I don't often find myself entirely repulsed by people, but when I do, it's a good chance to poke some fun. Mrs. Boylan was my little sister's drama teacher, and the bane of my family's existence. Threatening kindergarteners has never been looked kindly upon, and after she made my little sister cry, giving away her part in the school musical for no reason, I had to be physically restrained from taking violent action. Such a brave fourth grader, I was.
This wasn't the worst sort of thing Mrs. Boylan would do. She somehow managed to produce two daughters, not a small feat when you consider that Mrs. Boylan looked, for all the world, as if someone had taken an exceedingly large Honeybaked ham and glued a long, ratty blonde wig to it. Keth, the eldest daughter, had all the vapid beauty of one of those princesses you see in coloring books released by companies that rip off Disney films. Klair, the younger daughter, was a miniature of Mrs. Boylan. If Boylan was a ham, Klair was one of those nasty riblets you get at faux-Chinese places, coated in brown goo and made entirely of gristle and fat.
Keth was the genius, beautiful star child who could do no wrong, and promptly graduated high school, went to college, and discovered sex, drugs, and alcohol. I think she might be dead.
Klair, on the other hand, was the most awkward pawn in a game of 'try to arrange a marriage like we're in the 1300s' I've ever seen. First, Mrs. Boylan attempted to have her flirt with my cousin Marty. This went over as well as could be expected. (Something something, lead balloon, something something.) Marty practiced the great and ancient art of self defenestration, and my aunt reared up in a blessed fury, tearing into the insanity with the verbal equivalent of St. Michael's sword. I was there to witness the phone call. It was terrifying.
Klair's unfortunate sojourn was far from over. Peter, a young redheaded chap in Martin's class, was the next haplessly targeted prey. Perhaps Mrs. Boylan figured that, being a ginger, and thus lacking a soul, he wouldn't be so picky. I recall Peter half-heartedly plonking out 'Think Of Me' from Phantom of the Opera on his electric keyboard, as Klair screeched delightedly into the over-hot microphone. Feedback and distortion flooded through the crowd, and most people ran for the margarita booth or their cars. Oh yes, the margarita booth. I didn't mention this wasn't at some measly grade school talent show. Oh no. Mrs. Boylan had managed to force them to perform at the school CARNIVAL, a public event attended by probably a thousand or so people. If Peter had happened to own a soul, he would have immediately sold it to the first bidder for a ticket out of there. I've met car alarms more melodious than Klair.
After that supposed courtship came to a roaring halt, the Boylans somewhat faded from the scene, although flare-ups were occasionally reported. Whatever happened to the hapless Mr. Boylan, I'm afraid we'll never know. My own private nightmare is that Mrs. Boylan ate him, head first (which head is up to you) like a chubby praying mantis.
If you should ever see a woman hulking towards you that bears an uncanny resemblance to smoked pork products served during important Christian holidays, for the love of god, run. It's probably Mrs. Boylan still trying to play sadistic matchmaker for her SPAM-can of a daughter, Klair.
*Names have been changed to protect ME!