Winifred Dourooski

A little bit of (Dear) Winifred's home life!

Warning; the following story is NOT politically correct!

     Ah, s**t! thought Winifred Dourooski, home from the convenience store, although why they were called that, she didn't know.  She absolutely hated this place, her slope-headed cat Mr. Dangles, and most of all, her slope-headed husband Bartholomew Dourooski the 3rd.  As she entered the front door and set her recently purchased cigarettes on the dining room table, Mr. Dangles (A stupid, lame name given him by her stupid, lame husband) guiltily ran from behind a chair and disappeared down the hallway.  Now what? thought Winifred.  She started towards the chair to look behind it, and could smell what the cat had been doing.  "S**t, Mr. Dangles!" she cursed loudly.  She tromped into the kitchen, grabbed a baggie, tromped back out to the pile Mr. Dangles had left for her to clean up, and used the plastic baggie to scoop up the brown present.  Then she stomped angrily outside and deposited it in the garbage can, then stomped angrily back to the door.  She damn near broke her wrist on the now-locked door.  "Son of a b***h!" she shouted, as she pounded on the door for her husband to come and unlock it.  Finally, after what seemed like months, no years,  her husband's footsteps sounded from the other side.     

 

     "Hello honey, are you locked out?"

 

     "No, I just wanted you to get off your dead a*s to let me in--of course I'm looked out; why are you so pathetically stupid.  What the hell took you so long?"

 

     "Sorry babe," he replied meekly, "I was upstairs in the bathroom with the fan going, brushing my hair, so I didn't hear the doorbell," and turned to go back in the house.  She trudged in behind him, catching her reflection in the living room mirror.  What she saw was a tall dishwater blond, with curly hair that sort of fell down her neck to her shoulders.  As she gazed at her scowling reflection, it seemed incomplete, some how.  Something was missing; what was it?  Oh, then she had it; no cigarette.  Well, that would soon be remedied.  Ahead of her, her husband, for lack of a better word, although Spineless Loser would also work, slumped his way over to his ratty recliner chair, and fell down into it.  He didn't so much sit in it, as melted.   She should write to her own column, to see what advice she would give herself. 

 

     "Dear Trapped, if I were you, and I am, I'd say bye-bye to Mr. Limp-Wrist, and find someone, anyone; I won't say better, because that aint going to happen, I'll just say different.  You obviously are attractive, and you shouldn't be beaten down by your husband.  He sounds like the loser in the loser horserace, and he's saddled you with regrets.  So, get out, now!   Signed Winifred."

 

    First things first; she walked to the kitchen and opened the drawer where her cartons of cigarettes were kept, forgetting all about her trip to the store, and ripped at the cellophane wrapper of a new pack impatiently; she didn't have time for this s**t; she wanted a cigarette, now!   At last she practically threw a freed cigarette at her face, lit it, and inhaled deeply.   As the soothing smoke filled he lungs, she felt herself relax, just a bit.  Ah, much better!  Then she reluctantly trudged into her office, where undoubtedly awaited some more pathetic cries for help in the form of letters to her column, Dear Winifred.  She had been writing the column for Ink Wanderings Monthly Newspaper for what was it, must be 10 years now.  Ink Wanderings Monthly Newspaper was owned by her father-in-law, and like son, like father. The newspaper used to be known as Plow Horse Monthly, until Bartholomew Dourooski the 2nd had purchased it and transformed it into the towering journalistic pile of crap it was today.  It was a cluster-dork of different, and utterly-useless, writings and thoughts. Oh, how she had grown to hate the losers who wrote in, begging for her wisdom.  Get a life!  It may as well still be called Plow Horse Monthly Newspaper, for everyone who wrote in sounded like they could relate to that name better.  She scanned her inbox.  There were several emails waiting for her to grace them with her advice.  "S**t!" she scowled and cursed at the same time.  Oh well, she should just choose one, and reply.  They were all the same,

 

     "Dear Winifred, I'm a complete loser-knob; what should I do?"

 

     "Dear Loser-Knob, just accept that you're aptly named!"  Reluctantly, she took a last drag on her cigarette, stabbed what little was left of it out in the overflowing ashtray on her desk, and clicked to open the first one.  Being so alike, she may as well respond to this one; it would go in the paper.  The thought, "How this fricking thing stays afloat, let alone makes any money, is something I'll never understand," flashed briefly in her mind, then she read,

 

     "Dear Winifred, I never thought this could happen to me..." and the email went on to describe some sort of orgy involving 13 members of a knitting club, a slip-and-slide covered in warm oil, rubber gloves.  As intrigued as she was, she knew this was at best a PG newspaper, so she reluctantly deleted it and clicked to open the next email.  When she had read the entire thing, she gave a disgusted snort.  This was exactly why she longed for somewhere else to work, it was pathetically just more vanilla whine.

 

     "Dear Winifred, I carpool to work, and usually ride with several others.  When Mr. T. drives, he'll stop into a latte shop for coffee.  Then we'll all divide the bill equally.  As I don't drink coffee, I don't feel I should be included in the dividing up of the bill, but when I bring it up, the others make me feel stupid.  Am I wrong; after all, fair is fair.  Signed Unfairly Included"

 

      Winifred cracked her knuckles, sharpened her tongue, and hammered on the computer keys,

 

     "Dear Unfairly Treated, I pity the fool who is you; you share a ride to work with Mr. T?  Sounds like a small price to pay for riding with an old television star.  For those of my readers who are too young to remember Mr. T, ah, s**t, never mind.  Anyway, I don't blame the others for being upset; there always has to be one cheap-a*s, who's too cheap to pay their fair share, and throws nickels around like a heavy lid-like cover for manholes.  Let me guess, if it was offered free, you'd be guzzling like there's no tomorrow; besides, what kind of a freak doesn't like coffee?  I'd be unable to be my usual sweet self without about 3 gallons of the stuff when I first wake up.  Besides, it's un-American to not like coffee; what's with you, huh; are you some sort of communist?  Winifred"

 

     There, she was done trying not to sound petty and vindictive.  It was all she could do not to go off on them, and tell them what she really thought, that everybody who wrote in was a pathetic loser who cried to a stranger about their 'troubles'.  She decided she needed another cigarette, and

walked back into the kitchen and pulled open the cigarette drawer.  She took a single one from the open pack with well-practiced ease, stuck it in her face, and blazed it up with her always-handy lighter.  She took a couple of life-restoring drags, and headed back to the living room.  On her way to the kitchen, she had caught a glimpse of her 3-toed sloth of a husband, sitting on his fat a*s, watching wrestling, or bowling, or whatever 3-toed sloths watch.

 

     "Bartholomew, get outside and do  something; there's plenty of work to do, or do you just figure on waiting for me to do it?  I know that your doing the one thing you're good at, but..."

 

     Bartholomew looked up at the beet-red, slobbering she-devil berating him, and tuned her out.  After long, long  years of this, he knew when she was like this...wait a minute, when wasn't  she like this?  He simply got up, walked to the front door, and walked into the glare of the late afternoon, slamming the door on his squawking wife.  Now, he was probably safe, at least until dinner.

 

 

The End

 

          

Reviews

[Marie]

WInifred is the kind of person who grows on you...like a horrible fungus...

[Michael Stevens]

Agreed; a little of Winifred goes a LONG ways!