Gurl PowR!
You back away slowly, away from the little circle of worshipful hippies. Maybe God will do the human race a favor and send some lightning down their way right about now. Holy shit, girl. You've done some stupid stuff in your life, but this is really one of the worst. If anyone, and you mean anyone finds out about this little misadventure, you will simply have no option but to put a hit out on them. What wouldn't you give to be in your bed right now, nestled between your crimson sateen sheets? Or maybe at the salon, getting your weekly massage from Olaf the real Swedish masseur. Oh, woe. Woe is you.
The rain has cooled all of those nasty ant bites, but you shudder to think what a disaster your skin will be tomorrow. It'll take, like, the entire concealer section at the drugstore to cover it all up. You won't be able to wear your cute new strappies for weeks. Oh, such woe!
Picking up your sopping wet duffel bag, you head slowly back up the little path, not bothering to look back at the animals in the water. You start to softly cry as you look glumly down at your wrecked rhinestone flip-flops. The world stretches away on all sides of you, gray and hopeless. You feel your out-of-shape heart struggling to adjust to the incline. Oh, woe is your heart. It might just stop beating. Your life might just end on this godforsaken hill.
Your thoughts are stuck in this almost Shakespearean morass when your foot turns violently in the mud, sending you instantly down with a sickening thwack!. You feel murky wetness stretch from your foot to your hair. You vaguely comprehend that you are covered in slime, but since actually processing this thought would cause you to be plunged into fatal shock, you just stand up and keep going. A sharp briar catches your arm on the other side, cutting three little red lines into it. You barely even care anymore. You understand now what it is to suffer. The pajama people of Auschawhatever didn't have it half so bad.
It isn't until you reach the road that you realize you have no way of getting home.
"Oh no! No! Woe is me!" you scream up at the heavens. You feel your bravery begin to ebb as you are once again thrust into gloomy contemplations of your imminent demise.
Suddenly, your nostrils fill with thick diesel fumes and you look back to Earth to see a large tour bus pull over. The driver opens the door, gesturing emphatically at you as though you weren't already hopelessly soaked.
"Got caught in the rain, did you, princess?" he says in that overly friendly way that un-pretty people use with pretty people because they think it'll make them seem somehow more appealing.
"Um yeah. Obviously."
"Hop in, babe!"
You step up into the bus. You're surprised to find that it's almost completely empty. Dark and plush inside, it has what looks like a bar on one side, and then a compartment leading into a back section. You're about to turn around to ask the bus driver what sort of bus this is when that same backdoor opens, revealing a tall thin man wearing reading glasses and a plaid shirt. He looks somehow familiar.
"Why, hello!" he says in a carefully modulated voice. "I'm glad we could get you out of this nasty weather! We got caught in it too, had to cut the speech short and everything." He gestures to the towel he is using to dry off his spiky brown hair.
"Thanks," you say, trying desperately to remember where you've seen this guy before.
"I'm Evan Pincher," he says as he approaches you. The bus is now moving again, back to your beautiful nature-free city. "I'm running for office, you see, and I've been campaigning, but this rain sure makes it tough!"
As he's shaking your hand, you notice his eye wander down slowly to your chest, which is enjoying all the buxom glory of your wet tee-shirt. As his eye wanders inch by inch, a certain idea begins to edge its way bit by bit into your mind. You smile in a way that could really only be described as sluttish, biting your lip as you say,
"Aren't you going to offer this poor wet girl a drink?"
He blushes a little, but he heads to the bar to mix a couple of drinks.
"Shall we take these in the back, then? I see you're a nature-loving kind of gal. I bet we've got lots to talk about."
"Absolutely," you whisper, licking your lips as you follow him into the back compartment. When his back is to you, you check quickly to make sure that the disposable camera you had on the last trip you took with your duffel bag is still in the same compartment. Bingo.
A week later, Lily is sitting in tears over her Kashi cereal.
"I just , I just thought he was a better man that that," she splutters, a little bubble of soy milk popping out of her left nostril.
"Yeah," you say comfortingly, patting her shaking shoulder.
She lays the newspaper slowly back down on the table.
"There's no way he'll be elected now. It means I'm out of a job too! I'll have to move out . There's just no other way I could afford to keep living here! I'm sorry!" Losing her composure completely, she runs into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
You gaze down at the headline that you already know so well.
Below the headline is the famous photo that came out so well, despite the fact that it was taken with a waterlogged low-quality disposable camera. There's Evan Pincher the King of the Hippies, passed out drunk in the back of a bus, wearing nothing but a lady's mud-encrusted bikini. You giggle to yourself, sipping thoughtfully from your pink coffee mug.
"I'm very sorry, my dear," you whisper to his picture, "but that's just what happens when you believe in free love. This is America, silly. Nothing is free. Especially not love."
