Sunday, October 25, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 22b)

My mom was never in the Navy, but she was once an honorary member of the Sixth Fleet. They even voted her Miss Congeniality. She still has the trophy. To this day, whenever she has too much to drink the sailor in her comes out.
     "See you later, Popeye," she'll say.
     "Aye, aye, Brandy," he'll tell her. "You're a fine girl."
     She likes to spend her off-time drinking grog, getting drunk, and singing drunken sailor songs.
 
"Who's that knocking at my door? Who's that knocking at my door?
Who's that knocking at my door?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, I need the loo and then it's you!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     Unfortunately, when I drink I have the bad habit of joining her. I put down my favorite book, a copy of The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs, and that's exactly what I do.
 
"Are you young and handsome, sir? Are you young and handsome, sir?"
Are you young and handsome, sir?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, I'm rigid and rough and turgid and tough!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     And together we annoy the other patrons in the bar with our singing of sea shanties and dancing of jigs.
 
"What if I should lock the door? What if I should lock the door?
What if I should lock the door?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, I'll use my Glock to shoot the lock!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     "Bartender!" my mother calls out. "Another pint of grog!"
 
"What if my parents should come home? What if my parents come home?
What if my parents should come home?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, I'll kill your pa and then your ma!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     Swinging our arms rhythmically from side to side, and hopping on our sea legs sideways from one end of the bar to the other and then back again, we were having a wonderful time.
   
"Will you take me to the dance? Will you take me to the dance?
Will you take me to the dance?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, forget the dance and off with your pants!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     The other first class passengers waiting with us are so entertained by our drunken shenanigans they complain to airport security, but we have our Get Out Of Jail card in the form of the sponsorship of one Christian Grey.
 
"Will you vow to marry me? Will you vow to marry me?
Will you vow to marry me?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, first we bed then maybe we'll wed!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     Some of the gentlemen passengers toss dollar bills up on the bar in encouragement, taking pictures of us with their smart phones.
     "I'm gonna put this on Instagram," a stranger yells excitedly.
     "Put this," my mother yells back, grabbing her crotch Michael Jackson-style. "Wee-hee!"
 
"What's that thing between your legs? What's that thing between your legs?
What's that thing between your legs?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, first it swings and then it stings!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     I've never had so much fun in my life. I wonder what Christian would think of me having so much fun. I think, to him, fun is an abstract concept, like an honest politician or military intelligence.
 
"What if I should have a child? What if I should have a child?
What if I should have a child?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, I'll shove it back and that's a fact!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     I know there's a human being in there somewhere, but first I'd have to peel back all his controlling issues, stalking tendencies, and perverting perversions.
   
"What if you should go to jail? What if you should go to jail?
What if you should go to jail?" said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, I'll swing my balls and tear down the walls!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
 
     But right now, drink in my hand, I just wanted to dance my problems away and my inhibitions into hiding, so I did a two-step, quick-step, and a bossanova. A little Victor Sylvester and a Rudy Valentino. You should have seen me moving, right across the floor.
     "Hand me down my tuxedo," my Inner Goddess salad dressing sang. "Next week I'm coming back for more."
 
“What if you should get the gas? What if you should get the gas?
What if you should get the gas?” said the fair Young Maiden.
"Well, I'll blow the gas right out my..."
 
     "Hey!" my mother yells over the noise. "I'm gonna work the crowd."
     She jumps off the top of the bar, leaving me to do the Lindy Hop on my own. I decide this would be a good time to fire off a quick email to Christian on my iPhone. I used to own a Blackbury, but Apple offered me more money for product placement.
     Ana, I tell myself, you can never, ever tell Christian about this.
     With a little arm-twisting, I agree.
     I write:
 
Hi, Christian. What are you doing?
 
     He writes back:
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
     I tell him:
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
     He tells me back:
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
Nothing. What are you doing?
 
     I can't believe I'm over 400 pages into this story and this is where we're at.
 
Where are you?
 
     I type, throwing caution to the wind. The wind throws it right back.
 
Right behind you.
 
     "Cowabunga!" I say.
     And surf's not even up.
   
 
American Chimpanzee
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
 

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