Cyd, left: “Fred, how many times have I told you to wear tighter pants? Your amazingly muscular butt gets lost in that flour-sack abomination.”
Fred, right: “Are we really talking about this right now? Just as I’m about to hurl you in the air for a triple-flip and then catch you? Is this really a wise moment to make me consider dropping you?”
Cyd: “Sorry. I can’t breathe in this dress and we’ve been dancing for twenty minutes while the screenwriters figure out the next part of this movie. And I do so love the triple-flip, as that’s the only time I get to rest while you carry the show for once. Plus, there’s that naughty moment during the dismount when you almost get a glimpse of my Baby Jane.”
Fred: “I can’t stand it when you call it that. Why does it have to have a name? And why do you have to talk about it?”
Cyd: “Oh, please. Like men don’t name their cattle prods. Of course, maybe you’ve never even found yours in that flour sack and you haven’t gotten around to a proper christening.”
Fred: “And I think I’m done with this part of the conversation. We need to finish this dance. Let’s catapult Baby Jane through the stratosphere so we can get paid and leave.”
Cyd: “Wait, before my hoo-hoo goes high-high, I just have a question.”
Fred: “Something tells me I won’t have the answer.”
Cyd: “Why are the men behind us not able to sit in a chair like a normal human being. What’s with the weird squatting? Did they go to Caveman High? Is it a blockage of some kind?”
Fred: “Maybe they want to get out of this scene just as badly as I do.”
Cyd: “And that woman in the left corner. Did somebody stab her in the head with a plumed dagger? I thought they stopped doing that mess when France stopped having incredibly-effeminate kings.”
Fred: “Wow. I can’t even begin to… that dress really must be cutting off the blood flow to your brain.”
Cyd: “I’ve been trying to tell you that all night, Pillsbury. Now, let’s get airborne.”
Director: “Folks, the writers still don’t have a new scene because they’re arguing over screen credits. Let’s keep the cameras rolling and let’s keep dancing and squatting suspiciously.”
Fred: “Aw, hell. Well, we might be doing the triple-flip more times than either of us can psychologically process.”
Cyd: “I was born in Texas. I’ve been through worse. Prepare for launch.”
Baby Jane: “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnywood Manor”. Slight changes made for this post.
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Perfect last line!
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I just had to do it. Had to. 😉
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Swing low, sweet Charisse.
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Word on the street is that she has done exactly that. Fred, too…
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Tough guy Fred with the ‘jazz fingers’ ready to deploy…😂
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Everybody run! Unless you’ve been drinking. Then you should Uber…
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You are so good , Brian.
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And you are so kind to say so… 😉
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lol
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There was a certain appropriateness about this post having 69 likes, until I came along and spoiled it. Sorry.
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No worries. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities for 69 in the future… 😉
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Hilarious, Brian. 😀
Cyd. Interesting name. And imagine the mispronunciations and misinterpretations. Your parents named you “Kid”? Were they expecting a cat? A dog? An alien? Not unlike today’s parents who try very hard to name their offspring with incomprehensible abstrusities.
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Thanks, Lynette. And yes, “Cyd” is a little different, but it gets even better, as that was just her stage name. Her real name? Tula Ellice Finklea. (And no, I’m not making that up…)
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I never heard that! What a great bit of trivia. It’s hard to get beyond focusing on those legs. Remember the green stockings in American in Paris?
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Um, not to quibble but isn’t that GENE KELLY? In “That’s Entertainment” where he is having that weird dream sequence and in his apparently overloaded mind goes to the night club to garner himself a job – dancing – naturally; and she is the moll of the gangster (whose thugs are squatting on the floor, ready to shive a guy for getting a glimpse of ‘Baby Jane’ – even inadvertently)? Maybe I’m mistaken and I do bow to your superior wisdom and knowledge of all things old and trivial like that. ❤
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Now, now, Sister. We’ve had this very discussion before, and it took place on the previous post of this post. It’s Fred, not Gene. But I still love you. Now, maybe you should lie down on the couch and rest a spell. I’ll be there shortly to put a cold compress on your forehead and tell you that you’re still pretty. We’ll get through this together… 😉
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See, I KNEW that…the deja vu was overwhelming. Well we all shove our foot in our mouths sometimes. And didn’t Cyd have a proper costume designer?? Because seriously, doesn’t that outfit look eeriely similar to the one I referenced?
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Yes, what a name her parents lumbered her with, quite Finklea. No wonder she changed it. Tula to Cyd, but anything’s more ‘Hollywood than Tula Finklea. Except maybe Frances Ethel Gumm..
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Ah, a rose by any other name would… hell, I don’t know where I’m going with this. Which is probably what Judy Garland said when she turned to drugs…
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