Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 19c)

"Ana, you've met my mother, Grace. And this is my father, Carrick."
     I curtsy.
     "Excuse me," I say, having curtsied a little too enthusiastically.
     "Nothing a little wine won't distract us from," Christian's father says. He proffers a bottle. Mmm... Boone's Farm.
     "How lovely to see you again," Christian's mother tells me.
     "Really?" I ask.
     "No," she answers.
     "Mother!" Christian chastises. "This is no place for honesty."
     Mrs. Grey raises her eyebrows. I don't know how she can get them so high above her head.
     "That's okay, Christian," I tell him. "I've learned to accept abuse. Why, in high school I was voted Girl Most Likely To Date Chris Brown."
     "Ana."
     "Yes?"
     "Be quiet."
     "Okay."
     "Don't make a sound."
     "I won't."
     "I mean it."
     "So do I."
     "Just shut up."
     "I will."
     "Not another word."
     "I'm not saying anything."
     For some reason my not saying anything upsets him even more.
     "Zing! Bang! Pow! One of these days, Ana," he says, making a fist and threatening me with it. "To the moon! To the moon!"
     What a sweet thought from a sweet man.
     "Is she here?" a loud voice screeches from somewhere else in the house other than here.
     The ground shakes as, from out of nowhere, Bigfoot in a tight dress comes stampeding into the room and traps me with a bear-hug. Giving me a tight squeeze with what could pass for two tree-trucks but are in actuality her arms, she lifts me high into the air. My bra snaps open and goes flying across the room with a loud bo-innggg! sound. My naked breasts flop up and down like a Slinky.
     "That would be Mia, my little sister," Christian tells me.
     Little? I don't mean to be unkind, but she's so large they probably had to baptize her at Sea World.
     "Ana!" she squeals, "I've heard so much about you!"
     "Really?"
     "No."
     "Mia!" Christian chastises.
     "That's okay," I say. "Back in high school I was voted Girl Most Likely To Invest With Bernie Madoff."
     "It's just that Christian's never brought home a girl before," Christian's mother explains.
     "Yes, we were taking bets on whether or not he liked things longer than he liked them wide," Mia continues the thought. "I guess nobody wins."
     "Wine?" Christian father cuts in.
     Hmm... I had forgotten about him.
      "Let me introduce you to the rest of our guests," Christian says, and leads me away from his family. "Ana, this is Bill Cosby. Whatever you do, don't accept a drink from him."
     "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Cosby," I say.
     "He's in charge of the Jello Pudding Pops," Christians mother tells me, explaining the reason why he's here.
     "And this is former NBC news anchor Brian Williams."
     I offer Mr. Williams my hand, but he's in the middle of telling the story of how he was attacked by the Taliban while climbing Mount Everest to fight Nazis.
     "I'll say one thing about those terrorists," he says in conclusion, "without them I would have never broke the world record for climbing to the top of the world's highest peak."
     "Whatever you do," Christian tells me, "don't believe a word he says. And this is..."
     "Kate!" I yelp in excitement. "What are you doing here?"
     "I'm pleased to meet you," Kate tells me. "And you are...?"
     "Kate! It's me! Ana!"
     "Ana who?"
     "No, not Ana Hu," I tell her. Why she thinks I'm Chinese, who knows. "Ana Steele.  Your roommate."
     "Well, it's nice to meet you, Miss Roommate. I'd lean in closer to give you a hug, but your breath smells just like the middle part of a Mexican friend of mine named Jose."
     "That's a horrible thing to say, Kate." I say to her. "Why do you keep trying to break Christian and me up? I want to know."
     "Because," she answers in that one-percenter kind of way of hers, "the more you have, the less I  have by comparison."
     "Wine?" Christian's father wants to know.
     The last person I meet is Christian's father's arch-enemy, Bob Bitchin. CEO of Bob Bitchin Incorporated. The way Christian explains it to me is that Mr. Bitchin is in the middle of a hostile takeover of Grey Enterprises & Enchilada Emporium. Christian's father invited him to dinner so they could "settle this nasty business once and for all."
     And, speaking of dinner, it looks wonderful.
     There's a meat salad with meat appetizers. Meat sides and a meat main course. In crystal pitchers, there's a thick liquid that's rich and colorful. I've never had a meat smoothie before, but, let me tell you, it looks absolutely refreshing in a refreshingly meaty kind of way. I bet it goes down smooth, just like Kate.
     Hmm....
     Smooth.
     Smoothie.
     I wonder...?
     "You'll never guess what we're having for dessert," Christian's mother interrupts my reverie.
     "My guess would be some kind of meat," Kate whispers to me, conspiratorially.
     The men, stereotypically, are busy talking about sports.
     "Did you see the game between the Harlem Globetrotters and the Washington Generals?"
 I hear Christian say. "What a nail-biter! I had no idea who would win."
     As we finally make our way to the table and sit down in our pre-assigned seats, Christian's father accidentally bumps into his arch-enemy and spills a splash of wine onto his lap. Without thinking, Mr. Bitchin grabs his dinner napkin and uses it to wipe the crimson liquid from the front of his pants.
     "So sorry, old chap" Christian's father tells him, faking an English accent.
     "Really?"
     "No."
     "Da-add!" Christian chastises.
     "Mr. Bitchin, are you okay?" Christian's mother asks. I can hear concern in her voice.
     Mr. Bitchin's eyes have started to pop out. He begins to clutch his at his throat like he can't breathe. He stands up, weaves back and forth, and then collapses to the floor.
     "Oh, my Goobers!" I say. "Bob Bitchin's dead!"
     My Inner Goddess and I Forget What The Other One Is immediately hit the road. If there's an accusation of murder to be made, they don't want to be there.
     I can't blame them. Neither do I.
     The cops are called and a Lt. Columbo shows up. He's a wrinkly little man in a wrinkly little raincoat with a glass eye that always seems to be pointed in the opposite direction of the way he's looking.
     "Can somebody please explain to me the chronology of the events of the evening?" he asks.
     "Wine?" Christian's father offers.
     "No, thank you," Columbo says, politely, "just the facts, ma'am."
     "I'm a sir."
     "Yes, sir."
     Christian's mother immediately takes over the situation.
     "Well, you see, Lieutenant," she says, "we had all just sat down for a nice dinner, when Mr. Bitchin..."
     "Who?"
     "Mr. Bitchin."
     "And who would that be?"
     "That would be the dead man whom we called you about."
     "I see, I see... hey, is that Brain Williams?--Are you still up for the position of Pope, Brian? Yeah, I thought so. Anyway--You were saying, sir?"
     "I'm a ma'am."
     "Ma'am."
     "Well, we sat down for dinner, but, before we could eat, Mr. Bitchin..."
     "Who?"
     "Mr. Bitchin. The dead man we called you about."
     "That's right. Go on, go on. I'm sorry for the interruption."
     "Well, before any of us could eat anything, Mr. Bitchin had the bad manners to be murdered. Which reminds me, Lieutenant, will you be done soon? I'm famished."
     "Just a few more questions, just a few more questions. I see your husband has been passing around wine like he was Gunga Din with a water pouch. Did everybody have a glass?"
     "Yes. We all had a glass."
     "And were there any hors d'oeuvres?"
     "Yes."
     "And did everybody have some?"
     "Yes. We all ate hors d'oeuvres."
     "And no one had a chance to eat any of the food at the table?"
     "No. Lieutenant. No one did. Are we done?"
     "Just one more question, ma'am. One more question."
     The statement just kind of hangs there while Columbo's wandering eye makes its way around the room, looking at everything and yet nothing in particular.
     "Say... is that Bill Cosby? Uh, miss? I wouldn't drink that if I were you."
     "Your question, Lieutenant?"
     "What?"
     "You had one more question?"
     "Oh, yeah... was there anything out of the ordinary that happened? I mean, out of the ordinary as in something that was not ordinary thus making it out of the ordinary."
     "Well, the only thing I can think of was when my husband accidentally bumped into Mr. Bitchin."
     "That would be the dead man?"
     "That's another question, Lieutenant."
     "Sorry."
     "Quite all right. When my husband accidentally spilled some wine on Mr. Bitchin, Mr. Bitchin grabbed his dinner napkin, cleaned himself off, and then expired."
     "I see, I see."
     "So..."
     "So?"
     "So, do you need to call CSI? NCIS? The ACLU?"
     "Not at all. With everything you've told me, I know who killed Mr. Bitchin."
     "Who?"
     "The dead man you called me about."
     "No, I mean: Who killed him?"
     "Why, it's obvious that it was your husband, ma'am."
     "Surely, you must be joking."
     "No, ma'am, I'm not. And don't call me Shirley. Everybody knows that Mr. Bitchin was in the middle of a hostile takeover of your husband's company, Grey Enterprises & Chinese Nookie Palace. Since everybody touched the same things, drank the same things, and ate the same things, the only thing that was different was when Mr. Bitchin handled his dinner napkin. It's obvious that your husband must have poisoned the dinner napkin in advance, and then not-so-accidentally spilled wine on Mr. Bitchin, causing him to grab his napkin to dry himself off. We'll test the napkin and I'm sure we'll find it contaminated with a fast-acting poison of some kind."
     We stand there, all stunned.
     Christian's mother looks in disbelief at her husband.
     "Could it be true, dear?"
     "Of course, my love. Every word."
     Christian's mother then turns back to the police Lieutenant.
     "Will you be arresting my husband for murder, Lieutenant?"
     Columbo's glass eye rambles all over the room and finally settles on Christian's mother.
     "Of course not," he assures her. "He's rich."
 
