Note: This is another Crusty Pie post where the original is a bit lackluster. So, let’s mess around with it, shall we?
Woman on the Right: “I really think highly of myself and therefore must wear this impromptu crown that I fashioned out of my grandmother’s dental work. Ignore the artistic mural behind me, where naked people appear to be doing primitive things. I don’t know what that’s all about and I just want a cocktail.”
Man on the Right: “Dear Lord, help me get through this moment when I am surrounded by estrogen.”
Woman on the Left: “I have no idea who these people are. I was just trying to find a bathroom, when this fool handed me a free drink. I’m not going to turn such a thing down, of course, because I clearly can’t afford a proper hair stylist, let alone a premium cocktail. Still, I really need to pee, so I hope we can get this done and I can move on.”
Bartender: “None of these people are going to tip me, I can just sense it. Nobody ever has any respect for people in stupid hats. Just ask the Pope.”
Rewind, Take Two.
Woman on the Right: “I just slept with Donald Trump up in his penthouse! Of course, I had to take a number, but the line moved much faster than it does at Sol’s Deli.”
Man on the Right: “I used to sleep with women after Donald had slept with them, but I just couldn’t keep up. Of course, rumor has it that he actually just watches, but I was paid by his lawyer not to share the video.”
Woman on the Left: “I’m sure I’ve given birth to at least two women who will eventually sleep with Donald. He’s making America amoral again!”
Bartender: “Wait, Trump owns this building? I better cash my paycheck before he files for bankruptcy again.”
Rewind, Take Three.
Woman on the Right: “Hi, I’m a blogger and I just got 47,000 hits on my last post about where to find the best eyeliner in Topeka, Kansas. Thank you for inviting me to this independent-authors convention where the organizers are just making money off the dreams of people who don’t really have the money to spare.”
Man on the right: “Oh, honey, you should be at the Holiday Inn next door. This is the Ritz Carlton, where the five remaining mega-huge publishing houses are celebrating the fact that we can still make millions by only accepting formulaic novels written by formulaic writers who follow our formula.”
Woman on the Left, laughing and nudging Man on the Right: “Isn’t it absurd how these independent fools think they can actually make a difference by writing something fresh? This reminds me of those wretched years where poor people in this country thought their vote actually mattered until the Supreme Court started stripping away voting rights in order to appease their sponsors.”
Bartender: “I never pay any attention to politics. Of course, that’s probably why I still work for a minimum wage that is below the poverty level. I fully admit that I’m one of these people who likes to complain but never does a damn thing about it.”
Rewind, Take Four.
Woman on the Right: “I’ve been standing in this position for a long time and my arm is getting tired. I’m starting to think that The Writer is just throwing dialogue on the wall to see what might stick.”
Man on the Right: “I’m guessing you’re new here. I’ve been a guest at Bonnywood Manor for decades, and The Writer has always been the same, fumbling and poking and prodding until a few of his words show some semblance of life. But the bar is always well-stocked, so I keep renewing my membership.”
Woman on the Left: “Wait, are you serious? The Writer actually thinks he has something to contribute to society? That is so rich, just like my ex-husband was until the divorce.”
Bartender, inner voice: “One day I will get you, my pretties. One day. Because something is brewing in me that is hopefully the next Great Novel and not just a gastrointestinal disturbance.” Bartender, outer voice: “Should I refill the bowl of peanuts?”
Rewind, Take Five.
Woman on the Right, slipping into Charades Mode because that always happens when the octane level is high enough in the beverages: “Okay, let’s do movie titles that best explain The Writer’s writing style. Go!”
Man on the Right: “Lawrence of Belaboring.”
Woman on the Left: “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Film Festival.”
Man on the Right: “Gone with the Mind.”
Woman on the Left: “The Plot-Father.”
Man on the Right: “Sunday in the Park with Gorge.”
Woman on the Left: “Romeo and Who He Let Fail.”
Man on the Right: “101 Inflammations.”
Woman on the Left: “The Wizard of Pause.”
Bartender, throwing the bowl of peanuts on the floor: “Fine. I’ll just let myself out.”
Woman on the Right: “I don’t think I’ve seen that movie. What the hell is he talking about?”
Man on the Right: “I’m telling you, this is what we get all the time at Bonnywood. He throws out some weird crap and we all politely click ‘like’ and hope that tomorrow will be a better day.”
Woman on the Left: “How sad. I wonder what happened in his childhood that made him be this way.”
Man on the Right: “Well, he’s posted about being raised in Oklahoma.”
Woman on the Right: “Oh, the poor thing. No wonder he was wearing that stupid hat.”
Woman on the Left: “Tragic, really. Say, do you think those peanuts on the floor are still good? Two-second rule?”
Previously published, revised far more than it should have been, over the years. This is what happens when Oklahoma writers are left unsupervised for too long…
Categories: Past Imperfect