Another Day in Purgatory

Reads: 155  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
More on the life of Winifred Dourooski

Submitted: November 18, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 18, 2013



By Mike Stevens

"Winfred, here's another one I think might work," spouted Winifred Dourooski's assistant, Bernice.  Winifred was desperately trying to stay awake so she could finish replying to yet-another dipshit letter begging for her advice in Ink Wanderings Newspaper.  She'd been answering letters from pathetic losers with no clue, let alone life, for what was it now, 30 years?  30 years?  The very thought of being trapped here so long bummed her out to no end. 

"Why, because the person can spell words with up to five letters in them?  Say, that is unbelievable!  This I've got to see for myself.  Hand it over."

Bernice, who was used to the crusty old bat she worked for, said nothing and just handed the letter to her.  Winifred read out loud,

"Dear Winifred, I'm writing to you today because..." I have nothing better to do but write bullshit letters to you! she finished.  Hell, she needed a cigarette.  She reached into her purse which was draped over the back of her computer chair, and after rummaging around all the useless shit in there, shook one free from the pack she finally located, and had to force herself to take a couple of deep breath to calm herself from the red-hot anger that had washed over her.  She knew that she'd put all that useless crap in her purse, but the unreasonable part of her brain still wanted someone else to blame.  She looked at Bernice's face, and fresh anger surged through her veins.  Somehow, it became her fault. 

"That's all for me today; I'll be at home if anyone's stupid enough to bother me there," she told Bernice, who had the unmitigated gall to ask her,

"What about today's Dear Winifred?"

Shit! thought Winifred, realizing she was right.  "Oh, damn it, okay, just hand me one off the pile of shit on my desk."

"But you haven't narrowed them down yet; what if it's one you haven't approved yet?"

Winifred took a deep drag on her cigarette and told herself to calm down.  Bernice couldn't help it if she was gratingly annoying and twice as stupid.  She was just trying to do her job, such as it was.  "Oh, they're all pretty much the same; whiny bullshit letters from some glory-hound, desperately looking for their 15 minutes of fame, 'Look everyone, my letter's in the newspaper!' Whoopty-fricking-do!" 

Bernice timidly handed her one from the top of the pile on her desk, and Winifred angrily grabbed a letter out of her hands.  She then read out loud, "Dear Winifred; my cousin and I are always in competition to see which one of us gets the honor of hosting Thanksgiving.  It's supposed to be a loving family time, but I feel our home is more suited to hosting the entire family and her house is just too small, yet she insists that her house is more 'homey', and that ours is too big and drafty, and is 'impersonal'.  Help us settle this debate; we would love your opinion; signed Which One?"

"Dear Which One?, what kind of bullshit question is this?  I'll help you both settle this pathetic argument right now; it all depends on who is the better cook.  Your family would be probably be glad to eat out of a pig trough if one of you can make something that doesn't taste like it came from the rancid floor of a turkey slaughterhouse.  I mean, love is all good and shit, but if the family needs a hurl bucket and a bunch of handi-wipes after leaving your house, that would probably be a strong indication that next year, a change of venue might be needed; signed Winifred."

Bernice gave her a strange look and said, "This reply can't go in the paper."

Winifred, who was just in the middle of taking a huge drag on her cigarette, choked, coughed, and shouted, "Look, it's not called Dear Bernice; when a column for puss-people comes out, then you can call the shots, but until then, I would appreciate it if you'd just shut up and do as I ask; send it!"

Bernice started a reply, but thought better of it.  She grabbed the letter off the desk, and stomped to the door, red waves of anger and embarrassment radiating from her face. 


Winifred didn't even notice how upset she was.  She took one last drag from her cigarette and headed for the door.  When she was halfway there, the voice of the paper's owner, Bartholomew Douroosky the Second, slammed into her ears like a living thing,

"And just where in the hell do you think you're going?"

She stopped and took a moment to think how she should reply; she took her cigarette pack from her purse, shook a cigarette loose from it, stuck it in her face and lit it.  Amid a cloud of blue smoke which escaped from her mouth, she carefully replied,

"Ah, home?"


"Yes; you know, that wooden building where I spend my time when I'm not here?"

His face turned almost purple, "You think you're so clever with your smart-ass answers; don't pull that shit with me.  I'm not one of your hapless readers!"

She thought to herself, Well, you're half right; you're not one of my readers!  "Yeah, I'm well aware of that, ace!," she replied angrily.

"Look, who pays you?  The last time I looked, it was me, so cut the bullshit smart-ass answers, and get your ass back in your office, and crank me out another Fashion Round-Up column, because I sure don't see one anywhere around!" 

She narrowed her eyes at the angry living goiter in front of her, and looking like a fire-breathing dragon snorting blue smoke, turned angrily on her heels and strode heavily back into her office, slamming the door behind her to let him know just how pissed she was.  This was exactly the scene that played out every day now, it seemed.  There was nothing else to do; she was stuck doing a Fashion Round-Up column.  Shit! she scowled to herself, took a fresh drag off her cigarette, and sat down in front of her computer.

"The well-dressed man in 2013 is wearing..." she took out her rage on the keys.  The sooner she got this fricking thing done...


The End





© Copyright 2017 Mike Stevens. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: