It was the wedding of the decade, with the rich and famous for miles around flocking to view the nuptials. The reception afterwards was a smashing success, with the flashbulbs of the paparazzi lighting up the night and the gossip columnists rhapsodizing in the evening editions of all the important newspapers. But once the household staff had finally closed the door on the last of the revelers, the blushing bride knew that she had to address an issue with her new husband that was becoming alarmingly apparent.

Mae: “Darling?”

Frank: “Unnh…”

Mae: “I couldn’t help but notice something odd about you, so I have to ask…”

Frank: “Unnh….”

Mae: “Please don’t think it rude of me, you know I will always love you no matter what, but even the staff has been mentioning it lately and…”

Frank: “Unnnnh…”

Mae: “Why have you been wearing my panties?”

Frank: “Wait, what? I thought surely you were going to ask me about-”

Mae: “I mean, I know that you come from Germany or somewhere that has different traditions and different food and money that looks fake and all that, but here in our country we don’t go about wearing the bloomers of our loved ones. It simply isn’t done.”

Frank: “So that bothers you more than the fact that I have a flat head, the emotional maturity of a cactus, and studs in my neck that can get wi-fi from Sri Lanka?”

Mae: “Oh, Frankie, dearest, none of that is important. This is America. You can vote without having a properly-functioning brain, no one ever expects the males to fully mature, and if you can provide our friends with a hotspot to the Internet then they will ignore everything else going on around them. Except when it comes to sex. Some Americans are really hung up on what others might do in their own bedrooms. So I can’t have you brazenly romping about in my thong, as it calls into question what might go on in our boudoir once the lights are dim. After all, I’m up for vice-president of the Garden Club and I really don’t need that horrible Agnetha Thornwick mucking things up with a photo of you parading around in my feminine finery.”

Frank: “How would Agnetha have possession of such a thing?”

Mae: “Well, one of the maids chanced upon you during one of your… private floor shows. As she was standing so near to you, she had an excellent signal and couldn’t resist posting her discovery to the Discovery Channel website. You’re currently number three on their buzz list with a trending hashtag. Anyway, I can deal with Agnetha, should the situation arise since I know what she did at band camp. Still, I need you to stop channeling Gypsy Rose Lee. It’s a small thing to ask, really.”

Frank: “For the sake of our newly-minted marriage?”

Mae: “Honey, there’s no sake in our marriage. You’re technically dead. I already own your fortune. No, I need you to scale it back a bit so I can springboard from Garden Club Vice-President to State Senator, which is another American way of doing things. Now, run off to bed whilst I do some damage control on social media.”

Frank, sighing: “Okay, my soulless love. I’ll go lay in the bed and try to figure out how this became as twisted as it is.”

Mae: “Night, night, poodle. Oh, and Frankie?”

Frank: “Yes, Medusa?”

Mae: “Hand over my thong. I know you’ve got one on right now.”

Frank: “Unnnh….”