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branson_sucks
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Name: Hill
Location: Springfield, Missouri, United States
Birthday: 6/6/1966
Interests: There is a black hole of shit on earth: BRANSON MISSOURI. Nothing real or true or pure can exist in this vortex of lameness. Everything is a lie that is used to make money. And not even cool stuff like sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
Expertise: Causing people to give up their will to live/trout fishing.
Occupation: Executive
Industry: Entertainment
Message: message me
Member Since:
5/20/2005
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| As I was choosing a cue at the Rack one night a dusty old man in black sauntered over to me.
"How you doin'?" he asks me.
I think, 'Well, I was doin' great until you walked up,' but instead I reluctantly say "Aight."
There was a fierce t-storm roaring in the Ozark hills and I only sought the Rack for an escape from a trying evening. This man smelled like cigarettes and 50 year old guitar strings.
"I been livin' here goin on 30 years now," he says. "I ain't never seen no storm like this. Course I was here when that tornady ripped the roof right off that Melody Inn. That was a sight to see."
I wasn't in the mood for talk but thought it rude to ignore such a lonely soul. I shook my head trying to convey my lack of interest without being too obvious. "Yeah, that was rough." I replied. I didn't want to get into a long conversation with this stranger, but something about him drew me in. "What do you do?" I ask.
"Oh, I been retired awhile now." He picks at his fingernails. I notice the nails on his right hand are longer than those on the left. I ask him if he plays guitar. "Been known to. But these youngins comin' in here just bout put me outta town. I ain't been able to make me a livin at it for sometime. I tried cuttin' my hair an' wearin' a suit, but ain't nothin' hidin' the country in me."
Somehow I relate to this man. I tell him I gave up trying a long time ago too.
"Why don't you move on?" I ask him. "You know, to greener pastures."
"Greener pastures...well, I seen me alot of pastures in my time and they all dried out. My friends all passed on and there ain't much hope of me findin' new ones. I been 'round you know. I've seen me lots of faces, and I rocked them all. But this place somehows just took the fight outta me. Know what I mean?"
I told him I most certainly did. I knew exactly what he meant.
I turn to ask him if he wants a drink, but as I look over I see nothing but an empty chair. Not even the afterglow of his presence remained. I think this place must be driving me crazy. On the radio I hear some Waylon Jennings breaking through the static of the storm.
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| I am back. My hatred has not wained.
A hazy sheen of thick humidity glistens above the waters of Table Rock Lake. I am sitting on a beach of sharp rocks and broken beer bottles, gentle waves from racing pontoon boats lap at my feet. In the not distant enough horizon I see rows of elderly and obese bikini/speedo clad tourists floating on rafts that can barely support their heft.
A demon faced water moccassin ominously slithers on the huge boulders not feet from where I sit, just biding it's time until it can strike the first blue veined ankle that passes by. Toby Keith is blaring from someone's truck stereo. In the sheen I think I see Death approaching, but it is only a mirage. Disappointed again. | | |
| My only solace was the bleakness of winter. Only then did the appearance of the place match my reality. But not this winter. On a windy day the sun came out. It peaked over the Ozark Hills and silhouetted the all too familiar line of Lincolns cruising down the strip. Damn. They're back. I go to a restaurant. They're there. I go to the store, they're there too. And the new breed of devotees are here in full force. We all had the dream that the evil force would find no host to consume once the old ones had all died away. But it is far more evil than we ever expected. Families, teeny boppers, geriatrics. They are all here. They are all spending money. Branson still lives on the souls of fools and the blood of the weak. | | |
| Once upon a time there existed a man. His voice fell from his lips like
wine from a bottle. He was also known for his enormous head.
After many years his career had turned sour what with the pending lawsuits and being sucked into near oblivion. He consulted his staff (the butler he hired in 1954) and together they decided that Branson was his last hope.
In the early 90's he made the move. He built the theatre in his name using up the last of his savings. He started his shows and the response from the elderly women was amazing. They had been secretly fantasizing about him all these years.
For 10 years this went on without a hitch. Flocks of tour buses year in and year out. He must have sang "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" a million times. His hair had grayed, his face sagged. Time was taking it's toll. Rumors spread that he was lip syncing half the show. It was true, using a body double wasn't the best of choices, but what could one do? It is hard to maneuver on two replaced hips.
One day his trustworthy butler entered his dressing room to speak with him about some business matters only to find he was no longer breathing. He was dead! The butler had secretly been hoarding money and merchandise from the gift shop and new if his boss was gone that could be no more. There was only one option: Call in the black powers of Scurvy Van Lurch. Scurvy arrived at the witching hour that night- 10:30pm. They knew all the tourists would be caught in gridlock for hours. Scurvy opened his evil valise taking from it wires and a soldering iron. Sparks flew and evil spells were cast. As dawn was approaching he looked up from his work and stated "It is done". A lone finger twitched. The face became alive and the smooth sounds of 'Moon River' filled the room. A monster was born. The charade would never end. | | |
| Only in Branson would you be expected to rehearse 10-14 hours a day with no overtime pay for days on end, and somehow make LESS than when you are doing upwards of 15 shows a week. The unions are all squashed by talentless overlords who's only real success is bullying their employees to the point of utter worthlessness. Their motto is 'BE AFRAID. BE VERY AFRAID!' | | |
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