Barbara: “My goodness, Mr. Fonda, you seem to be clutching my hand with lusty intention. Was it something I said?”
Henry: “Well, no. It’s not what you’re saying. It’s what you’re wearing.”
Barbara: “Oh, this little number? It’s merely something I threw together at the last minute. The skirt is just a tablecloth I stole from a restaurant, Chez Noir. And the top used to be a lampshade at Pier 1. A girl has to make ends meet, you know. Should we make our own ends meet?”
Henry: “It’s not your outfit, clever though it might be. It’s something a little lower.”
Barbara: “Aren’t we bold, my little hand-clutcher. Fond of my two-moon junction, are you?”
Henry: “A little lower than that.”
Barbara: “You’re confusing me, darling. The junction is my centerpiece. Everything else is just set decoration.”
Henry: “Not always. I’m rather enamored of decorations, especially when it involves a three-inch heel.”
Barbara: “Oh? Oh! You have a foot fetish!”
Henry: “Is that what they call it? I just call it a lonely Saturday night with free Internet access.”
Barbara: “It’s whatever you want to call it, I don’t judge, especially when the rent is due. But I wish you had said something sooner so I didn’t waste all this time squirming provocatively on an ugly ottoman. Let’s head over to Chez Noir and share some wine and throatily whisper about my strappy open-toed availability.”
Henry: “That sounds lovely, but I can’t really stand up right now due to… aerodynamic variances, if you catch my drift.”
Barbara: “Got it. The flag has been raised. Okay, well, perhaps we have trysting options much closer at hand. Or at foot. Does this store have a stockroom?”
Henry: “Indeed it does. But my wife is back there, manipulating the account ledgers to make this establishment appear more profitable than it really is. We’re making America great again.”
Barbara: “Wait, you have a wife? Okay, we’re done.”
Henry: “But I thought we had a connection!”
Barbara: “We did until you mentioned the other connection. I should have known better than to trust a man who looks like he should be selling ice cream from the back of a truck.”
Henry: “You must have me confused with Donald Trump.”
Barbara: “Not at all. Donald would have had one of his lawyers make me sign a non-disclosure agreement before I even sat down on this ugly ottoman. Just like he does with anyone who has the low self-esteem to join his administration.”
Hugh Jackman, wandering onto the set, as security was a bit lax on this sound stage, just like the White House: “Pardon the intrusion, but could I have a word?”
Barbara: “Oh, look, it’s that Wolverine Man with the fetching sideburns. Not only can he act, but he can sing and dance, which is what most of us professionals could do before the Internet was invented and people with absolutely no talent can become superstars.”
Henry: “I really admire your work, Hugh.”
Hugh: “Yes, I can see your aerodynamics from here. Could you maybe put that away for a second?”
Henry: “Sorry. There’s just been a lot of mental stimulation in this post, which is causing me to post, so to speak.”
Hugh: “Right. I’m just going to ignore that whole comment thread. What I’d really like to discuss is the tendency of the scriptwriter at Bonnywood to get too specific about American politics. The rest of the world is not all that interested.”
Barbara: “But isn’t America the leader of the free world? Doesn’t everybody look to us for inspiration?”
Hugh: “Perhaps that used to be true. But then you folks elected that ice cream president who continues to melt in the sunlight of truth. Nobody with any sense wants a taste of that popsicle.”
Henry: “Okay, then. My aerodynamics just went south.”
Hugh: “Did you not get the memo about boundaries? Anyway, I’ve got to run. There’s some political crap happening in Australia that I need to address before my dialogue becomes hypocrisy. Cheers, mates.” Hugh clicked his heels together three times and vanished. Somewhere over the rainbow, Judy Garland smiled.
Barbara: “I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do at this point.”
Henry: “I’m just glad that my point is no longer a point. I was a bit light-headed with the lack of blood flow to my brain.”
Barbara: “I think you just explained the 2016 presidential election in America.”
Originally published in “Crusty Pie” on 03/18/18. Considerably modified for this post, although my manipulations might prove unnecessary. Sometimes I just can’t stop diddling with my point…
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
What’s up with Barb’s hairdo? Somewhere in the world, there must be a naked and chilly yahk. But then again, somewhere in the world there’s a naked and chilly guinea pig, who upon seeing a mugshot … er, headshot of the DT, would be heard to exclaim, “Hey, that’s mine!”
