George: “I’m so happy to finally have you in my arms.”
Janet: “Oh, is that what you’re calling these things that are encircling my virginal body with an intensity that I can’t fully appreciate? For some reason, the phrase ‘death claws’ comes to mind.”
George: “Whatever do you mean, my love?”
Janet: “It means put me down before I soil my delicate womb-raiment with a combination of outrage and fear.”
George: “I don’t understand. In our letters, you spoke endlessly of your burning desire to be rapturously taken in a field of clover and hyacinth. Such a field is just over yonder, one I methodically cultivated during my many years of incarceration. We’ll have to hurdle the barbed-wire fence to gain access to penitentiary grounds, but everything there has been sown with the seeds of our mutual desire.”
Janet: “That’s just it, the incarceration. And the disparity about the mutual desire. When I signed up for the prison pen-pal program, something I only did because it would look good on my resume, I never dreamed that they would actually release you.”
George: “But you shared all of your forbidden desires with me, even the one about the clown who has a balloon that pops unexpectedly. That was my favorite, one I fully understand after seven years of nowhere for me to pop.”
Janet: “Perhaps you missed the part about me never expecting that you would be released. At least into society. I’m sure there was some degree of release when you dropped the soap in the communal shower. I’m not naïve, you know. I get satellite TV.”
George: “This greatly deflates me, just like the burly men who recovered my dropped soap and then resorted to a thuggish manner of bartering. Well, I guess I misunderstood certain things, which is no surprise considering my conviction in a court of law. I suppose I should just plow under our Field of Dreams and then go dig up the money.”
Janet: “Wait. Money? What money?”
George: “The money I stole that eventually led to a slippery soap and a previous pen pal that had completely different accessories than you. It’s all mine now. I’ve already served the time, so they can’t stop me from spending it.”
Janet: “Oh. And exactly how much money are we talking about? I only ask from a scholastic perspective, of course.”
George: “Four million dollars. And some change. I never counted the money in one of the duffel bags, because once you hit four million, what’s the point?”
Janet: “It seems to me that at this point I should marry you. And I have my own shovel. It’s a beautiful arrangement.”
George: “Not so fast, Slitherina. I’ve now had time to contemplate our conversation, and it’s obvious to me that you had no intention of furthering our relationship.”
Janet: “Whatever would give you an idea like that?”
George: “Your hat, my former dear. No one would wear such a hideous thing if they had any desire to consummate beyond pen and paper.”
Janet: “How absurd. I think you’re making much ado about an otherwise innocent use of accessories.”
George: “Then you’ve clearly never dropped the soap in Cell Block D.”
Originally published in “Crusty Pie” on 09/29/17. No changes made, mainly because I have three minutes to post this thing by my normal midnight deadline and, yeah, we’ll just go with this…
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Ah enduring love …. I remember this well and snorted just as fecklessly this time as last 💕 👃 💕
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Nothing says “we were meant to be” like a duffel bag full of cash… 😉
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No changes needed… this is perfection itself.
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Thanks, Lucy!
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Brilliant brilliant brilliant all along with some pick of brilliancy like the clown 😉
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I take it you liked this one at least a little bit?… 😉
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Lol,take your guess 😉😍😀
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I really do wonder how you get from A to B sometimes, I like it … I just wonder.
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To be fair, I usually have no idea what Point B might be until I trip over it… 😉
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😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣
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Thanks, Matt!
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I envy your blog discipline. Crawling out of bed, staggering to make java, then sighing over the daily to do list and word count…maybe a nap before starting is just the thing. Oh Master Obi Wan, how do you do it…? And don’t suggest booze. My scotch days are long gone.
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I’m not sure I would call it blog discipline. It’s just that my brain does not shut down, ever. This is both a blessing and a curse, and it annoys the hell out of my relatives and loved ones… 😉
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The hat’s a dead give-away, but the coat is almost as bad. Good thing George had his wits about him.
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Or did he? I’m thinking She Who Wears Bad Couture doesn’t really need to know about anything I might have buried…
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I agree with mlrover. And then there’s the work to consider. Yesterday I came home collapsed on the sofa and made only about two moves after that, one of which was to bed.
Othwise, no changes were needed. 😀
This is a delightful piece about a craven piece. 😉
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Love that last line, which really hits the nail on its head. And trust me, there are many days when the highlight of my productivity is using the remote to change the TV channel…
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I don’t know if I mentioned this in the previous go-around, but her hat looks like one of those childhood craft projects with the strawberry baskets, where you wove strips of construction paper in and out. Remember those?
Dang shame they don’t sell strawberries in baskets anymore. If they did, I could open a millinery shop. (Don’t be too impressed, I had to google what it was called.)
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Ohhh… I forgot all about those strawberry baskets. That reminds me of a place many decades ago in Broken Arrow, an elaborate produce stand at one of the main intersections in town. Of course, said place had a permanent sign outside their establishment proclaiming that people of my proclivities would burn in hell. Mom would stop there all the time, not understanding why I would hunker down in the back of the car and refuse to get out…
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That sounds like a blog post begging to get out. 😉
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That was sublime. 🤗
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Thank you kindly, mi amiga.
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Calls forth the classic lyrics: It hat to be you, I wandered around until I found a hat that would be true,….” They don’t write them like that anymore, for a good reason. No one pays attention to the lyrics.
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I’m sorry, these lyrics you speak of… what might such things be?
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