give her the wisdom she needed, but Betty’s belief system simply wouldn’t let her see them, no matter how many cartwheels they turned nor how loudly they shouted, “HELLO, YOU ARE A TALKING WEASEL, DON’T YOU THINK THAT FACT MIGHT HELP YOU?” This opportunity passed hardcore Betty by due to her rejection of all things girly and whimsical.
Despairing, Betty did what all despondent weasels do: she went to the Weasel Bar and ordered an acorn-cap of distilled fermented prairie grass, a loathsome beverage that suited her sour mood.
“What’s wrong, Betty?” asked the bartender as he poured her drink
“I will never be creative and famous,” she sniffled. “I have no hands, so I can’t hold a paintbrush, a microphone, chopsticks, a guitar, chopping knives, oil crayons, sewing needles, pens, chisels, or purse dogs.”
“Ah,” said the bartender.
“And the plastic surgeons all laughed at me when I asked for a hand transplant.”
“I don’t blame them,” he said. Then, pitying the poor young weasel whose dreams had been sacrificed to a thankless demon on the alter of reality, he turned to her.
“Betty,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot of forest animals come and go through this crazy weasel bar of mine. And you—“
She turned her eyes up to him expectantly, a gleam of hope catching the dim light.
“—ain’t nothing special, I gotta say.”
She dropped her head on to the bar with a dismal bang.
“But I think you could make something of yourself if you consider finding fame with what God gave you.”
“Paws?” she mumbled, slurping her drink.
“Well … what do weasels do best?”
“Hunt and kill.”
“That’s right. You’re trying to be something you’re not, using skills and appendages that God didn’t give to your kind. But hunting and killing, well, that’s something you can show the world.”
She snorted and gestured for another glass of the fiendish brew. “No one wants to see me hunting and killing. I’m a vegetarian, remember?”
“Yes, you are. Now ain’t that unusual?”
(“AND YOU ARE A TALKING WEASEL!” Screeched the helpful fairies behind their dimensional veil, now wilting under the strain of their frustrated effort at career counseling.)
He bartender motioned toward the door. “I gotta close up, kiddo, but I’m gonna give you two words: National Geographic. Look ‘em up in that big yellow book of yours.”
Betty took his advice. National Geographic, she discovered, was very interested in hunting and killing. The managing editor had been toying with the idea of a “vegetarian slaughter” documentary, and Betty was his ideal model, he said.
“Here, dahling, let’s try this—there you are, lounging on the prairie, when you spy the slowest, fattest, most tasty mouse.”
“Oh my god, gag me,” Betty said.
“Oh yes, say that again, say it with even more disgust and vigor, like you can barely contain your vomit at the thought of its little mousy skeleton.”
“Perfect, Betty, perfect!”
Thus started Betty’s rapid rise into stardom. She could, it seemed, be famous even without hands. Models were not required to do anything but convey “a look.” And if she got to stalk wild onions while looking pretty, then who could ask for more?
“Finally!” grumbled the helpful fairies as they flew away from the dimensional door, headed toward the Fairy Bar for an acorn-cap of distilled rosewater. They’d had a hard day. “Weasels!” griped one. “They never have the decency to realize when they’re starring in a fairy tale.”
Photo by phoneymanflickr (this is the Weasel Groupie that Rockstar Betty did not wish to be–probably a ferret, actually. Damn ferrets)
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