#would you have any Grey Poupon

[oeuvrinarydurian]

Through A (Car Window) Glass Darkly, Tuxedo Edition

“A mind for thoughts to pass into,

A heart for loves to travel through,

Five senses to detect things near,

Is this the whole that we are here?”

—Arthur Hugh Clough

[duranduratulsa]

Grey Poupon - Pardon Me (1981, USA)

80's Fest Commercial of the day: Grey Poupon #Commercial #ad #tvad #greypoupon #pardonmewouldyouhaveanygreypoupon #80s #80sfest #durandurantulsas6thannual80sfest

[sohannabarberaesque]

"Pardon me ... do you have any Grey Poupon?"

Who among us probably remembers that line from the commercials for Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard from the 1980's into the early 1990's, usually done in a setting involving being stopped in traffic and the participants being from rather posh settings more or less?

At any rate, I was thinking at some length imagining how some of your favourite Hanna-Barbera characters might try pulling off this trope; hopefully, you have the idea:

Yogi Bear: Pulling off another of his plundering-picnic-baskets antics in Jellystone Park at tourists' expense, much to the chagrin of as much Boo-Boo as Ranger Smith; "smarter-than-the-average" "himself" pops the question to a group of tourists, only to be brushed off with the paterfamilias noting that they preferred the Great Value brand of yellow mustard from Walmart, only to realise the ursine presence suggesting trouble ahead, forcing Yogi and Boo-Boo to make a wild run back to their den.

Super Snooper and Blabbermouse: While stopped in traffic en route to an investigation, Super Snooper pops the question in his Ed Gardner manner to the car in the next lane over, only to get a second-rate brand of moutarde de Dijon in the bargain as prompts quite the tirade to Blabbermouse in the bargain, prompting Blab to reply "Geez, Snoop, perhaps you delivered the question in the wrong manner; have you considered as much?"

Snagglepuss: Sophisto as he may try to be, at least he knows the correct tone and nuance thanks to memorising the commercials, only he gets asked by the front-seat passenger in the car targeted "What the [N4BSK] IS Grey Poupon, anyway?!." reinforced by the middle finger salute and Snag's responding "Well, you can't always win them all. Exit, stage forward ..."

Top Cat and clowder: Trying not to diss Officer Dibble in the wrong place at the wrong time, TC drills his clowder into delivering that question with the proper nuance (or so he thinks is befitting such back-alley cats anthro) so as not to cause an issue. Even when you consider that white wine is a key component of Dijon mustard, and TC was hoping to score a jar for the next sausage cookout to provide "something different" in the mustard department than French's, Gulden's, Heinz or, for that matter, the Great Value brand from Walmart.

Lippy the Lion and Hardy Har Har: Lippy tries asking the very question to hand, only to have the myopic hyaena companion complain that Lippy may be going about it wrong, prompting Lippy to remark "Bushwah, Hardy--BUSHWAH! Now follow my lead and play along--", prompting Hardy to ask why Lippy wanted a jar of Grey Poupon to begin with.

Yippy, Yappy and Yahooey (The Goofy Guards): When the King summons the rather bumbling trio of royal guards into the throne room, prompting the doltish Yippy to pop the question, dissing off His Majesty in utter frustration.

Penelope Pitstop in the #5 Compact Pussycat: Even with her rather elegant Southern-mannered voice, she manages to get the jar thrown to her, without the traditional "But of course ..." reply. Yet the jar doesn't smash unto the street for some reason.

Dick Dastardly and Muttley in the #00 Mean Machine: Everybody's Favourite(?) Hanna-Barbera Villain goes into a deceptively-polite tone to make the request, only to be cut off when Muttley cuts the cheese big time--with Dastardly cutting the request short and chewing Muttley out with "And just for that flatulent outburst, THERE WILL BE NO KEN-L RATION FOR YOU TONIGHT!"

Mildew Wolf: Trying to avoid the usual suspicions with Bristlehound vis-a-vis Lambsy in popping the question, Bristlehound delivers the hook to Mildew, flinging the latter into the heavens--and in the bargain, taunting Bristlehound with "Tasteless buttinski!" before crashing to earth in a dazed and confused heap.

The Hair Bear Bunch: Square Bear, driving the Invisible Motorcycle, pops that question most obvious at a traffic light, and upon getting a jar of Country Style Grey Poupon (as in coarse-ground) and the rejoinder "But of course ...", Square Bear passes it to Hair Bear in his accustomed back-seat position and manages to pocket the modest-sized jar in his vest pocket, adding "You'll doubtless thank me later, Square...."

Mr. Finkerton, as per Inch High, Private Eye: Even with the proper tone, inflection and nuance, the head of Finkerton's Detective Agency slips the jar into an inner coat pocket--which, it turns out, is where Inch-High is situate at the moment, prompting the dimunitive detective to remark "Talk about being in close quarters, and then some--!"

@warnerbrosentertainment @archive-archives

[lesbwinter]

gilmore girls x marauders (luke/lorelai -> wolfstar)

for context, remus is a diner owner and sirius is a customer in this scenario. sirius just got to the diner, sitting on a stool right in front of remus (who's behind the counter) and is just about to order.

remus: i'll get you a burger

sirius: wait. can i see a menu?

remus: you need to see a menu?

sirius: yes.

remus: you come here everyday.

sirius: i know, but i usually order the same thing, and tonight i'm in the mood for something a little different.

remus: a menu?

sirius: piece of paper, list of food offered.

remus: okay, here. *hands sirius a menu*

sirius: *stares at it*

remus: it's not in japanese.

sirius: don't you have any kind of holiday special, something festive?

remus: i just got some grey poupon, it's french.

sirius: *sighs and puts the menu down*

sirius: tonight's my parent's big christmas celebration. there's good food, these amazing apple tarts, big tree. it's the only holiday i actually enjoy going there for, and, this year, i'm uninvited.

remus: why the hell would anyone celebrate christmas two weeks early?

sirius: did you even hear the part about me being uninvited?

remus: to your parent's fake christmas party?

sirius: yes!

remus: i did hear that.

sirius: do you care?

remus: obviously you do.

sirius: yes, i do, and i don't know why.

remus: you liked going,

sirius: i did.

remus: regulus is there without you,

sirius: he is.

remus: you and regulus aren't getting along right now, and you feel bad at being separated at the time you usually share together.

sirius: ... wow.

remus: did i mention you come here every damn day?

sirius: ... i'll have a burger.

remus: coming right up.

[ a few minutes later ]

remus: *comes back with a plate - a santa claus face made with burger ingredients*

sirius: what did you do?

remus: you wanted something festive.

sirius: you made me a santa burger!

remus: it's no big deal.

sirius: he has a hat and everything!

remus: yeah, i just cut a piece of wonder bread, you know, poured on a little ketchup, piped on a little cream cheese...

sirius: no one has ever made me something quite this disgusting before. i thank you!

remus: you're welcome.

[adtothebone]

“Pardon me. Would you have any Grey Poupon?” — Coryn

cdhs.net

[nodynasty4us]

M.A. in Knoxville, TN, asks: You've written many times how presidential candidates have to visit state fairs and other locations where they and then expected to partake of such local delicacies as pickle lemonade (Florida State Fair), deep-fried chicken noodle soup (State Fair of Texas), deep-fried bubblegum (New Jersey State Fair) and the classic deep-fried Twinkies. You've noted that voters in various states (especially Iowa) expect to see candidates eat these things. How would this impact a candidate who has food allergies that prevent eating some or all of that stuff, such as a gluten allergy? Would voters understand, or would it a potential Molotov cocktail on their campaign? Does trying to eat some of those concoctions and failing do any damage to candidates, or does it humanize them somewhat? (V) & (Z) answer: Most people have a few things they can't eat, for various reasons (diet, allergies, personal preferences, etc.). We're unaware of any politician who suffered blowback for being unable to eat a particular thing, especially since there's always an alternative for them to prove they're "one of the people." If you can't eat fried Twinkies, then have some corn chowder, or bacon on a stick, or whatever. The thing that is a problem is when a candidate disrespects local food customs. For example, when John Kerry asked for a Philly cheesesteak with swiss cheese (they are properly served with Cheez Whiz). Or the time Mitt Romney bragged about the breakfast of cheesy grits he'd just enjoyed (they are cheese grits). Also bad is when a candidate does something "snooty" with their food. Think Mehmet Oz and his crudités. Or Barack Obama putting Grey Poupon on a hamburger. Or Bill de Blasio eating pizza with a fork.

[shirtlesssammy]

7x01: Meet the New Boss

Then:

Cas is God now, and I’ve never been more devout.

Now:

We start right where we left off. Cas wants the rest of TFW to love and respect him but they only fear him. Well, dude, you can explode them with a snap of your finger. Dean asks if he’s going to kill them. He has no need; They’re powerless against him, so they’re not going to try anything. Dean pleads with Cas again. But all Cas says is that he hopes, for their sake, this will be the last time they see him, and he’s gone. 

Dean asks Sam how he’s doing. Sam falls, cuts his hand, and sees visions of Hell. So, peachy. 

God!Cas is really taking the whole God Complex to a new level. He kills off a ton of angels in Heaven. “It is a new day on Earth and in Heaven. Rejoice.”

