Kelly here. The masses are calling for an explanation, so I thought I should relieve your curiosity about my reunion with my beloved Rabid Aardvarks. There really is no story: they called and asked if I would come back. I said "yes." The end. It really is that simple. But, since Jeff has left you hanging with the promise of a juicy story, I'll try to deliver. Just for fun, I'll tell you a little story about one of my earliest performances on the big stage under the bright lights. It's about one of my first attempts at hitting it big as an entertainer. Of course, back then we were all going to be famous. My brothers were natural comedians and intuitive filmmakers. My sister was born prettier than the rest of us, which meant she was destined to model. I was a generalist: singer, orator, writer. We had ambition and grit. All we needed was a big break!
Mom schemed incessantly to catapult us into the stratosphere of fame and fortune. She had her first taste of success as a stage-mother when I was seven years old and my brothers were five. She wrote, directed, and produced a one-act skit featuring the “Archuletta Players” for our town’s Lion’s Club Talent Show. Local rules required us to compete in the age-group of the oldest member of the act. Therefore, my brothers were forced into the big-time by having to go up against my 7-year old peers. We would be going head-to-head with my best friend, Jenni, who entered the contest with a piano solo. The only other kid in our age category was another friend named Cindy who, like Jenni, had elected to compete with a piano solo. Jenni and Cindy were evenly matched, but they were competing for second place as far as I was concerned. I was beginning to sense the sweet smell of victory before the competition even began.
The contest was held on the Big Stage in the Ogallala High School theater. As the curtain opened, I took my place next to a small card table with a dark bed spread draped over the front and sides. On top of the table was an arrangement of tubes and beakers. I stood in a nurse’s uniform reviewing an imaginary medical chart when my brother Jim entered from stage right. Appearing clean-cut with a very official-looking lab coat and glasses, he greeted me and asked how we were coming on our “new development.” We then both admired a bottle of dark liquid on the table and speculated aloud that it would be powerful indeed and most certainly make us rich, riCH, RICH! The doctor (my brother, Jim) then insisted upon sampling the elixir. As soon as it passed his lips he became overwrought with spasms and gags. As he dramatically and strategically collapsed to the floor behind the skirted table, my other brother, John, (who is Jim's identical twin) immediately emerged from underneath looking possessed and wild-eyed in a tattered, messy-haired version of Jim’s costume. The audience was delighted in the trickery which resolved itself when both brothers took a final bow together at the skit’s end.
We won the local contest, the regional contest, and the state contest. At the state contest, the emcee announced our win and called us to the stage. As we lined-up to face the audience, the emcee handed me a tall and deceptively heavy trophy. The trophy was, of course, handed to me, not because I was the oldest and least likely to drop it or wield it like a medieval weapon and not because I was more likely to responsibly deliver it to my parents, and not even because I was the tallest and in closest proportion to the size of the award itself. It was obviously given to me because I was the cutest and the best and because everyone liked me the most. At least, that's what my brother thought. However, my 5-year old brother was outside his age group and could not rationalize this like a mature and almost-famous 7 year-old. Instead, he believed that the emcee handed me the award, not because he liked me best, but because he liked Jim the worst. Jim was irreversibly convinced that I had won the only Tall Trophy that had been or ever would be made and that he would have to walk the earth alone and trophy-less for the rest of his days. As far as Jim was concerned, I had won and he had lost. Period.
At least that's how I remember it. I'm sure Jim will correct me if I'm wrong, but my mom has a priceless picture evidencing the story with me holding the trophy--all smiles--and Jim standing there sullen trying to suppress his red-hot anger and tears. If I remember right, John at least mustered a fake smile but, he, too, knew the truth--the trophy was awarded to Princess Kelly who always got everything she wanted and always won everything!
So, there's your little story. I hope it was worth all the hype. Even if it wasn't about the Aardvarks.