Sanity Break

Sometimes, you need a little break. A sanity break. Something to take you away from it all. For some, it’s a movie, a book or chocolate. Actually, all three sound excellent! =)

But for 3 friends and I, we write. One of us starts the thread, and it zooms through the other three, and then back again.

Here’s our version of the past week’s sanity break. I hope you enjoy!

=)

carrie

“Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn.” The audience applauded wildly as he stalked off the stage into the darkened wings of the theater and tossed his top hat and cane to one of the props people just mucking about backstage. The boy missed the cane, and it toppled down the stairs like a drunken sailor, landing at the feet of a beautiful woman wearing a plaid Fedora and smoking a cigarillo. (Carrie)

Blowing three perfect smoke rings in succession, Lady Araminta Spencer-Keene shot Dickie Studley a withering glare and intoned, “Darling boy, your temper might be worthy of a leading man, but I’ve seen better acting at a weekend Renaissance Faire.” Dickie narrowed his limpid Aegean sea-blue eyes and huffed, “How dare you, you dried up old cow! Imagine my surprise this morning when I woke with a fright to find an extra from “The Night of the Living Dead” in my bed and then realized it was you without your teeth and war paint!” (Jen)

Araminta, who went by the stage name Dahlia Amaranthus Spiffy Fink-Nottle Bunny Foo-Foo Buffington-Bong, or Dipsy for short, squirted an atomizer of L’Air du Temps two inches to the left of her carefully rouged cheek and pouted her luscious crimson lips (Revlon Really Red). “Dickie darling, one day you will learn that people who live in Sears catalog kit homes and serve Yoo-Hoo soda, mini-wieners and Ritz crackers for tea, shouldn’t throw cow patties into pastures that will always be greener on the other side. Now is that a ring around your collar or did the leather chafe your poor widdle neck?” (Becke)

“But, Dipsy darling, you always said it wasn’t the size of the wiener that made the man,” Dickie cried, cupping himself just there as though to avoid her withering gaze. “Besides you know how colder weather always makes things seem smaller than they actually appear.” Dipsy rolled her eyes up in her head so far she could see her mouse-brown roots and realized she badly needed a color – she’d make an appointment with that rascal Ferdinand first thing tomorrow – before informing Dickie (the idiot) that it wasn’t THAT kind of wiener she was talking about. (Carrie)

Popping a Paxil and a Cialis, Dickie pondered why he allowed Dipsy, that pathetic has-been-hag-in-a-bag, treat him in such shabby and condescending manner. Dipsy, whose botox addiction had transformed her lips into pontoons that could dam the East River and who’d had every centimeter of skin nipped and pulled taut by her army of Park Avenue plastic surgeons so that she now resembled a life-sized model of a Rolls-Royce hood ornament, should have retired to the wrinkle ranch a decade ago. He straightened, puffed out his chest, and reminded himself he was Dickie Studley, twelve-time Tony nominee, the effervescent darling of the stage and screen, and a tiger with a big tail and mighty roar who’d titilliated hordes of needy love-starved women on both sides of the Pond. (Jen)

Dipsy would have frowned with displeasure, except she never frowned; well, the truth was she couldn’t frown, but at least she put some effort into maintaining her – if she did say so herself – ravishing good looks, whereas poor deluded Dickie with his tribe of Tonys providing the only appearance of testosterone in his digs, was sagging and bagging and had bigger jowls than jewels these days. “Did I tell you I’m getting a star in the Walk of Fame in Graumann’s forecourt, darling?” Jowls jiggling in displeasure, Dickie sneered, “I thought the forecourt was full, Dipsy dearest — where are they putting your star, in the ladies latrine?” (Becke)

Just then, Dickie’s personal valet, Buster B. Creamsicle, who happened to hate Dipsy—whisked into the room with the force of a ferocious tropical storm heading straight into the Texas panhandle, while completely ignoring Dipsy as she sqinched up her face into an approximation of a smile. “Why hello, Buster,” she crooned as she stared with naked, undisguised lust at his classically handsome profile, broad shoulders and cute little butt thinking that no man could resist her bedroom eyes and the come-hither velvet-lined invitation in her voice. Dickie blanched at her ribald tone and chalked it up as another of her unending and ridiculous attempts to seduce his assistants in a way that only served to embarrass them both and add to the unhappy state of their long-running affair, although all he managed to sputter was, “Now, that’s enough Dipsy dear, let’s play nice, buttercakes,” as she petulantly flipped her mousey mane in response. (Linda)