Dean’s soul Baby is once again in a sad state of disrepair. Sam’s resting while Bobby and Dean discuss trying to find where God II is chilling. Bobby suggests looking for a trenchcoat on a tortilla and I sometimes love watching episodes I don’t rewatch a lot because that was funny. Dean has no clue how to deal with Cas, but he can fix his car, and when Sam wakes, he can work on fixing him too. 

Later, Dean’s grabbing a beer when Sam walks into the kitchen. He’s okay! Okay enough, at least. Dean tells him to come help with the car and they’ll talk about what to do about Cas. Sam starts to walk out when.

A homophbic preacher is giving a shitty sermon when God walks into the room. I will always stan the God!Cas that says, “I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.” I mean, God!Cas is completely out of control, but just like our Cas, he was trying to do his best in a world that’s far too easy to do your worst. 

Cas kills the minister and then hears a whisper of his name. He stumbles but walks out of the church. 

Sam’s in the basement getting some tools when he starts to have visions of Hell. Bobby finds him. 

There are news reports that 200 different religious leaders are dead in an “act of God.” One eyewitness reports: “We all saw him. No beard. No robe. He was young, and sexy.” WHooEE. (Sidenote: Chuck has a beard and a robe. Lol.) The Ku Klux Klan is forced to disband. New Age motivational speakers: Gone. I mean, God!Cas, bby, these two are not the same. Sam thinks they should try talking to Cas again. Dean has closed that door. 

Cas healed leprosy? Bless the God that overrides pharmaceutical companies and their greed for profit. 

Cas finds Crowley hiding out in a trailer park. 

He tells Crowley that he will remain King of Hell but Cas will control where the souls go. Crowley has no say in the situation so he graciously accepts. 

Sam is up late reading when he has a nightmare vision of getting choked by a chain. He wakes and calls for Dean and Bobby. 

They’re busy in the shed with Baby and the 5000th beer of the episode. Also, Dean’s wearing his cute blue jumper and why can’t they bring that back? 

They discuss Sam. Sam overhears their conversation. Sam and Bobby really want to find something to get to Cas. Dean does not want to poke that bear. Dean does suggest summoning Crowley. 

They want a spell to bind Death. 

Cas is out and about healing true believers while he is deteriorating. 

Then he opens his shirt (YAY!) only to reveal a roiling belly full of something that wants out (NAY!). 

Bobby gets a Fedex from Crowley: The binding spell for Death. They have a lot of the ingredients but they still need “an act of God, crystallized.” Bobby found something at a house about 9 hours away. 

That night after some quick thinking on Dean’s part, (“Excuse me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”), they head inside the house to steal their act of God. 

The residents of the house interrupt their burglary (they keep the fulgurite in an actual glass case smh). Dean turns around to see a shotgun pointed at him and has ZERO concerns. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail he has the homeowners trussed up. After a polite introduction, they begin preparing for the ritual. Sam and Bobby work on spell ingredients while Dean does the real heavy lifting and carefully arranges a bag of greasy takeout and a soda on a side table. 

The ritual begins. The building shakes. “Um, hello? Death?” Dean peers around nervously and comes face to face with newly bound Death. 

Dean immediately fetches the bag of greasy food - the best fried pickle chips around! Hey, Death, if you won’t eat those please pass ‘em over here. 

“This is about Sam’s hallucinations, I assume?” Dean’s jaw drops down the ground. WHAT hallucinations, Sam? I can’t believe you are keeping something from your brother! 

Dean files this new piece of information away and they get back on track. They need Death to kill God. Because “we said so and we’re the boss of you.” Dean. Honey. 

Our poor Dean-tastrophe gets saved from himself by the appearance of Our Lord and Hot Guy on a Tortilla, Castiel himself. Death is utterly unimpressed. 

“You look awfully like a mutated angel to me,” Death snarks, and informs Cas that he’s due to explode soon. In addition to a major overload of souls, Cas has also swallowed Leviathan - ancient hungry monsters that predate angels. They’ve been locked away in Purgatory for time out of mind, but now they’re just a step away from a delicious new world and their doorway is Cas’s gut. 

Cas brushes away this concern.

“Where is he?” Cas asks Death about God!God. “I did a service taking his place.” Oh honey no.

Dean quickly gets tired of the Death versus Castiel snark-off and orders Death to “kill ‘im now.” 

Death lifts his hand with grim amusement to smite Cas, when Cas snaps his fingers and frees Death. Uh. Wherps. Death strolls over to the pickle chips, reassures the frightened homeowners, and Castiel flaps away to…

A political campaign headquarters. Cas heads in to kill the senator running for re-election who has caused “poverty and despair in God’s name.” His stern facade cracks and he starts to laugh wildly. Uh. Oh no.

Death berates Dean for not preventing Castiel’s catastrophic god complex. He warned him, after all! About the souls! It wasn’t a cryptic clue at all! “Maybe you should find somebody better to tip off,” Dean suggests with rising ire. 

