Mae: “What do you mean you don’t know what to do?”
Buck: “Your foot is stuck in the drain. Why did you call me? I sell ice cream. Did you get hungry while you were waiting for someone else to get here who can actually help you?”
Mae: “You’re a man, for God’s sake. Do something.”
Buck: “You got a chainsaw? A little dab’ll do ya.”
Mae: “Very funny. Look, if you help me out, I’ll make it worth your while. I can show you a good time. I got moves.”
Buck: “Like the move you made climbing up on that dainty stool and shoving your foot where it doesn’t belong? That’s attractive.”
Mae: “Come on, give a girl a break. I gotta get back to the diner and sling some more hash.”
Buck: “Well, maybe we could loosen it up somehow. You got any bacon grease?”
Mae: “Whaddya want that for?”
Buck: “It’ll help things slide in and out easier.”
Mae: “And I’m all about easy.”
Buck: “And if I do it just right, it won’t hurt at all. You might even like it.”
Mae: “Oh. And if we move it up and down enough times it’ll pop like a cork.”
Director: “And… Cut!”
Mae: “Thank God. I still don’t understand the dialogue in that scene.”
Director: “You guys just had sex.”
Buck: “We did?”
Director: “Yeah. But we can’t show it. This is just how we get past the censors. It’s 1931. Most of the idiots in America still pretend that sex doesn’t really happen despite the unending stream of babies shooting out of hoo-hoos across America.”
Mae: “That’s a rather graphic image.”
Director: “And we can’t film that either. With this wretched Production Code, it’s all about innuendo instead of integrity and wordplay instead of foreplay.”
Buck: “How absurd.”
Director: “Like your outfit?”
Buck: “You hired the costume designer. And it’s interesting how he has the last name as you.”
Director: “Don’t be making fun of my cousin Ernesto. He had some issues growing up on the farm in Kansas. After the mad cow got loose that one time he was never the same.”
Mae: “Excuse me, I don’t mean to be a stick, but we need to finish this movie, and all this pointless gibbering is getting on my nerves, and the writer is annoyed as well.”
Buck: “We have a writer?”
Director: “News to me. Somebody actually wrote this mess?”
Mae: “We sure do. He’s right over there. Sitting in front of that laptop that smells like unfocused failure.”
Three sets of eyes turned toward me.
I ignored them and kept typing, desperately hoping to find a most-likely pitiful way to end this scene.
Suddenly, a mad cow that smelled like unfocused Kansas ran across the set, mooing rudely and kicking over a clever planter of begonias, with Eleanor Roosevelt riding astride his back, waving a banner that read “Contraception Will Save Us All!”.
That was good enough for me.
Completely extraneous footnote that will test the patience of even the most dedicated readers who faithfully read these footnotes: Recently, I have been culling through the archives, trying to figure out how many of the Past Imperfects on my long-neglected “Crusty Pie” site were never shared here at Bonnywood Manor. There are roughly 600 Imperfects on Crusty, and even though I am only at Number 327 in my review, I’ve already found 64 tawdry tales that didn’t make the jump, which means there are other neglected meanderings hiding in the bushes. This is my first effort at rectifying the backlog. Brace yourselves for more archaeological digs.
(Sorry about the begonias. These things happen.)
Categories: Past Imperfect