Norma: “Come into my arms, my love. Let me show my world to you.”
Director: “Cut! Norma, you’re off script. And why do you look like you’re one morphine drip away from a sanitarium? You’re supposed to be on the verge of rapturous love-making with the man that has obsessed you for decades. I’m not really seeing that.”
Norma: “Clarence, it’s been a wretched day. Sometimes a woman just doesn’t feel sexy, especially when her hair has been ironed into place because nobody has invented any decent grooming products yet. I yearn for the day when somebody gives birth to Paul Sebastian.”
Director, apparently also known as Clarence: “Well, I’m a man, so I really don’t understand things like personal hygiene or the emotional state of people around me. And I have a penis, which is the only grooming product I will ever need.”
Norma: “But that’s exactly what I mean. You’re directing this scene like it’s a science project. There really needs to be a bit more chemistry if you want to capture the female audience.”
Clarence: “Capture the audience? Is that what you’re trying to do with those vulture arms that you’re waving about? Do you really want people running out of the theater in a panic, convinced that Medusa has survived the centuries and she’s got a bad attitude about the whole situation?”
Norma: “Apparently I’m not the only one with access to a morphine drip. We’re getting nowhere with this badgering. How about we start fresh, without the baggage?”
Clarence: “And what do you mean by that, Siren of the Damned?”
Norma: “First, let’s hire a male lead who isn’t only interested in other males. Second, stop playing with your testicles like there’s no place like home. And finally, could we find a set decorator who isn’t obsessed with recreating the funeral home that he apparently grew up in? Who wants to make love whilst surrounded by the remnants of a Black Mass?”
Clarence: “Well, now that you mention it, it does look a bit grim in here. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to the details.”
Norma: “And that line, dear Clarence, basically explains every divorce in this country.”
Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnywood Manor”. No changes made for this post due to NaNoWriMo. And laziness. Okay, mostly laziness with sprinkles of NaNoWriMo. And the cherry on top, which is me spending so much time entertaining myself in the archives that I lose focus. Okay, that’s the real reason. Focus.
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Once again you made me giggle. 😉
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And I’m glad that you did. If we can’t giggle, we’re doing something wrong… 😉
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No doubt!!! Life’s too short not to! 🙂
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Re photo; Happy Marionetta- you can’t even see the strings?
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I beg to differ. If you look really closely, you can see Julie Andrews and the Lonely Goatherd in the background. Or maybe I’m just late for my next round of medication…
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Norma does look a bit scary. Makes one wonder what was going through her mind. An entire blog post could be dedicated to the weirdness going on inside her head.
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And can you imagine what would happen if the camera panned 180 degrees and focused on the absurd writer scribbling in the darkness? Hoo boy, that would be some good eatin’… 😉
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A morphine drip changes everything.
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Adding this to my list of possible epitaphs… 😉
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Ah… the shiny distracted again😉
Focus would be a good title for Norma’s gaze, or rather “lack of”. It appears she thinking of her grocery list and the laundry and…and…
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Or maybe Norma’s just tired of being desecrated in my Past Imperfects. “Can’t we do anything with that annoying fool and his laptop?”…
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Actually I think she’ll be fulfilled in the end. And I know I don’t know my film history, but didn’t someone come along who took her hair comment to heart and commence to do something about that mess? I mean ‘big hair’ hadn’t really hit vogue (did it ever?) and having it teased out until it resembled …I’m at a loss for a description…then splashing bleach over the thing in an allegedly ‘artistic’ streak, was a bit over the top (literally). Still Frankie (whom she obviously hadn’t met yet) was pleased. “Mash Gooood”…as he mashed her….
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Well, you’ve provided me with about a hundred different avenues for me to pursue with my response, so I must pause and give you credit for being a very supportive reader who knows my quirky inclinations and just how to provoke them.
But I’m choosing this particular path: Can any of us really say that we understand life if we haven’t spent some time in Frankie’s chair at the Dairy Queen salon? I think not… 😉
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Ah, your postscripts – always a cherry on the top 🙂
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I love the postscripts, little treasures for those who care enough to stick with my madness until completion… 😉
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And here I thought it was Donnie Stumpo who inhabited the darkened corners. Standing there, clicking his heels, dropping hair pins and muttering about wanting someone to take him away from all this. On the other hand, maybe it’s the American electorate doing the muttering. 😉
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Well, about that American electorate and the electoral process in general: I fully understand that we all have a right to vote. But, more and more lately, I’m beginning to think that maybe our founding fathers did not fully grasp the concept that certain future Americans would somehow be willfully less-educated than people who lived 300 years ago. Perhaps there should have been an extra clause or two in the original Constitution… 😉
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