Death suggests that his own time is better spent on another planet. At the time, I pictured Death swimming with our tentacled interstellar friends in a sea of stars but now I like to think Death planned a jaunt to a parallel world to talk to jetsetting Dean and Sam instead. 

Sam tries to smooth it over and asks for a smidge of help. Death tells them that if Cas returns it all to Purgatory, that will be enough to save their world. He arranges for another eclipse as well to help them build another door. Finally, he warns Dean about ever trying to bind him again and compliments him on the pickle chips. 

Cas wakes up. He’s covered in blood, lying in a pool of blood, and he’s surrounded by...the dead bodies of the political campaign workers. Cas killed everyone, and he killed them bloody. Viciously. 

Back at Bobby’s, Dean has his boots kicked up on the table with a drink in hand. Sam tries to rally him to fight to get Cas back from the brink. Dean isn’t buying it - not from the guy who’s been hiding his hallucinations from everyone else. (Okay, but pot kettle black, Dean Bean.) 

“It’s under control,” Sam insists. Dean would still rather escape into a life of porn and alcohol binging. He then finds news footage of the campaign office and sees the demented smile on Cas’s face. Erm. Not good. 

Sam doesn’t give up, though! In the junkyard, he prays to Cas to let them help him. Back inside with Dean, Sam’s ready to sink into a chair and give up when Cas appears. 

He looks...rough.

Cas asks for help. He talks Dean and Sam through setting up the ritual while he slumps on the floor. “I feel regret,” he tells Dean, wishing that he were strong enough to fix Sam’s wall before he dies. Dean’s not ready to hand out any hugs. BUT I AM.

Sam’s off getting blood for the ritual when he runs into an old face. Lucifer confronts him and tells Sam that he’s still trapped in the cage with two archangels and has been hallucinating everything since. “This is my best torture yet. Make you believe that you’re free and then yank the wool off of your eyes.” Yeesh, that’s clearly a move Lucifer would’ve learned from Michael. Who learned it from Chuck, right? 

Dean heads off to find Sam and discovers a jar of blood in the hallway...and no Sam. Pressed for time, he rushes back to paint the sigil on the wall. They prop Cas up and start the spell. “I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas gets out just before the spell ignites. 

The wall rips away and then light blasts out of Castiel. 

Mood, amirite?

Cas lies on the floor, unresponsive. He’s cold and not breathing. He’s DEAD, JIM! “Damn it,” Dean mutters as sorrow steals over his features.

And then Cas blinks awake. And insta-heals! He sits up, blinking. “That was unpleasant.” Cas has his usual half bewildered half sorrowful expression. He swears that he’ll redeem himself to Dean, and Dean seems at least halfway receptive to that plan! He won’t push him away!

Except...Cas suddenly pushes Dean and Bobby away. He crumples in on himself and shouts that they’ve held on! The leviathans! In a moment, any trace of Cas is gone as Leviathan!Cas grins maniacally and tosses Dean across the room. 

“This is going to be so much fun,” Cas says...and knowing how it ends up we agree! Pining, baby. Pining!

These Quotes are the Monster Under Your Bed:

What a brave little ant you are

Miracles, mass visions, trenchcoat on a tortilla? I don't know what I'm lookin' for

I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation

We all saw him. No beard, no robe. He was young...and...and sexy. He had a raincoat

Who feels like hog tying death tonight?

You know how I'm gonna deal? I'm gonna stuff my pie-hole, I'm gonna drink, and I'm gonna watch some Asian cartoon porn and act like the world's about to explode because it is

I'm gonna find some way to redeem myself to you

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[bearpillowmonster]

Top 15 Music Artists!

I won’t be doing a separate song one, instead I’ll just recommend a few for each artist (at most 3). Other than that, there aren’t any rules to this, no order, it’s all just opinion. I will however say that I don’t like “one genre or another” I either like a song or I don’t and I’m not as big of a stan for individual artists, just what song they created so I always hate when people ask me. Not to mention most music I listen to is from either a game, anime, or movie. I’ll try to make most of these the clean versions.

Daft Punk: This is an easy one. They created the Tron Legacy soundtrack (Tron seems to always make its way onto most of my top 15 lists), they are my number 1 that I would go see in concert (that’s still around) if only they’d have another tour. So many other artists have sampled their work and people have mixed their tracks with other artists on YouTube and they just add to the excellent sound. 

Some notable jams: Robot Rock, Instant Crush, Something About Us

David Bowie: This a bit of a comfortable one, in a way it reminds me of my stepdad but his music ranges from stuff about space to just every day stuff that massages your needs, another one that can have remixes done and just add to the magic. I’ve heard some of his songs before he died like Moonage Daydream in Guardians of the Galaxy but it was only after his death that I really started liking his music. I used to think he was an actor first and a musician second but I stand corrected. 

Some notable jams: Oh! You Pretty Things, Moonage Daydream, Space Oddity

The Weeknd: This boy can drop a track and the words don’t even have to matter because the lyrics can be twisted but the vocals and the beat say otherwise and I know somewhere, somehow, you’ve heard his music even if you haven’t realized it. Oh and Starboy? Yeah that features Daft Punk. Oh and that song? Got its own Marvel comic! (before it was cancelled after the first issue due to name and story issues) 

Some notable jams: Starboy, Secrets, Reminder

Kendrick Lamar: I don’t consider myself into rap much but I genuinely think that Kendrick is probably one of the best rappers. Who else do you know that talks about Grey Poupon mustard and makes it sound good? His voice is recognizable and calm but almost raspy but then he can turn it and make it fast and angry, either would make just about any song sound good. I wish they had him cover ‘Can you feel the love tonight’ for the Lion King, because I could just imagine how good it’d sound especially with Beyonce. 

Some notable jams: Humble, Poetic Justice, Swimming Pools

Electric Light Orchestra: My introduction was Don’t Bring Me Down but what really brought me into their music was trying to come up with something classic for a soundtrack for one of my stories and well this stood out the most. 

Some notable jams: Don’t Bring Me Down, Turn to Stone, Strange Magic

The Black Eyed Peas: I grew up in this age. This was the kick-off to getting myself into music. It was my first CD, it was my first song on my new iPod nano, it was the first time I even showed an interest (which was late in the game).  

Some notable jams: Imma Be, Just Can’t Get Enough, Back to Hip-Hop

Aerosmith: Another early one for me because this is what I was exposed to as a kid and everything since then has made an impression on me. Steven Tyler had the most plays on that iPod nano. I would normally suggest Dream On but I picked You See Me Crying first because it came to mind first to display the range of music they have, it’s a very sad song but also a bit of a calmer one that I don’t think gets nearly as much attention as it should. 

Some notable jams: You See Me Crying, Cryin, Walk This Way (Ultimate version)

Kanye: He made a music video based on Akira. Did I mention that it popularized the shutter shades again? Oh, and the song? Yeah it samples Daft Punk. That’s not even the only time he did that either, he sampled a track from Tron with Kid Cudi (but it was just a demo). He does a lot of sampling but somehow he builds on the original songs and tracks and makes them better. 

Some notable jams: Stronger, Roses, Through the Wire

MJ: I can’t find a better deconstruction of a song than Billie Jean. It’s practically a masterpiece. Take the track out and the vocals still sound good. Take the vocals out and the track still sounds good. You can do whatever the heck you want to this song and it will still sound good, I even listen to the Animal Crossing remix sometimes. The closest I could find to that was Billie Joel’s ‘For the Longest Time’ because it’s acapella. 

Some notable jams: Billie Jean, Bad, Thriller (vocals only, it’s creepier)

Twenty One Pilots: Trench. Need I say more? I like nearly every song in that album and that’s rare. I see plenty of stans for this band but that’s not what made me care, because a lot of their old songs are ear worms and have been overused and I think even they realize that such as ‘Ride’ and ‘Stressed Out’ (more like Worn Out). But then somehow something good came out of the Suicide Squad movie, a special song, Heathens! By the title, it sounds odd but upon closer inspection, it’s juicy. On top of that, Trench comes out and basically clarifies that a lot of their music videos connect and involve theories with their own universe and whole ARGs devoted to it. 

Some notable jams: Heathens, Legend, Chlorine 

Genesis: If I could give this band a number, it would be 17 because that’s the age that Genesis seemed to define. I liked a lot of their songs but I began using the songs as references to my love life at the time because I was going through a lot. I like Phil Collins on his own too but Genesis simply has more tracks that I love, I even bought and read Phil’s autobiography because as you probably already know, he did the music for both Tarzan and Brother Bear. 

Some notable jams: Invisible Touch, In Too Deep, Tonight Tonight Tonight

John Mayer: I almost put Drake Bell here instead but John Mayer is the kind of music you listen to when your heart aches and I for one like it. 

Some notable jams: Heartbreak Warfare, Moving On and Getting Over, Gravity

Smash Mouth: These later ones are getting a bit weird, huh? But yeah, the famous ‘All Star’ creators make some decent music, I won’t even reference any more from Shrek.

Walking on the Sun, Can’t Get Enough of You Baby, When the Morning Comes

Sweet: You remember that part in Regular Show where they had the dance off with the ghost DJ’s? Or how about the Guardians of the Galaxy Vol.2 trailer? I even have a shirt with their logo on it because I liked the idea of making it tie-dye but it didn’t work very well so now it’s just an orange stained Sweet tee. 

