Downer Dear Winifred

A Dear Winifred Tale

     Winifred rolled over in bed, the bed she shared with the sleeping lump next to her; her husband Bartholomew ('shared' maybe's not the proper word; try 'dominate!")  She looked at his sleeping form with disgust.  Look at him, spittle leaking from the corner of his mouth, just like a little kid.  Smarts level about the same too.  She dragged herself on claw-like feet into the shower.  She would be at work in less than an hour.   Oh, woopty-fricking-doo; won't that be fun? 

 

 

     After her shower, in which she practically had to hang onto the daisy-covered shower curtain to remain upright, she poured herself a giant cup of coffee, then reluctantly made her way out to her car and started it, put in the Blood Shot CD she had in her stereo, and headed for work.  Almost immediately upon pulling out into traffic, the blast of a horn broke through the hard rock, and she had to slam on her brakes to avoid a younger guy driving a luxury car.  She gave a startled yell and her coffee slopped out of her jarred cup and the tidal wave of legalized speed splattered onto her slacks and started burning.

 

     "Ouch, son of a b***h!" she screamed over the screaming voice of Larry Boiler, lead singer of Blood Shot.  

     What the hell is wrong with this picture?  A 10 year old driving that car?  

     After the pain had subsided a little bit, she angrily jerked the car forward again.  Again, came the shriek of a car horn, and again she slammed on the brakes, and of course, again piping hot coffee slopped out of the cup, straight onto her legs.  "Well, screw me sideways, so far it's been one Hell of a morning!"  As she flipped off the fast-disappearing Mustang who had honked, causing all of this, for the second time, she thought, boy, today's off to a flying f**k of a beginning; I can't wait to get 'er started!

     

     When she reluctantly, and fighting to keep her legs moving forward instead of there natural tendency to turn and run the other way, pulled open the gates to her personal Hell, she scowled and glared at everyone, as if daring them to say hi to her; no one was that foolish, at least today.  She slumped into her office and slammed the door, which of course caused hot coffee to slosh out of her cup, which she'd just got done refilling from the office coffee pot on her way to her office;

 

     "F**k!" she shouted, causing everyone in the office to glance her way.  She immediately became angry, and flipped them all the bird.  She knew it was her own fault and that they'd had nothing to do with it, but damn, how she hated them all.  Now unreasonably pissed, she managed to make it to her desk.  She started to set the coffee cup down, and of course, it fell over, causing a brown wave to drench everything within a three-mile radius. 

 

     "Son of a b***h!" she screamed, and again, everyone in the office was looking at her through the window.  Again, this filled her with rage.  She turned beet-red in the face, flipped them all off, and yanked on the cord that lowered the shade, which came down in a torrent of vinyl, only it didn't lower down like it was supposed to; in a controlled, orderly fashion.  No, it came loose from the wall and fell in a heap on the floor.

 

     "F**king A!" she screamed.  When she looked out upon the faces staring at her, she saw out-and-out laughter.  They were laughing at her!  Her face took on a strange purple hue, and she flipped them off again, which only seemed to make them laugh harder.

 

 

     She'd managed to wipe up the spilled coffee, and maintenance had fixed her shade, so she was at last hidden from their laughter and prying eyes.  Now she had to unwind a bit, make that a lot, before she clicked on the first bullshit letter in the inbox of her computer. 

 

     It cleverly began, Dear Winifred, I'm a 16 year old man, and I never though this would happen to me; the neighbor is a 35 year widow, and one day, I was looking out the window and saw her in a bikini, waving at me suggestively.  I did a double-take, scarcely believing my luck.  I pointed to myself and she nodded yes, and motioned for me to come over.  I...

 

   

     Dear Woody, I've got to say "bullshit!"  Isn't this the fantasy of every male who's old enough to stop thinking those stupid-a*s Saturday morning cartoons could actually be real, and the ludicrous situations might actually happen?  Come on, fess up, the only two places this actually happened is in your mind and in your pants.  Let's reel ourselves in from Fantasy Land and get real.  I couldn't, in good conscience, print anymore of your teenage dude day-dreaming bullshit.  Go back to taking matters into your own hands and stop bugging me with your sick fantasies, huh?  Winifred

 

 

     She looked with dismay at all the bullshit letters from people unhinged from reality, and shook her head.  Could they possibly get any more pathetic?  She was just about to get a resounding 'yes!' answer to that question.

 

The End

        

Reviews

[Marie]

I wonder if a person like Wiifred evergets off to a good start in the morning. Maybe she should pour some booze into that coffee.

I'd like to know how things can get worse for Wnifred.

[Michael Stevens]

Good idea; her drink of choice is naturally a whiskey sour!

[Marie]

Mine would be a brandy Alexander; hard to come by.

[Michael Stevens]

Mine would be beer; real adventurous!

[Vidya Bacchus]

Haha you really went all out with your extensive vocabulary there Mikey.Wini is a master of the English language lol

[Michael Stevens]

Thanks man; I want people to be dazzled by my extensive vocabulary; instead, they're usually sickened, thinking, "Whoopty-fricking-do, he's trying WAY too hard, I'm NOT impressed!"

[Vidya Bacchus]

You did not call a freaking purple angel man did ya ? I have half a mind to smite you !!!!

[Michael Stevens]

Sorry, I'll be more PC; thanks, person!

[Vidya Bacchus]

You are such a dick rocket ma'am :) lol

[Michael Stevens]

Watch who you're calling ma'am!