 

Fifty Shades of Funny

jimduchene.BlogSpot.com

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

@JimDuchene

 

19b: Rocky Horror!

As I stand on the street and look into the empty car, it begins to rain.
     Down the street, I see a man who looks like John Travolta, back when he still had hair. He's got a recording device in one hand, and a microphone in the other. He seems to be recording sounds at random. We both look up suddenly when we hear a car tire blow out.
     The blow out startles me and is also a darn fine movie, but I really jump back when a strange man suddenly appears out of nowhere. He looks like he could be in the military, brave enough to go to war but not to get a bikini wax.
     "Do you need help, ma'am?"
     "Kee-rist!" I yell at him. "You scared me!"
     I look around for Crockett, but he made like a banana and split.
     "I didn't mean to scare you, ma'am. You just look like you need help. The name's Reacher. Jack Reacher."
     "Wow," I tell him, "you look just like Tom Cruise."
     "No, I don't," he tells me. "Read the books."
     Offended at my Tom Cruise comparison, Reacher leaves as stealthily as he showed up. Once he's gone, Crockett reappears.
     "Where were you?" I ask him.
     "I was ready to pounce," he says, and with shaky knees escorts me inside the Grey home, where I step out of the black & white and into a demented Oz.
     We're greeted just inside the door by a hunched-backed man who looks like a balding cadaver, and a heavily made-up woman with red, red lips and curly, curly red hair.
     "This is Riff Raff," Crockett says, nodding toward the living dead, "the Grey's handyman, and his sister Magenta."
     "Is she the maid?" I ask.
     "Quite frankly," Crockett tells me, "I don't know what she is."
     A little leprechaun-looking imp of a girl with Kool-Aid-colored hair, gaudy make-up, glittery clothes, and tap-shoes that could take Dorothy back to Kansas, introduces herself.
     "I'm Columbia," she says.
     "You certainly are," I say back.
     When Christian's mother comes up to greet me, I fall into her arms sobbing.
     "Oh, my gosh! Oh, my gosh!" I tell Christian's mother. "Your son... he... he... just disappeared!"
     "Disappeared?" says a man, walking up to us. "And you need help finding him?"
     "Um... who are you?" I ask as politely as I can, considering the rude interruption.
     "This," Christian's mother tells me, "is Harry Bosch, a homicide detective with the LAPD."
     "Yes," the detective tells me, "that's Harry, short for Hieronymus."
     "Did your parents name you Hieronymus because they liked the 15th century Dutch painter?"
     "No, they named me Hieronymus because they hated me," he says, and sulks off at the bad memory. I could swear he's trying not to cry.
     "You know," someone else interrupts, this time a female, "if you find him, and he's dead, I could perform the autopsy for you."
     "Who are you?"
     "I'm Dr. Laurie Montgomery, and this is my husband, Dr. Jack Stapleton. We're both medical examiners."
     "In El Paso?"
     "No," her husband cuts in, "in New York."
     "Then you can't help me at all, can you?"
     "Not with that attitude," Laurie tells me. "And that's DOCTOR Laurie."
     With an interrupting wave of her hand, Christian's mother interrupts us wavily.
     "There's nothing to worry about," she assures me. "Christian just enjoys making a grand entrance. He's been that way ever since he saw Rocky Horror. By the way, Angie..."
     "Ana."
     "Whatever. By the way, I'd like to introduce you to someone."
     I turn to look, and see a little bear in a red hat and blue coat.
     "I'm Paddington," he tells me in that little bear voice of his.
     "Not you," Christian's mother snaps at him, and then turns back to me. "I tried to have him stuffed, but instead was knocked off a roof by a crazy old drunk lady for my trouble," she explains. Her explanation leaves me more confused than ever. "No, Ashley..."
     "Ana."
     "Whatever. No, my pretty, I'd like to introduce you to this nice couple."
     With that, a nerdy-looking young couple walk up to me. The male of the species is quick to stick out his hand.
     "Brad Majors," he tells me, "and this is my fiancé Janet Weiss."
     "Please to meet you, Mr. Majors," I tell him. "I loved you in The Six Million Dollar Man."
     "That's Lee Majors," he corrects me. "I'm Brad."
     "Whatever," Christian's mother says and begins to fill in the blanks for me. "They just had a blow out, and wanted to use our phone. I thought perhaps you might know them."
     "Because we're all young?" I ask, trying to make the connection.
     "No, because you're all poor."
     When I don't say anything, Brad turns to his fiancé and tells her, "They're probably foreigners with ways different than our own. They may do some more... folk dancing."
     I feel like I've just stepped into the middle of an on-going conversation. A very strange conversation. In the distance, I hear the elevator in the foyer start up and head down to our floor. Bug-eyed Janet's big bug-eyes get even bigger and buggier.
     "Oh, Brad," she says, looking all the worse for wear from having just come in from out of the rain, "I'm cold, I'm wet, and I'm just plain scared."
     "I'm here," he tells her, as they back away from us and toward the lowering elevator. "There's nothing to worry about."
     With that the in-door elevator touches bottom, and the wrought-iron gate clanks open with a dramatic flourish.
     "How do you do, I..." Christian greets us, one eye cocked, his face an amused smirk.
     Janet faints into Brad's arms. While I, I'm shocked into silence. Christian is wearing a shiny black cape with a large white collar. On his head is a wig, a mop of black almost-curly hair. He's wearing a generous amount of white Halloween makeup as a base for his face, red lipstick and black eyeliner.
     "...see you've met my," Christian continues, indicating Riff-Raff with a nod of his head, "faithful handyman. He's a little brought down because, when you knocked, he thought you were the candyman. Don't get strung out by the way I look. Don't judge a book by its cover. I'm not much of a man by the light of day, but by night I'm one hell of a lover. I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania, ha-ha!"
     With that, he throws off his cape with a theatrical spin, revealing the white interior. Underneath, Christian is wearing--or, rather, barely wearing--a black lace-up corset with black thigh-high fishnet stockings held up by a black suspender garter belt. He has on black elbow-length gloves, white pumps, a necklace of chunky white pearls, and tight black underwear. On his upper arm, there's a tattoo of a heart with a dagger through it. The word "boss" is written above the heart, and blood is drawn dripping beneath it.
     I must say, he looks diabolically sexy.
     "Let me show you around," Christian tells the naive couple, "maybe play you a sound. You look like you're both pretty groovy. Or, if you want something visual, that's not too abysmal, we could take in an old Steve Reeves movie."
     "I'm glad we caught you at home," Brad cuts in, offering an ignored hand. "Could we use your phone? We're both in a bit of a hurry."
     "Right," agrees Janet, which seems to be what she does best.
     Christian takes a flute of champagne from a tray of several that Riff-Raff offers. Distracted, he then walks away from the two of them and greets one of the other guests.
     "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Furter," the guest says, his hand not being ignored.
     Like hungry puppies, Brad and Janet quickly follow behind.
     "We'll just say where we are," Brad continues, trying to hang on to his alpha maleness, "then go back to the car. We don't want to be any worry."
     "Well, you got caught with a flat, well," Christian says, flinging the champagne in an act of alpha maliciousness at an imaginary audience, "how 'bout that. Well, babies, don't you panic. By the light of the night, it'll all seem all right. I'll get you a satanic mechanic! I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania, ha-ha!"
     He considers.
     "Why don't you stay for the night..."
     "Night!" Riff Raff agrees.
     "...or maybe a bite."
     "Bite!" Columbia seconds that emotion with a chomp of her teeth.
     "I could show you my favorite obsession. I've been making a man with blonde hair and a tan, and he's good for relieving my... tension. I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania, ha-ha!"
     He gives his ass a sexy slap.
     "Hit it! Yeah! I'm just a sweet transvestite..."
     "...a sweet transvestite..." everybody chimes in.
     "...from Transsexual Transylvania, HA-HA!"
     Christian stops and looks at them with a bemused seriousness.
     "So," he teases, "come up to the lab..." Bam! "...and see what's on the slab..." Bam! "I see you shiver with antici...PAYshun!"
     And then in a booming voice he says, "But maybe the rain..."
     And then in a softer voice he says, "...isn't really to blame..."
     And then in a reasonable voice he says, "...so I'll relieve the cause..."
     With that, he pauses, and then chuckles to himself.
     "...but NOT the SYMPTOM!"
     With that, he plops himself sideways into the chair at the head of the dinner table, the top end of his body lounging over the right armrest, his long legs cocked seductively over the left.
     "Oh, no!" he says, surveying the food. "Not meatloaf again!"
 
 

Fifty Shades of Funny

jimduchene.BlogSpot.com

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

@JimDuchene