Some notable jams: Love is like Oxygen, Fox on the Run, Ballroom Blitz

Sheryl Crow: “This ain’t no disco. This ain’t no country club either. This is L.A.” I can’t help but vibe when I hear her, I’m not into country (as you can see from this list) but she makes it fun, she is an exception of sorts, she doesn’t do just one thing. If you read her Wiki, she does basically all genres and I like that she isn’t bound to one thing, it’s representative of her fun music and personality. Yeah, she’s guilty of the mainstream wear out as well but they can’t have them all. Picture is technically Kid Rock but she’s featured and I’d feel bad if I didn’t include it. 

Some notable jams: All I Wanna Do, Picture, Real Gone

[faveficarchive]

Mayonnaise and Its Discontents

(The tres exciting third part of a "White Trash" trilogy)

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Zina and Gabrielle head out on a road trip, and trip up on Zina’s exes along the way.

1. Precious and Few are the Moments We Two Can Share

The firefighter filled out the broken-down plaid couch with her long body. A walkman lay against her muscular stomach, and a wire traipsed seductively over a swelling breast, galloped down into the valley of muscle, skin, and tendons around the neck and shoulder, blended into dark tresses, and climbed over the crevices of the ears, where it was attached to an earpiece blaring out beautiful musical dissonance: Black hole sun, woncha come, and wash away the raaaaaaaain….

Her eyes were closed tightly against the world. It had been a long, horrible day. Three fires in one day. Flames, dirt, near-death. She came right home after the third one, exhausted, took a bath, and flung herself on the couch. She craved the oblivion of loud music, so she put on her walkman, since she knew Gabrielle was upstairs studying.

And she calls me insensitive, Zina thought grumpily. I can be kinda sorta sensitive when I want to be. She had drifted off into a light sleep when she felt a familiar weight straddle her lap. The weight wriggled around suggestively. She smiled and opened her eyes.

"Hey stud," Gabrielle said. Her beautiful girlfriend wore a t-shirt that said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH RUBBER HOSES (better than the last such shirt she saw, which said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH DALMATIANS) and a pair of Daisy Dukes—the shortest of blue jean shorts. It's like she's takin' fashion tips from Callie or somethin', thought Zina. (Not that she minded that much.) Gabrielle held a dirty slip of paper in one hand. "I found this attached to the bottom of your work boot."

Zina peered at it. "Uh…looks like my pay stub."

"Thought so. You want it?"

Zina gave her a Look. Then she shoved the earphones back in her ears.

Gabrielle wriggled again. Zina opened her eyes again, and plucked the 'phones out of her ears…again. "What?" A thin line of patience was threatening to snap.

"Zina, do you ever look at these things?"

"Why should I? I know how much I get paid. Plus I really don't want to know how much money the goddamn government is stealing from me." Maybe I should join the Militia…her eyes darkened at the thought. Sure, they were all a bunch of fat wads who could barely pull a trigger, but give her two weeks, she'd whip those pussies into shape, and soon, they'd be chanting her name as they took over the county courthouse…

A slap stung her thigh. "Zina! Stop having daydreams about the Militia!" Gabrielle barked.

The firefighter sulked. Of course, I'm kinda whipped myself.

"Now listen to me. There's this column on your pay stub, says 'Vacation'…"

"Uh huh."

"And under it is a number: 1,055."

"Yeah."

Gabrielle blinked in astonishment. "So…you have over a thousand days of vacation coming to you?"

"No."

"Oh." The little poet hid her disappointment.

"It means I have over a thousand hours of vacation." With this, Zina placed the phones back in her ears, and her head started thrashing in a very Beavis-and-Butthead-like fashion to "Spoonman."

"Holy shit! Over a thousand hours of vacation???" shrieked Gabrielle. Alas, her beloved could not hear her joy. She wriggled again, but got no response from Zina. Then she yanked the earphones out of the lovely ears all by her own self.

She was rewarded with a glare worthy of the most disturbed serial killer.

"Sorry, baby, but I'm trying to talk to you. " Gabrielle replied patiently. Love means never having to expect social skills above a third-grade level, the poet realized.

Zina's black bangs flew as she released an air of exasperation. "All right," she growled.

"Since you have so much time coming to you, why don't we have a vacation?"

The blue eyes blinked at her in utter incomprehension.

"Oh, wow," Gabrielle breathed with awe. "You've never had a vacation. Have you?"

"Vacations are for wimps, Gabrielle," muttered Zina.

"Bull. Every summer, my parents took us on a vacation. Sure, it was usually camping, or Graceland, or something like that…but we always went, every year." And every year it was hell. Her parents always argued, they always got lost, and Lila always won every back-seat slugfest they had. But Zina doesn't need to know that.

"I guess that sounds nice. But my mother's idea of a vacation was following around the Grateful Dead." Zina winced, trying to quash the memories that flooded back: greasy smelly hippie guys pawing at her, portable toilets that—mystifyingly enough—smelled better than the guys did, spilled beer going rancid in the harsh sun, pot, acid tabs, and more pot, and those goddamned fifteen-minute drum solos.

Hmmm, Gabrielle thought. It sounds like we've both had sucky vacation experiences. "Hey, I've been thinking. Like, as a vacation, maybe we could go visit Effie and those guys. Whaddya say?"

"I've been to Memphis, though."

"And so has Lyle Lovett, baby doll. Well, they aren't in Memphis right now. They're out in the country, recording their second album, at some studio in Tennessee. It’s real pretty, Effie says."

"That sounds cool."

"Yeah, it would be fun, baby. I'm dying to see Effie. I miss her so much. And you—well, Hank would be there…"

"And we could go fishing!" Zina perked up.

"Yeah!" Gabrielle loved to see her happy.

"And then we could play horseshoes! And golf! And basketball! And football! And I'll beat him every goddamned time!!!!" shouted the firefighter triumphantly.

"Honey, I love you, but you are a fuckin' maniac."

Zina beamed at what she perceived to be a great compliment.

***

"Hey, what the hell you doin' on my Harley?"

—Serge Gainsbourg, "Harley David Son of a Bitch"

They simply could not agree on what vehicle to take. Gabrielle thought it too dangerous to ride a cycle all the way there, and Zina said that it would only be over her dead body that they would take the Escort.

"I can't be seen in an Escort. 'Sides, we'd be lucky to make it to the county line in that thing."

"Well, I'm not riding a Harley all the way there. We won't have room to take anything. And my ass will be numb and fall off by the time we reach the county line." Gabrielle rubbed her perfect posterior for emphasis.

The firefighter scowled, deep in thought. "I have an idea." She stood up. "Come on, we're going to Ed's."

***

Ed stood in his bedroom, thoughtfully examining the two bras that he held, one in each hand. He loved the black one, but the material was so scratchy, on the other hand, the red one was a little too red, but it felt so silky…

A banging on his door caused the entire house to shake. Only two people he knew were capable of that: Hank, who was not in town…and Zina.

A squeak of distress came from his lips. Frantically, he stuffed the bras under his mattress and ran downstairs.

Indeed, the sullen beauty stood at his door, wearing her trademark outfit: black shitkickers, a black t-shirt, and faded Levis. This time the t-shirt showed a mutilated cartoon figure and the caption I KILLED KENNY. Well, I wouldn't put it past her, Ed thought. But he sighed with relief when he saw Gabrielle peeking out mischievously from behind the tall firefighter; the thought of a tete-a-tete with Zina was simply too much.

"Hi Ed!" Gabrielle chirped.

"Hey, Gabrielle…hey, Z."

Zina raised an eyebrow. Her knew her well enough to know that this was her way of requesting entry into his home.

"Sure, come on in, guys." The happy couple sauntered in. Zina flopped down in his recliner. She raised another eyebrow. "Beer?" he stammered. She nodded. "Gabrielle?"

"No thanks," replied the poet. "Got anything to eat?"

He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Bud and a bag of pretzels.

Gabrielle tore open the bag. "Got any mustard?" she asked.

He ran into the kitchen and came back with a jar of French's.

"No Grey Poupon?"

"What the hell's that?" Ed said, face pulled into distaste. Why anyone would want to put something gray on a perfectly innocent pretzel was beyond him.

"Never mind." Gabrielle cast a look at her soulmate, who was chugging Bud. "Shall I?" she asked. Zina nodded. She began. "Okay, Ed, it's like this. Remember when you hit the cow?"

He winced. "Oh…yeah."

"Well, you know, Farmer Draco came by the other day…"

"Shit!" Ed blurted.

"Yeah, and he was asking us if we knew who killed his little Bessie Sue…" Gabrielle shook her head sadly. "It just about broke my heart, to see a big ol' grown man like that cry." And it did, although on Zina’s part, the firefighter had giggled at the way the huge, dramatic feathers in Draco's cowboy hat bobbed up and down as he sobbed. "Right, Zina?" The big firefighter nodded dutifully. "And he cursed, and he cried, and he said, 'If I ever found out who killed Bessie Sue, I'll de-ball the fucker with my own teeth!' "

Ed blanched. His vision dimmed and he felt woozy. I won’t faint! I won’t!

"And do you know what we told him?"

Ed bit his lip in fear and agony.

"We said we didn't know. And you know why we said that, don't you, Ed?"

Ed nodded.

"Because you're our friend, and we don't want to see you de-balled. Right, Zina?"