And, don’t worry about pointing your diddle, er, diddling your point. Everyone has to have a hobby. 😉
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Yes, Barb’s hairdo is certainly a sight to behold. Seriously, was there actually a stylist who put that mess together and gave it his or her blessing? I guess people didn’t get out of the house much during this time. But I do feel sorry for the chilly guinea pig, as no one should have to wake up one day and realize that DT is violating their culture, even though that’s DT’s specialty…
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AH, yes, Oz politics these days are such a scummy, backstabbing mess – no matter who is in power! Thanks for the Hugh spotlight – I do love me some Hugh.
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Isn’t it sad that so many people in so many countries seem to have lost their grip on reality? Or perhaps it would be better to say “lost their grip on decency”. The mind boggles. In the mean time, let’s focus on Hugh and the swarthy way he makes the earth move under my feet…
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Pk, can’t remeber who sings that, but I can hear it in my head …you make the earth move…under my feet da dah da dah da da.
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I’m exhausted. Like Henry said, ‘There’s just been a lot of mental stimulation in this post’.
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We do what we can to keep ourselves sharp…
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Barbara: “I think you just explained the 2016 presidential election in America.”
I used to think this, but it doesn’t explain why people STILL think he’s wonderful.
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You’re right, it doesn’t. What it really explains is that a vast chunk of people stopped evolving as a species and now we are dealing with the fallout…
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You lost me at “aerodynamic variances”, the thought of Mr. Fonda (I once dated a guy who named his Honda “Fenry” … yeah the quality of eligible in Utah was and is highly limited) the mere thought of Mr. Fonda with a boner sent me psychologically reeling. I thought he was rather like Ken (in the 60s/70s anyway), ostensibly a ‘boy’ (he wore trousers and had polyester suits one could dress him in), but otherwise there were no, er, aft features to identify his gender. Genitalia being unseemly on dolls in those long ago years… *sigh* But then Ms. Stanwyck was often cast as a slutty female and perhaps the sight of her knee (which is where I thought you were going with this before the shoe thing shuffled in) sent him into paroxysms of lust.
Side note (which you KNEW would happen, it’s ME after all): Whatever happened to the shoe salesman? Who knelt before you on the floor, and would fetch your shoes for you? (rather like a well trained dog…gave young girls of a certain generation illusions about what their husbands would do for them) Now all the shoe buyer has to look forward to is that mess at Wal*Mart or Shopko (where Payless Shoes (tm all those – no lawsuits for ME for using names) where one must garner some shoes in the correct size (if one can find them), and fight the masses for somewhere to perch and try the damned things on. Getting sticky in the process, and not from funsies with cute fellas like Mr. Fenry there., but from unrestrained children who are running amok and throwing shoes everywhere….
I think I beat this particular dead horse enough now… er..
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Omg! “Fenry” is now sticking in my head, earworm-like. Can’t get it out. Just saw a Honda and guess what? Fenry!!
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Happy to share my ‘pain’ with someone Lynette! Always! 😉
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So much delicious fruit to pick here, but I’ll limit myself to two pluckings: One, I was thoroughly enraged as a youngster when I FINALLY got my coveted G.I. Joe doll, only to discover that his nether bits had been molded into plastic nothingness. So many fantasies, destroyed in an instant. Two, what DID happen to personal service in retail establishments? If it worked for decades and centuries before that, why has that been ixnayed from the current shopping environment? I’m a “I really like to hold it my hands before I buy it” kind of guy, which makes Internet purchases a bit uncomfortable for me. I would happily visit a physical store if I could trust that my needs would be met, but the apparent business model in these times is to hire sales clerks who don’t give a damn, with their “all about me” attitudes and disdain for people who walk in the store door…
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Your points are valid. I’ve succumbed, in part, to the siren call of Internet shopping, and have been about 50% satisfied. Which is the same experience I get at the actual physical store. Hmmm.
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You notice possibly that I did not mention any thing at all about that horrible 2016 mess that America garnered for herself (at least you explained WHY it happened). The thought of Hugh Jackman has those same girls of a certain generation dreaming up ways to entice the guy into their shoe closet… 😉 the orange horror will have to wait. Or maybe the fool has been lambasted enough and his suite at the “Crazy R US” Hotel and straight jacket manufacturing concern is ready…. I can live in hope. The one thing he hasn’t stolen..yet.
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Hang on to that hope as tightly as you can, because it looks like Trump’s latest Supreme Court nominee will make it through the gauntlet, and the Court will shift so far to the right that it may be decades before we can unravel the mess…
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Well there goes “Civil Liberties”…cast on the fire of ennui and bad choices. Don’t cry for me America….you once mighty land…cry for yourself!
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Politics & feet fetishes before breakfast? That’s probably why my water heater caught fire. Sighhh
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It also might explain global warming, but perhaps I’m stretching it a bit… 😉
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