Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #327

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 Bavaria 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 and the absinthe has been uncorked, among other things. 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 soulmate. I’ll go lay face down in the coldness of our matrimonial mattress and try to figure out how this became as twisted as it is, with me once again wondering about my life choices and why it’s so hard for the reanimated to find true love.

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

Frank: “Yes, Medusa?”

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

Frank: “But can’t I keep at least one of them? For special occasions. We’ve got that gala at the Museum of Modern Art next week.”

Mae: “Fine. You can feel pretty for the Warhol exhibition. But after that, the panties go on the down low. There are far too many people who can post things on the Internet these days who really shouldn’t do so without supervision.”

 

Originally published in “Crusty Pie” on 10/27/15 and “Bonnywood Manor” on 08/16/16. Some changes made, because I’m one of those unsupervised people who can’t leave things alone when they should…

 

21 replies »

  1. *sedate snicker given it’s Sunday and one must not bwahahahah loudly, lest one pop one’s stitching*. Okay…I was all prepared for something like “Did you ever feel like something was behind you and you are scared to look, because sudden frights caused unsolicited peeing in older women?” And I got the hilarious bio clip of Hillary Clinton aka Mae whomever…(that AIN’T Mae West?? If so, what happened to her bosom??)
    instead. 😉 I always wondered why she furtively kept pawing at her lower, er, parts…but figured it was just a little gift from Bill, the kind that is only cured with penicillan and visits to the local Department of Health…. Now I know that Frank(ie) had stretched out her thongs to the point of no return. Naughty Frankie…

    If you’re wondering how I morphed Mae into H.C. – the whole Senator thingie was what brought Madame to mind. I hope I don’t get sued….

    Liked by 1 person

    • This is so fascinatingly scrambled that I admire it greatly. I can’t imagine that you’ll get sued, but I can’t promise anything with the current state of American affairs. But speaking of that, should we be focused on the things behind us that might make us tinkle, or the things in front of us that should make other people tinkle but they don’t have a clue. The mysteries abound…

      Like

  2. I did the google thing and found out she’s the one who got a grapefruit in the face? Goodness! First it’s a husband stealing her undies, then it’s a citrus to the kisser. What did they have against her, the poor darling.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.