Game of Thongs: The Outhouse


Part 2 of 4
A Matter of Wear and Tear series
 Part 1 posted on 8/24/17

(Warning: Some language and sexual references may be objectionable)

Anya runs to Walter. “What happened?” She can hear his muffled voice still uttering, “O’dore . . .” She turns him over and cradles his face. Then she presses her ear close to his mouth. A look of realization flashes on her face.

“’Oh, the odor’ is what you’re saying! Portable toilets can be stinky. Walter, I’m sorry it was so bad, but you need to get up if you want to be in the running.” Anya gently shakes him. Sunny joins them and tries to straighten out what little fabric she can salvage. To make matters worse, Walter’s fall landed him on some pebbles that poked some holes on his thong.

Walter sits up and thanks them. He looks down at his ruined design and says, “When you play the game of thongs, you wear it or you tear it. You can’t return it.” He exhales, “Looks like I’m sitting out the contest this year. I shoulda listened to my mom and used a real toilet before coming here. Never use a port-o-let without adequate cover . . . and a nose clip. Let that be a lesson learned.”

“The things we sniff destroy us every time, man. Store that in your skull,” Theo reinforces Walter’s words, as he and the rest continue walking toward the stage. Secretly, he’s glad to have one less rival to compete with.

Juan, Theo, Sunny, Anya, and Tyrone are met with applause as they parade onto the stage, taking their place among the others. Good to see not too many participants this year, Tyrone thinks. His plan in spreading his crabs apparently worked, although at the expense of having to suffer through it himself. But he had cleverly designed his thong to hide any evidence of discomfort and disease.

Juan surveys the group and notices two more people have yet to join them. Just then, the crowd erupts into cheering and hand-clapping, louder than the reception he and his friends received. As the cheering continues to grow louder, he sees the two, fashionable late-comers prance onto the stage.

This year is going to be a slaughter, Juan thinks, as he eyes the two show stoppers—two well-known locals who also happen to be arch enemies: Crissy Bannister and Dana Tara Gong.

To be continued . . . 

Game of Thongs (A Matter of Wear and Tear series)

Part 1 of 4

(Warning: Some language and sexual references may be objectionable)

Summer has come. The annual thong pageant has begun. A throng of staunch thong supporters gather before the stage, set against the nautical backdrop of the beach. Friends and families of the contestants call out to their hopeful entrants. Locals and out-of-towners alike sit and stand together with anticipation. For as long as any of the loyal followers can remember, the battle of the thongs is an event that’s been going on for years. Because the competition is open only to permanent residents, the ceremony has a rather incestuous reputation. Nonetheless, everyone ultimately has great fun and the celebratory bash after the show is even more of a blast.

Meanwhile, in the makeshift backstage, made up of rows of connected cabanas, the contenders get ready as they string on their thong, along with other accessories. Every year, the stake gets higher for how original one can be in designing and presenting their strips of decadent material.

“If I look back, I can see your crack.” Theo Silverbliss teases Juan Nieves, as they both don their thongs.

Juan sighs, “If you keep looking, you’ll get lost in the abyss.”

“This place makes people strange,” Sunny Lark says from her own little area, across from them.

Sunny’s sister, Anya, pipes up, “I swear to you wearing a thong is a thousand times harder than designing one.”

Sunny and Anya’s cousin, Tyrone, groans as he walks by them. “A sore is a reminder . . . and each reminder makes me angrier.” By “sore,” he is referring to the unfortunate red scratch marks in his pubic area. “Once you’ve acquired crabs, no one will want to sleep with you.”

“TMI, dear cuz, please.” Anya shakes her head at Tyrone. Sunny smiles at Tyrone and agrees. “That’s shorthand for a little too much information, darling. Come on, let’s go and show them our stuff!”

The three cousins, Juan, and Theo head toward the stage. Passing a portable toilet, they see a friend, Walter, stumble out, gasping and mumbling, “O’dore . . . o’dore . . .” Barely strung on, his thong threatens to flap open, and then he trips, face down.

To be continued . . . 

Public Discourse

customer service

Image: Pixabay

Cora from customer service assured the irate woman on the telephone that she will get her money back. “Of course, we will be happy to refund your money. First, you must repack what you have received and include the receipt and we will happily credit your account. Also, please provide a thorough explanation of why the product didn’t work for you and how we may satisfy your needs in the future. A minimum of five paragraphs will be required. Thank you for ordering our course on How to Smoothen Your Coarse Composition Style.”

Hairific: Fried Day

TGIF

Image: Pixabay

A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 5, see Day 4

 [Poetry dominates short story]          

A man known as Cowlick comes out of the one restroom and raises his voice, “There’s no fire. I, uh, I lit a match because . . . to freshen the air. . .” He scowls at the woman known as Singed, who stands close to the restroom, speaking directly to her. “I didn’t know we have a human smoke detector.”
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Hairific: Turban Thursday

a series of bad haircuts

Image: Pixabay

A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 4; see Day 3

[Poetic short story]

 Her real name is Theresa and she hides what’s left of her hair under a turban. She sizes the group around her, trying to still her nerves. Maddie nods her head as a cue. She introduces herself, “Hello, my name is Shorned Locks. My desire to be festive got the better of me. It started three weeks ago and came to a head yesterday . . . which is why I’m here today.” She clears her throat for all to hear her sad monologue:

“On St. Patrick’s Day I dyed the ends of my hair green to be in the spirit of things. Alas, I botched it as the shade didn’t have the right sheen. Thus, I went to get my hair cut, which looked like a thatched hut. I had asked for layers to replace my blunt look. Instead, I resembled a beast from a wild nature book.
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Hairific: Wiggy Wednesday

wigging out

Image: Pixabay

A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 3; see Day 2

[Poetry mashed with a short story]

Rebecca, who is known in their circle as Thin Hair, and Harry, who we know is False Hairy, find a coffee shop near the place of group therapy. They eye each other hungrily, as they feel the heat emanate from their respective chemistries.

“False Hairy, I hope you won’t think me forward, but as an older woman, I tend to get straight to the point. You make my heart beat as I gaze at your face so sweet.”
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Hairific: Toupee Tuesday

another hairific day

Image: Pixabay

A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 2; see Day 1

[Poetry crashing into a short story]

“My toupee has blown away!” False Hairy screams.

“Everyone, please don’t move.” Maddie turns off the ceiling fan and apologizes, “I’m sorry, False Hairy, for forgetting some of us have hair that may go astray while the fan moves like a schizo UFO.”
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Hairific: Mousey Monday

a series of bad hair days, day 1

Image: Pixabay

A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 1

[Poetry in collusion with a short story]

Haironymous Bush reads the plaque on the door. Inside are people of varied sizes, ages, and sexual persuasions with one thing in common and nothing more. Their bad hair days outnumber the good. They all stand in attention as their Chapter Hairmeister, Maddie O’Hare, leads the opening prayer, “Dear Lord, help us overcome our frizzies, split ends, and turmoil over our tresses. Bless us with a calmer mood.”
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