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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
More from the life of Winifred Dourooski!

Submitted: December 23, 2013

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Submitted: December 23, 2013



Shit! thought Winifred Dourooski as she held a large cup of black coffee in one claw-like hand, and an unfiltered cigarette in the other, although the cigarette was getting dangerously close to burning her fingers, as it was almost gone.  She regretfully stabbed the poor ashtray with it's carcass; it had been a good soldier and died an honorable death, and immediately shook another loose from it's fellow soldiers and threw it at her face.  She squinted and took in the weather beaten, life-weary apparition in the mirror above the sink in her prison--err--house. 


She remembered when the face staring back hadn't been too bad, but day after day of nothing but shit hadn't done it any favors.  Laugh lines, or in her case frown lines, were etched deep.  The curly shoulder length dishwater blond hair which hung limply down in back, and into her eyes in front (much to her annoyance), only seemed to add to the overall negative appearance.  The face it framed had a perpetual scowl frozen into place upon it.  She would have loved to smile more, if there were anything to smile about.  In her view, the world is nothing more than a cesspool that drowns anybody daring to tread upon its fast-running, brown-capped torrent of shit. Then her misery was interrupted by the pathetic screeching of her wedded bliss bullshit husband, Bartholomew.

"Honey, you're going to be late if you don't get a move on."

Well, no shit!  "I know that, do you think I'm stupid?"

Most decidedly yes! he thought, "No, honey, I just don't want you to be late.  You know how my father can be."

Can be?  Try always is; God, did she know how he was, for her hatred of her job directly corresponded to her feelings of him, her boss at Ink Wanderings Newspaper.  


Shit!  She staggered up the ice-covered front steps the building, or should she say she say hog wallow, which housed Ink Wanderings Newspaper.  She was staggering, not because she'd had a few (although come to think about it, that wasn't a bad idea; might help her endure this bullshit factory a little better!), but because the slate-gray sky was dropping tiny snowflakes, and on top of the ice, it made moving, let alone walking, treacherous, although she was so depressed she wouldn't have minded slipping and breaking her ass so she could spend a few days in the comfort of a hospital room, instead of this colostomy bag of a corporate office building.  Speaking of colostomy bags, the first face she saw upon entering was her Father-in-Law.

"Where the hell you been?" slid out of his face-hole.

"Nice to see you too; I'm fine, thanks for asking.  In case you haven't noticed, it's snowing outside, and I had to, oh, I don't know, watch my fricking step?"

"Well, you should have anticipated that and left early.  Now we're behind."

Maybe you're behind, but that's not my problem; eat it, dick!  "So sorry, do I look like a meteorologist?"

"If you did, it would certainly be an improvement!"

"Ha, ha, woo!  You crack me up; did anyone suggest that a guy as funny as you should have your own stand-up act in Vegas?  I can picture it now; 'Ladies and Gentleman, don't forget our all-you-can-eat institution food will begin right after this amazingly-funny show by Bartholomew Dourooski the Second.  You'll be laughing so hard, you'll shit down your socks!'"

"Okay, enough Red Skelton there; although the resemblance is startling; get to your desk and start answering letters."

Shit, shit, shit!


As she neared the front steps of her personal Hell Winfred scowled and braced herself for the lame bullshit which was sure to come shooting out of the open sewer-hole that was her husband's mouth.  Sure as hell, who's was the first face which greeted her upon entering?

"Hi honey, good to have you home," spouted the open sewer hole. 

Upon the seeing of her husband's face, she damn near turned right back around but replied, "My day sucked.  I need a beer and a cigarette."

Yeah, because both of those are a big help to your having to walk the two whole blocks to work!  Bartholomew thought to himself.  "Is it still snowing?"

"Hell yeah, it's coming down like hundred pound weights tied to anvils."  Then she made a beeline for the kitchen, opened the refer, grabbed a couple bottles of Binge Beer, walked back into the living room, practically fell into her recliner chair, not noticing that the beers were badly shaken, and started tearing the cellophane wrapping off the cigarette pack.  She felt a little better once she had a cigarette free and sat back in the chair, puffing on the smoke and loosened her snow boots (she felt like she had 100-pound weights strapped to the ends of her legs).Her husband opened the front curtains, turned off all the lights, and sat on the couch next to her chair.  When Winifred exhaled a cloud of blue smoke, he remarked,

"I sure wish you'd give those up," pointing to the cigarettes.

"Yeah, and if wishes were meat cleavers, we'd all be having steak for dinner."  Winifred thought What?  Even to her, that made absolutely no sense.  "I can't see dick in here."

"I thought we'd just enjoy the falling snow," he said.

"Why would I give a shit about watching the snow?  All it means is that tomorrow's going to suck as bad or worse than today, and believe me, today sucked plenty!"  As she was saying this she popped the bottle cap on one of the beers.  The thought of offering to share with her husband never even crossed her mind.  As soon as the seal was broken beer foamed out and soaked her.  "Son of a bitch!"  As the ice cold beer soaked into her clothes she thought, there's the perfect capper to my shit hole day from Hell."



The End





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