Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #293

SR 1293

Left to right, Model #1: “Damn those prop people backstage. They gave me the one handbag that had an unpaid bill hanging out of it. Just my luck. Hopefully, the annoying print on my dress will draw the focus. And this hairdo. What’s up with that afro-puff on my forehead?”

Model #2: “Girl, don’t get my started on hairdo and props. I look like Heidi searching the Alps for her first orgasm. And these black gloves? Have I been coal-mining in Kentucky? And all the buttons on this dress? Even if I wanted to have sex with one of the creepy talent scouts around here it would take me thirty minutes to get into the launch position.”

Model #3: “Both of you young hussies need to shut the hell up. I’ve been modeling for sixty years. Try doing the runway in Paris wearing a hoop skirt. It was like dragging around the framework for the Hindenburg.”

Model #4: “Don’t cry for me, Argentina. But it would be swell if you could do something with this hatbox. There’s simply no reason for me to be carrying one alongside a pool in Beverly Hills.”

Model #5: “Oh, it’s not just the hatbox, honey. They shoved one at me, too. We all look like we’re sporting swimwear designed by Bess Truman.  And they made me wear the black outfit, so I’ll be the first one killed by Robert Mitchum in a film noir and I won’t be in the sequel. But what really pisses me of is that wretched wench Norma Jean coming up with the name ‘Marilyn Monroe’ before I did.”

Model #6: “Thank you for flying on the Starship Enterprise. Will you be having the dried fish or the dried chicken?”

Audience member on the far left: “Girl, did it ever cross your mind to exfoliate those heels?  I could grate cheese on that mess.”


19 replies »

  1. It’s true. We talk like that in photo shoots. They go on for hours and it’s the best way to entertain ourselves. As for props, something like this always happens. Usually at a crucial scene that went perfectly in rehearsals.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I always knew you you were a supermodel from the 1950s, secretly posing as a blogger in the 2010s. There was just something about the effortless way in which you present your artistic beauty to the world, a nimble panache that spoke of good genes, altruism, and the comfort with which you are able to quickly change clothes backstage in the midst of complete strangers. And dang those prop people, you can never count on them to get things right… 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Hhaha, lots of great lines eg “It was like dragging around the framework for the Hindenburg.”
    Also you missed the thoughts from the government agent on the right. “I’m going to work left to right.”

    Liked by 1 person

    • Ah, I see the agent now. Yep, one look at him and you just know that he’s ready to take down a number of attendees at this soiree, in one way or another, possibly starting with his sullen daughter who has had an attitude since she got here…


  3. LOLOLOLOL! Love the dialogue…and I only noticed the expression on the audience member’s face after the last sentence!
    I guess that’s what they get, living in the age before the Amope!

    Liked by 1 person

        • Personal confession: Although I am a true acolyte of the Church of Exfoliation, I’m not one to spend extraordinary amounts of money on the latest-trend mechanized implements that dubiously guarantee to whisk away unnecessary but truculent skin cells. (I’m retired, after all, which means my spending mantra has switched from “I can buy anything I want!” to “How many times can we eat beans this week before one of us snaps and does something unforgivable?”.) My low-budget arsenal consists of two things: those woven-plastic body sponges (these non-biodegradable contraptions will survive for centuries in your local landfill) and those plastic tongue-depressors enhanced with a strip of mid-grade sandpaper (another landfill stalwart) so you can get all Medieval on the hardened parts of you that shouldn’t be hard.

          But I may have to reconsider this plan of attack, mainly for health reasons. As mentioned, I am retired, even though I’m not as old as what this might make me seem. (There was a happenstance at my previous job wherein “the numbers” managed to coalesce in a manner that meant I needed to get the hell out or I would actually start losing money; it’s a long and drab story.) Still, despite my relative youthfulness (at least in my mind), I AM getting a bit long in the tooth, and the previous things I used to accomplish in the shower stall are no longer within easy grasp.

          To wit: Prior to intrusive and rude body decay, I could expertly use the landfill-sponge and the landfill-stick to quickly rid myself of demon skin cells whilst taking my daily shower. It was a lovely, satisfying arrangement. Now, however, my dexterity and stamina have both chosen to pursue relationships with someone that is not me. I can still manage the sponge fairly well, whisking away at my elbows (girl, nobody wants to see ashy, chalky elbows!) and the various other upper-body points of concern. But my heels? That’s becoming a bridge too far.

          Back in the day, I could easily stand on one foot for hours on end, whether it be for beauty-regime or sexual-gratification purposes. (And really, what’s the difference?) Back in the current day, I can no longer hold my foot over my head for the entire running-time of Gone with the Wind without subsequently requiring physical therapy. Things must now be accomplished in stages. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Rest. Scrub, scrub… wait, what was I doing? Scrub, scrub… why am I sweating in the shower? What was that popping noise? Are there any working ligaments left in my body?

          Moral of the story: It’s nice to be streamlined, but there eventually comes a time when you realize that you can only do so much. We are all an amalgam of genes and happenstance. Don’t fret about what you see in the fashion magazines. That’s all smoke and mirrors, designed by trendy editors trying to make a pointless point. The richness and goodness of all of us lies in the heart and the brain, not the elbow or the foot or the ability to prance down the walkway at a fashion show. Yes, treat your body well. But at the end of the day, nobody is going to remember the chalkiness or the roughage or however the hell you might have looked at a certain moment. They are going to remember what your heart did for them, meant for them. And if they don’t, screw em. Said with love…

          (P.S. to sepultura13… Your comment just sent me into another world where I somehow managed to slap together what is essentially a blog post. I have to use this. Thank you for the inspiration, sometimes these things just happen with me…)


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