THE
SECOND MOHAMMED CARTOON CONTEST—BEVERLY HILLBILLY STYLE!
It started out as a normal day.
“Wha’cha doing, Jethro?” asked Uncle Jed.
“I’m painting a picture of Mohammed for Granny to hang in the fancy eatin’ room,” said Jethro.
“Mohammed?’” blinked Jed. “The rascal that sells used cars down on Sepulveda? Why would you want to paint a picture of that critter?”
“Not him, Uncle Jed,” said Jethro, squirting a generous dab of yellow ocher onto his palette. “That other Mohammed—the rascal that caused all that trouble in Denmark a couple of years ago when those artist rascals drawed his picture and he didn’t want it drawed.”
“Back up a minute, Jethro,” said Jed. “You mean some artists drawed pictures of this Mohammed feller and he didn’t want them drawed? Well, if that’s the case, it does seem they was a mite inconsiderate.”
“It was a contest, Uncle Jed.”
“A contest?”
“And they had a riot.”
“A riot? Were the pictures that bad?”
“No, Uncle Jed. This Mohammed rascal didn’t want the any pictures drawed at all. It was against his religion. Drawing his picture could start a riot.”
“Well, doggies,” said Uncle Jed. “Can’t say as I would like to have my picture drawed either. Guy like Al Capp or Walt Kelly could make a feller look downright ridiculous. But if somebody needed his picture for identification or something, I suppose it would be okay if someone snuck up on him with a camera and took a snapshot.”
“Can’t do that, Uncle Jed,” said Jethro. “He’s dead.’
“Dead? Well, if that don’t beat all! Stress must have killed him.”
“Oh, he’s been dead for 1,400 years, Uncle Jed.”
“You don’t say! Then who did all the rioting?”
“The fatwas.”
“The fatwas?”
“Fatwas? Mullahs? Riots?”
“Yeah, Uncle Jed. They works for the Mullahs.”
“The Mullahs?”
“Yeah, the Mullahs. They’s like Baptist preachers, only they don’t drink as much and are more annoying. When those artists rascals in Denmark drew those pictures of Mohammed, they made the Mullahs mad and the Mullahs sent the fatwas out to beat up the artists but the fatawas couldn’t find the artists so they set fire to some buildings and started killing people.”
“They’s
like Baptist preachers, only more annoying.”
“Fatwas, you say?”
The world had become more complicated in recent years. Mullas, fatwas, riots…what happened to the swimming pools, the movie stars—the fresh air? “How come you know all these things, Jethro?” asked Uncle Jed.
“I got a 6th grade educations, Uncle Jed,” said Jethro.
“Reckon I keep forgetting,’ said Uncle Jed. He watched as Jethro applied a large gob of yellow ocher to the middle of his canvas. Well, the boy had everything he needed—a smock, a beret, an easel, a canvas, paints, brushes, plenty of turpentine and he was a quick worker—really quick. He watched for a couple of minutes. “If I were you, Jethro,” he said, “I would go easy on the eye shadow. This guy is supposed to be someone named Mohammed, not Mae West.”
“Jethro is painting a picture to hang on the wall
in the fancy eatin’ room.”
Uncle Jed had scarcely left when Ellie May popped into the room. “Bessie’s going to paint a picture of Mohammed, too,” she said.
“Bessie? That dumb ole ape?” said Jethro. “What does she know about painting?”
“Bessie’s not an ape!” said Ellie May. “She’s a chimp and she can paint just as good as you can!”
“Oh, yeah?” said Jethro.
“Yeah!” said Ellie May. “And she don’t need no smock!”
“Just keep her away from my paints!” ordered Jethro.
“Come on, Bessie,” said Ellie May. “We’ll go out by the cement pond and leave this old grouch alone!”
“We’ll see who’s picture is gonna hang in the fancy eatin’ room!” Jethro yelled after them.
“It won’t be yours!” said Ellie May.
Jethro worked all day on his masterpiece—fifteen minutes to get the paint on the canvas and three-and-a-half hours to get the yellow ocher out of his hair. But the job was done and he was right proud of it—in a sort of avant garde way. He would burn his smock and his jeans later.
