Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #279

Cherub on the Left: “What the hell is she doing?”

Cherub on the Right: “By the looks of it, orgasming.”

Left: “From just a spritz? We should all be so lucky. I wonder what’s in the bottle?”

Right: “Whatever it is, I’m sure it doesn’t smell like her husband. She never looks like that when he’s around.”

Left: “He’s such a beastly little man, bellowing and throwing things and using us to light his cigars. I always have ash in my sash.”

Right: “I don’t know why she doesn’t just leave him.”

Left: “She’s staying for the cash flow, of course. She didn’t have a carved vanity table with that other husband of hers, the one that accidentally got run over by his own plow mule. Once you get off the farm, you don’t wanna go back.”

Right: “This house is just full of misery and deceit and bad wallpaper.”

Left: “You got that right. I don’t know how much more I can take. What do you say we wait for Orgasma over there to finish up and totter off to her princess bed. Then we can grab that bottle of gin off the vanity and make a break for Atlantic City. I gotta guy who can hook us up.”

Right: “Although that sounds poorly-planned and we’ll probably end up in a ditch somewhere, it could be fun. And I’ve always wanted to try that saltwater taffy the butler keeps babbling about. But there’s just one problem.”

Left: “What? You chicken?”

Right: “No. We can’t actually move, Einstein. We’re made out of gold.”

Left: “Oh, right. There’s that. Well, I hope Orgasma has some new movies in her Netflix queue tonight. I don’t think I can take any more Charlie Chaplin.”

Right: “What do you have against Chaplin?”

Left: “He annoys the hell out of me. Why does he have to stretch out every scene until I want to scream? Just eat the damn shoe, Chuck. Eat it.”

Orgasma suddenly sighed contentedly, and then she plunked her spritzer on the vanity, satiated. She turned to study her reflection in the mirror for a bit, as most people who have finally managed to marry well often do, smiling at her fortune and her still-fetching dewiness. Things really did work out well in the end, as long as one had patience and scanned the obituaries for recently-widowed millionaires and knew how to spook a plow mule at just the right time. Then she stood up, grabbed both the startled cherubs, threw them into the trashcan, and tottered off to her princess bed.


Originally posted in “Crusty Pie” on 07/16/15 and “Bonnywood Manor” on 10/29/15. Some changes made, including a new ending. Moral of the story: Never underestimate the ambitions of someone who has lived on a farm.


35 replies »

  1. I don’t think she looked in that mirror, because not only is the place full of misery and deceit and bad wallpaper but the mirrors are covered up with … something. Maybe it’s not wallpaper at all. Maybe it’s toilet paper. Yup. That’s it. A suitable metaphor for her black soulessness: no mirror, no reflection, just toilet paper.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Or perhaps Orgasma is a vampire and can’t see her reflection? She already has the right sort of name for it, so it would make perfect sense. Then again, if she does walk the night, why would she toss aside the cherbubs rather than have a nice midnight snack? There are indeed mysterious forces at work here…

      Liked by 1 person

  2. I don’t think it’s the spritzer making her bubble over, I think it’s those satin jimmy bottoms stroking her la-la just so ….. see how the corsage is all akimbo – this has happened more than once today, you mark my words it has 😉

    Liked by 2 people

  3. OK, I spent summers on the farm. Does that make me partially ambitious? And sorry, those cherubs are a bit tacky, and after all they’d witnessed at that table, it’s understandable why they had to be trashed. The wallpaper is grim enough to be toilet paper as Lynette suggests. And what’s in the jar by cherub, stage right? Maybe one shouldn’t ask.

    Liked by 1 person

    • While spending summers on a farm may give one a taste of the ambition brew, it’s not quite the same as being farm-bound during harsh and boring winters. THAT’s when the home-study course bears maximum fruit…

      Liked by 1 person

  4. I confess I’ve never seen a Charlie Chaplin flick, only a few clips. Even so, I’ve a feeling Buster Keaton is more to my taste.

    You’ve uncovered the reason for my lack of ambition: Although I was born on a farm, my family moved to the city when I was a year old. Meaning I only have one year of ambition, then I’m done. I’m still waiting for it to happen.

    Liked by 2 people

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