Include the following words and phrases in a story about former First Lady Bess Truman:
knitting needles
wampum
elf on a shelf
it ain’t a fit night out for man or beast
celery
trapezoid
laughing hyena
warthogs
No, wait, it’s more of a sigh.
A sigh?
Si.
Stop with the Jack Benny/Mel Blanc. You were telling me about a Christmas moan.
Well, to be truthful, it isn’t really a moan or a sigh.
What is it then?
It’s the noise you make when you open a present and hate it beyond endurance.
Like the noise you made when I gave you that tie last Christmas?
Exactly!
At lake level, this thin dusting of snow was all the ‘giant’ storm last week had to offer.
You peg the guy for a creep right off, but when he tosses 500 green on the table, you figure he’s not so bad after all.
‘It’s my wife Brigitte, Mr. Barlow. I want her followed. I got to know where she goes,’ says the not so bad creep. ‘She’s going to be at this costume party. You can’t miss her. Here’s her picture. She’s gonna be wearing this same harem princess stuff.’
‘All right, Helm, keep your socks on. I take it you don’t buy whatever she’s been selling,’ you say, impressed at the glamor shot of Mrs. H and at the same time tossing the wad of green to Elfie, your receptionist.
Helm departs after giving what info you need. Elfie suggests you wear the gaucho outfit from the South American caper. She says this with a smirk. You chuck her under the chin, saying, ‘Thanks, baby, that’ll be just the ticket. Wake me at 8:00.’
You zonk in your chair until Elfie dumps a glass of water on your head in that cute way she has. You feel like a tainted rhinoceros with no sense of rhythm is banging on bongos in your brain. Elfie hands you the bottle and points to the gaucho outfit she has carefully laid out all over her desk.
L.A. has a way of getting your hopes up until it slaps you in the face with a palm tree. You crash the party with ease, greening the right toady with a sawbuck. You spot her right off, and instantly you are hammered in the gut by the satin fist of desire. You work your way through the riffraff to her side.
‘You’re Brigitte Helm,’ you say.
She looks you up. She looks you down. You can tell she approves.
‘Let’s exit this dump,’ she says.
This’ll be the easiest 500 green I ever earned, you think. You follow her hips outside, barely remembering how to walk. She whisks you away in her fire red T-bird and, after a savage ride, screams to a halt.
She turns to you and says, ‘Give me five minutes. Then come on up.’
She’s out of the car and into the bungalow. You sit there like so much deflated straw. After five minutes, you wobble your way into the little stucco lair.
There she is. You die.
Elsa hated the lunches Charles made. Richard loved them and was always willing to trade.
Richard Pratt, aka Boris Karloff, and Elsa Lanchester, aka Elsa Lanchester, on the set of The Bride of Frankenstein:
a. played snooker for cash, often abandoning the game to duel with their cues.
b. raced in tiny autos.
c. often traded lunches, he giving her his chicken tikka masala, she giving him her banana infused mashed potato pie.
d. argued about whether or not Richard’s grandmother’s sister got to know the King of Siam’s children back in theday.
Number 1 rule to observe after achieving the age of 70 –
Make no sudden moves.
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5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