Buster B. (the B stood for Breathtaking) Creamsicle smiled at Dipsy, cocking up one eyebrow and his lip, placing his fist on his hip just so that she might admire his manly figure. Even though Dipsy should long ago been sent out to pasture with her look-a-like Joan Rivers, Dipsy did have the advantage of having a beautiful young niece with yards of cleavage, titian hair and the winning Lotto ticket that Buster B. had his eye on. Now, he only needed to charm an introduction out of the frozen-faced cougar and his beauteous looks would certainly take care of the rest. (carrie)

“Whatever you want, Buster, you can croon till the cows come home and the answer will still be a resounding no, never, nyet, because you are a bounder and, frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Dipsy was rather proud of her diatribe, even if she had cadged most of the dialogue from an Off-Off-Broadway play called Gone with the Wimp. “And a word to the wise, bozo – if I catch you crawling around my darling niece Boopsy, you’ll be singing soprano before dark.” (Becke)

A fortnight later, Buster tapped a buffed nail on Dickie’s bedroom suite and stepped inside. Dickie’s side of the bed was empty, but the Union Jack lay on the other side of the bed from which a pair of extrordinary large feet tipped with Essie Ballet Pink protruded from beneath. While Buster was acutely aware that Dickie had once again passed up the coffee and petits fours at his Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting and opted instead for an evening of les petits morts and two magnums of Perrier-Jouet, he was curious about the identity of Dickie’s latest play thing so he carefully lifted the flag—and screamed when he saw… (Jen)

none other than the notorious Lady TaTa, who had rocketed to superstardom after her debut role in the underground horror classic, “Bigfoot Zombie Brides”. Buster B. stared in disbelief as he took in the spectacle before him: Lady TaTa dressed in a purple-feathered gown, which he recognized as a blatant rip-off of Bjork’s swan dress, passed out cold. Without missing a beat, he whipped out his iPhone, snapping pictures of TaTa’s size 13 gunboats, and giggled with glee at the thought of his tabloid coup d’etat. (Linda)

Unfortunately, the built-in flash on Buster B.’s iPhone not only cast an ugly shadow in an area where a woman dressed in a purple feathered gown should never have an ugly shadow, but also awakened Lady TaTa. She, her five o’clock shadow and rampaging bed head (one should never sleep in a wig) were none too happy to have photos taken, especially while in Dickie’s bed. In moments, Lady TaTa had Buster B. in an Anaconda Vice, a throwback to the days when Lady TaTa was known as Rocky Shadow on the professional wrestling circuit, and the iPhone with the incriminating photos went sliding into the deep and somewhat scary darkness under the bed. (carrie)

Meanwhile, Dipsy had problems of her own when a well-known and very married Senator was caught sexting naughty messages to dear, deluded Boopsy, who wasn’t the brightest blonde in the box. “What do you mean you thought he was talking about food with those sausage-stuffing messages – didn’t you learn your lesson with that college professor who said doing homework naked made the brain cells sharper?” Dipsy made makeover appointments for them both, figuring if they were going to make the cover of the scandal sheets they might as well do it with big hair, blue eye shadow and plenty of black eyeliner, since you can never look too wide-eyed and innocent when you’re accused of being a tramp. (Becke)

While she made a mental tally of her shares of Pfizer, Dipsy smiled at the barrage of frenzied media like a pro gracing the red carpet as she escorted a sobbing Boopsy down the steps of the late Senator Jack Hammer’s love nest on Park and 85th. “Boopsy,” a reporter cried out, “did the senator overdose on Viagra or was it the three-way with you and Lady Ta Ta that caused him to collapse and turn bluer than a smurf?” Indignant and ignoring Dipsy’s toucan nails digging into her arm, Boopsy fixed the reporter from Pillow Talk Magazine with a smoldering glare of her baby blues, which unfortunately made her appear cross-eyed, and fired back, “For the record, Lady Ta Ta is no lady; he used poor Jack like a pile driver!” (Jen)

Unceremoniously shoving Boopsy into the dark depths of the rented black Escalade waiting in a red zone at the curb, Dipsy paused for full dramatic effect before the horde of rabid reporters and placed a hand upon her ample cleavage then theatrically proclaimed, “No further comment, unless you want an exclusive—in that case, call my agent at PrimeAStars!” Throwing one last tragic look to the crowd, she slid into the Escalade with dollar signs dancing before her eyes. As the car pulled away she opened a mini-bar bourbon, raised it in a mock toast and calmly said, “Boopsy darling, stop that incessant blubbering—he was just a man, after all.” (Linda)

The End.

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