Giggling again, you make your way to your own room. Today you are going to have a fabulous shopping splurge with all that money you received for your sensational story.
First stop: Bandolino!
The rain has cooled all of those nasty ant bites, but you shudder to think what a disaster your skin will be tomorrow. It'll take, like, the entire concealer section at the drugstore to cover it all up. You won't be able to wear your cute new strappies for weeks. Oh, such woe!
Picking up your sopping wet duffel bag, you head slowly back up the little path, not bothering to look back at the animals in the water. You start to softly cry as you look glumly down at your wrecked rhinestone flip-flops. The world stretches away on all sides of you, gray and hopeless. You feel your out-of-shape heart struggling to adjust to the incline. Oh, woe is your heart. It might just stop beating. Your life might just end on this godforsaken hill.
Your thoughts are stuck in this almost Shakespearean morass when your foot turns violently in the mud, sending you instantly down with a sickening thwack!. You feel murky wetness stretch from your foot to your hair. You vaguely comprehend that you are covered in slime, but since actually processing this thought would cause you to be plunged into fatal shock, you just stand up and keep going. A sharp briar catches your arm on the other side, cutting three little red lines into it. You barely even care anymore. You understand now what it is to suffer. The pajama people of Auschawhatever didn't have it half so bad.
It isn't until you reach the road that you realize you have no way of getting home.
"Oh no! No! Woe is me!" you scream up at the heavens. You feel your bravery begin to ebb as you are once again thrust into gloomy contemplations of your imminent demise.
Suddenly, your nostrils fill with thick diesel fumes and you look back to Earth to see a large tour bus pull over. The driver opens the door, gesturing emphatically at you as though you weren't already hopelessly soaked.
"Got caught in the rain, did you, princess?" he says in that overly friendly way that un-pretty people use with pretty people because they think it'll make them seem somehow more appealing.
"Um yeah. Obviously."
"Hop in, babe!"
You step up into the bus. You're surprised to find that it's almost completely empty. Dark and plush inside, it has what looks like a bar on one side, and then a compartment leading into a back section. You're about to turn around to ask the bus driver what sort of bus this is when that same backdoor opens, revealing a tall thin man wearing reading glasses and a plaid shirt. He looks somehow familiar.
"Why, hello!" he says in a carefully modulated voice. "I'm glad we could get you out of this nasty weather! We got caught in it too, had to cut the speech short and everything." He gestures to the towel he is using to dry off his spiky brown hair.
"Thanks," you say, trying desperately to remember where you've seen this guy before.
"I'm Evan Pincher," he says as he approaches you. The bus is now moving again, back to your beautiful nature-free city. "I'm running for office, you see, and I've been campaigning, but this rain sure makes it tough!"
As he's shaking your hand, you notice his eye wander down slowly to your chest, which is enjoying all the buxom glory of your wet tee-shirt. As his eye wanders inch by inch, a certain idea begins to edge its way bit by bit into your mind. You smile in a way that could really only be described as sluttish, biting your lip as you say,
"Aren't you going to offer this poor wet girl a drink?"
He blushes a little, but he heads to the bar to mix a couple of drinks.
"Shall we take these in the back, then? I see you're a nature-loving kind of gal. I bet we've got lots to talk about."
"Absolutely," you whisper, licking your lips as you follow him into the back compartment. When his back is to you, you check quickly to make sure that the disposable camera you had on the last trip you took with your duffel bag is still in the same compartment. Bingo.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A week later, Lily is sitting in tears over her Kashi cereal.
"I just , I just thought he was a better man that that," she splutters, a little bubble of soy milk popping out of her left nostril.
"Yeah," you say comfortingly, patting her shaking shoulder.
She lays the newspaper slowly back down on the table.
"There's no way he'll be elected now. It means I'm out of a job too! I'll have to move out . There's just no other way I could afford to keep living here! I'm sorry!" Losing her composure completely, she runs into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
You gaze down at the headline that you already know so well.
MUDSLINGING: Liberal Mayoral Candidate Smeared in Sex Scandal
Below the headline is the famous photo that came out so well, despite the fact that it was taken with a waterlogged low-quality disposable camera. There's Evan Pincher the King of the Hippies, passed out drunk in the back of a bus, wearing nothing but a lady's mud-encrusted bikini. You giggle to yourself, sipping thoughtfully from your pink coffee mug.
"I'm very sorry, my dear," you whisper to his picture, "but that's just what happens when you believe in free love. This is America, silly. Nothing is free. Especially not love."
Giggling again, you make your way to your own room. Today you are going to have a fabulous shopping splurge with all that money you received for your sensational story.
First stop: Bandolino!