“Painting makes a feller hungry, Miss Jane.”
That night Granny had a momentous decision to make—which of the masterpieces would hang on the wall over the fancy eatin’ table: would it be Jethro’s or would it be Bessie’s?
The Clampetts and their friends gathered in the dining room for the unveiling—Mr. Drysdale was there, Miss Jane, Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, Cousin Pearl, the girls from the secretarial pool at the First Commerce Bank of Beverly Hills.
“I don’t get it,” said Earl Scruggs. “Why a picture of Mohammed?”
“Granny wanted something fierce,” whispered Lester. “She wanted something a Clampett would be proud to shoot and Jethro said he had just the thing and he would surprise her.”
“You mean Granny doesn’t know what’s on those canvases?” asked Earl.
“I guess not,” said Lester. “She thinks Jethro and Bessie spent the day painting wild boars.”
“Wild boars?” said Earl.
“Yes!”
“And Jethro painted Mohammed?” Earl glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Lester? Do we still have time to get out of here? It’s not too late, is it?”
It was.
“Attention, everybody,” announced Granny. She had a hickory switch in her hand and as she stepped between the veiled masterpieces, she tapped first one and then the other with the switch. “It’s time to decide the winner of this contest. Will it be wild boar number one or wild boar number two?” Then she giggled. “I’m not supposed to know what’s on these canvases,” she said. “It’s supposed to be a surprise. I hope I haven’t spoiled it for anybody.” She pointed at the nearest canvas with the switch. She coughed delicately. “Will it be Jethro’s masterpiece or will it be Bessie’s?” she asked.
“But, Granny,” said Jethro, “they ain’t wild boars. They’s…”
“Hush now, Jethro,” said Granny. “I’m going to remove the covers and…”
“Is that your best hickory switch, Granny?” asked Jed.
“Can somebody give me a hand?” asked Granny. “This cover seems stuck to this dad-burned canvas!”
Well, Bessie was eager to be of help. She leaped forward and before she could be restrained, she tore the covers from the canvases, knocked the easels to the floor and began jumping up and down on them. Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs disappeared and so did the girls from the secretarial pool.
Granny stared at the mess on the floor. “Where are the wild boars?” she asked. “ I don’t see any wild boars.” She looked at Jethro. She was scowling and her words came slowly. “Jethro…” she said, “I wanted something fierce for the fancy eatin’ room…something a Clampett would be proud to shoot and bring home for dinner. You said you were going to surprise your sweet little old even-tempered Granny…Does this look like something a Clampett would be proud to shoot and stick on the wall over the fancy eaten’ table…this disgusting thing with a with a bomb in his hat? Well, you have surprised your sweet little old even-tempered Granny…Jed! Where’s my hickory switch?”
“It’s in your hand, Granny,” said Jed. He looked at Jethro. “And if I were you, boy, I would run. I ain’t never seen her this mad.”
“It was a surprise, Granny!” said Jethro.
Well, that was the end of the Beverly Hillbillies Mohammed Cartoon Contest except for the trip to the woodshed.
Yes, but who won the contest? Was it Jethro or was it Bessie? Uncle Jed wasn’t an art expert and Granny went down to the taxidermy shop and got a genuine boar’s head for the fancy eatin’ room and would hear no more talk of it and Jethro’s career as an artist was over. That seemed the end of it. But Jed wasn’t satisfied—he didn’t like loose ends lying around and he had a lot of money so he called in his friend Sigmund Freud to take a look at the artwork.
Freud studied the two versions of Mohammed at great length. Eventually he focused on just one. This one.
“Incendiary neo-Nazism?”
“Yes, yes, I see,” he mused. “Avuncular yet iconoclastic with a touch of neo-Darwinism…somber enough for Dante…Orwellian. Notice the confluence of runes with the, ah—what are those things…are they buckeyes? Uh-huh, yes…it would take the mind of a comic genius to capture the essence of Mohammed…the lust for power…the sexual deviancy…the ruthlessness…the 72 virgins…and boil it down to the raw essentials, an incendiary neo-Nazism. I would say this was the work of that mad scamp Peewee Herman…or…I could be wrong…a chimpanzee.”