The Conversation

To hear my reading of "The Conversation" go to the Readings page.

Once upon a time, in the land of America, in a place called Brooklyn, two women attempted to have a conversation.

“What a day I had!” said Sylvia, a recent graduate of the ‘Barbizon School for Pretentious Females Over Forty,’ to her companion, Maureen, a manicurist and graduate of the “Billing’s House of Upper-Lip Bleaching.’ “First, as I was perambulating the circumference of my environs, a blitzkrieg of ebony miscreants assaulted me with a glow of amplifiers until my aural cavities, which are much accustomed to more discriminating reverberations, converted themselves into a great void of nothingness.”

“Huh?” said Maureen.

“While I wuz wawkin’ ‘round de block dis mornin’, a bunch of black kids wuz playin’ dere music so loud I couldn’t hear nuthin’!”

“Oh,” said Maureen, while chewing her gum. “Oh my gawd.”

“Yeah,” said Sylvia, “I almost regurgitated my cock-crow victuals all over de place!”

Maureen stopped mid-chew, with her mouth open wide enough to see its’ contents. “Yeah, I hoid of dat happenin’ on de news last night. Good thing dat lady called 9-1-1 or she woulda lost her house.”

Sylvia looked at Maureen, then at the ceiling, which often substituted for God, before continuing her discourse.

“Then this afternoon, because of the idiosyncrasy of my chronometer, I was unpunctual at the conveyance transference locality and was forced to ambulate to the province of my vocation.”

“Huh?” said Maureen.

“My watch wuz slow, so I missed de bus and had to walk to woik.”

“Oh! Oh my gawd. Don’t cha just hate dat?”

“Yeah,” said Sylvia, “if I don’t submerge my pinions in some thermogenic aqua pura, I’m gonna die.”

Maureen raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow, and then slowly let it fall. “Uh yeah,” she said, “didn’t Julia Roberts get an Oscar for playin’ someone who had dat? Gawd, I love her, she’s such a good actress.”

Sylvia became more intimately involved with the ceiling. This time however, it was a nice country lane where happy little bunnies hopped and played over the rotting remains of Maureen. She sighed, contented and refreshed before continuing to speak.

“So after leave-taking the province of my vocation and discerning that it was an unaccountably agreeable day, I determined to promenade to my habitation.”

Maureen swallowed her gum.

“On the way I passed by a pander of pornographers, which was beside a lech of dirty old men with protruding obscenities in their nether regions.”

She looked at Maureen, “you get what I’m sayin’ heah?”

“Uh, I think so,” said Maureen. “Oh my gawd.”

“Well dere wuz dis guy, I mean, this rogue. Well his posterior wuz seized so tightly in his raven cow-hide breeches that I virtually oozed solvent all over my lips and down my chin.”

“Oh my gawd.” said Maureen. “Is dat good?”

“Oh yeah it is!” said Sylvia, “After a quick hello, we wuz like a lubricity of nymphomaniacs, a rut of satyrs, a concatenation of orgiasts!”

“Huh?”

“We wuz doin’ it like rabbits all over de place!”

“Oh my gawd!”

“Yeah, it wuz wonderful.”

They both looked dreamily off into the distance.

“An’ I’ll tell ya somethin’,” said Sylvia almost forgetting herself, “I don’t think I’ll be able to perambulate the circumference of my environs or anyplace else for a coupla days.”

“Well,” said Maureen, “not unless you use lots of hairspray.”