I think it really comes down to this: One
way or another, those big plaster Vaginas' will not be ignored. God and I
and
that hippie sculptor worked too hard to get them here for Us to let Them
languish ignored, covered in flies and dog urine. Eric will just have to
accept this. If he can’t, he will endure many painful lessons. Just like
in the
bible or the Koran or Donald Trump’s Biography.
Last evening Eric was refusing to polish
my Vaginas, saying that he didn’t have time.
“As soon as Phil calls, I’m going to go to
the Club and play golf."
He
was engrossed in the job of
washing his new golf cart.
I
was sitting on the front
porch in a wicker chair, drinking my generous Dentini and enumerating
the
reasons he should be laboring over the Immaculate Vents first and
attending to
the sad little testament to his Complete Collapse into a Stereotype
second, or
third, as my drinking was running dangerously close to the rocks.
“Katy, I’ve told you that I do NOT have
time to groom your…yard…genitals.”
“They are Vaginas, Eric.”
“Whatever.”
“No, say it. Say ‘Vagina’ so that I can be
sure you understand.”
He
ignored me and continued to
stroke his CART.
Important Fact:
The
fragrant oil that seeps
through the lips of the heavenly Porceline Poontang lends itself to the
collection of bugs and dirt. Maytag and Jasper were regularly peeing on
each,
despite my frantic attempts to lure them to the golf cart by tying meat
beneath
the wheels.
The
Lips that were designed to
glisten beatifically pink thru proper care and maintenance, were
decidedly
skanky with neglect.
“Do you think GOD is smiling upon you when
you are letting His Holy Vessel get all thick with gnats? Where’s the
Man in
the Boat? I see a chevy crawling with Cubans!” I yelled, waving my near
empty
glass.
“If you hear my phone, will you please let
me know?” He replied, indifferently.
His
golf cart is candy apple
red, and electric. It has a big orange triangle on the back.
Except
for the faint odor of
rotting beef, it is flawless.
I
didn’t know he had a phone.
“What do you mean ‘your’ phone?” I asked.
“I got a cell phone,” he answered avoiding
eye contact.
I
blame television, of course,
and Christx, for this new golfing cell phone Eric. As well as his new
poor
taste in music and his REI membership. What does a man whose outdoor
life is
limited to riding a golf cart through a COUNTRY CLUB and shining plaster
Privates in our suburban YARD need with Special Outdoor Clothing?
Expedition pants
that would make a sherpa weep to see clothing a man grunting over a Ball
Washer
on the 9th hole, or picking gnats off the ceramic Clitoris of
The
Mother of God at 2400 feet above sea level.
“They zip into shorts,” Eric offered.
He
was out of breath from the
effort of applying ArmorAll.
“Too bad they can’t zip into an extra
lung.”
Somewhere
close by, the cell
phone rang.
“Is that my phone?” Eric cried, as if it
might portend a miracle.
I put my drink down and followed the odd
musical noise to where his coat hung by the open front door. The
ring tone was ‘Ride of the
Valkyries.’
If there is one thing I hate more than
cell phones, it’s the ridiculous attempt to give them dignity through
sophisticated ring tones. It’s like
implanting a Chihuahua with a tenor’s voice box. And naming the alarming
little
thing ‘Josh Groban’ and helping him produce CDs and appear on Oprah.
Even with
nice hair, it’s still mostly shit being produced, whichever end its
coming
from.
The
Vagina near the front of the yard, Our Lady of Immaculate Deception, has
a wasp
trap deep within, baited with poisoned pepsi and ham. The Wasps die as
they
lived, not unlike trailer folk. It was
nearly full.
I followed the cell phone tune to Eric’s
polar fleece golfing jacket, draped across a fencepost near the water
spigot.
With Eric hot in pursuit, I ran across the
yard to Our Lady OID and tossed the phone into the dirty pink cavern.
There was a slight splash. All was quiet for
a minute. Eric stood panting beside me, still holding his Armorall rag.
“Jesus, Katy, did you have to do that?”
“Hello? Hello? Eric!?” came a voice from
deep within the Holy Hootchy.
He
looked at me and
then back at the insistently querying orifice. The stench was almost
unbearable.
"Eric? Are you there?"
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