Zina burped in the affirmative. She did concede to herself, however, that she wouldn't mind seeing Ed de-balled...it might be kinda fun, actually.

"And that's what friends do for each other. They take care of each other. They support each other—"

"They cover each other's stupid hairy asses after drinking half the county," Zina interjected.

"That's right," Gabrielle said soothingly. "So! That brings us to why we're here…"

"Whatever you want, take it!" he cried.

Zina bared her teeth in a feral grin. "We want the Impala."

Agony. He knew, someday, that she would ask. Years ago, he, Hank, and Zina had pooled their paltry financial resources and bought a decrepit 1968 Impala. Together they had rebuilt it into a gleaming icon of big, American simplicity. By the sheer good luck of having a garage, he was Keeper of the Impala. Hank was far too reverent of the vehicle to actually drive it, and would only come over and gaze wistfully at it every once in a while. Zina, however, had been "shut off" from the Impala after a particularly strenuous "test drive" that resulted in the tragic death of several chickens (property of the unlucky Framer Draco). But that was two years ago, and Hank had since declared his best friend fit to drive the beloved vehicle, if she chose to do so. And Ed knew that, one day, she would come around and ask to use the car that both he and Hank were too chickenshit to even drive to the Uni-Mart. She was that kind of woman. Fearless. Confident. Powerful. Perhaps a bit of a sociopath.

He sighed, and headed for the garage. The women followed him silently. When Ed flung up the garage door, he whispered reverently, "There she is."

The 1968 Impala, a dark, royal blue, glinted as afternoon sunlight hit its hood. It sat regally, patiently awaiting their ecstatic worship.

"Isn't she...magnificent?" Ed prompted, using one of the biggest words he knew. His eyes misted over.

"Oh…yes!" Zina gasped, delirious with joy.

Gabrielle shrugged. "It's cute," she said flatly, jealous that something other than she could make Zina gasp with delight. It was another annoyance; she already had to battle the Harley for superiority in the firefighter's affections: "Look, missy, what would rather have between your legs—that cycle or me?" she had demanded of her lover one fine afternoon.

The firefighter had frowned and contemplated the question for a long time.

"Let me put it another way," Gabrielle had interrupted the laborious mental process, "can that Harley give you an orgasm?"

Zina nodded vigorously. "It depends on how fast I'm going, and how bumpy the road is."

And now, she frowned at the harmless Impala. This thing probably does her so good she smokes a pack of Lucky Strikes afterwards, Gabrielle thought in a most discouraging way, while two pairs of horrified blue eyes stared at her.

"Cute?" roared the firefighter. "Gabrielle, this is, like, the Super Bowl of cars!"

"Yeah!" Ed cried. "I rebuilt this thing three times—"

Zina turned on him. "My ass! The second time Hank helped you, and the third time I practically did it myself!"

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did!"

The poet rolled her eyes. She leaned against the car.

"Get off the car!" shouted the firefighters in unison.

2. The Ex Files

After procuring the Impala for their impending trip, they went to the grocery store.

It was not Zina's favorite place to be. The fluorescent lights gave her a headache, as did the canned music (currently warbling "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight" by England Dan and John Ford Coley), and Gabrielle wouldn't let her pop wheelies with the cart. So she leaned against the shopping cart while Gabrielle tossed box after box of Pop Tarts into the metal receptacle. "Blueberry, brown sugar, fudge, cherry…" she rattled off each flavor as they landed in the cart.

The firefighter sighed, and looked to the end of the aisle. What she saw there caused her blue eyes to narrow into such hardened blocks of ice that not even Sharon Stone in her Basic Instinct incarnation—armed with her trusty little icepick—could have cracked them.

Gabrielle was not totally oblivious, in her Pop Tart delirium, to notice her girlfriend's change of mood. "Zina…what's wrong?" she asked as Zina stormed past her, toward a display in the frozen food section. Pulling the cart behind her, she followed Zina to the end of the aisle.

Many plastic containers of a strangely colored liquid formed a small pyramid, which paid homage to an arrogant-looking young woman featured in the cardboard poster that loomed over the plastic cups. The poster read thus: "Julie Caesar, Olympus County's very own Martha Stewart and host of WAR-TV's 'Conquering with Cooking,' presents the latest delicacy from her kitchen: Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise!"

"Ya want some, Zina?" the poet asked.

The firefighter regarded her with eyes of rage and incomprehension. "Do I want some?" she hissed violently at her small companion. "Do I want some!!" she repeated incredulously.

"Baby, chill out, okay? If you don't want to try it, don't sweat it."

"Gabrielle, you don't understand," growled Zina, waving at the display, knuckles pounding the cardboard image of the smirking yuppie goddess, "this BITCH stole my recipe!!!"

The little poet blinked in disbelief. The only culinary effort she had witnessed her girlfriend perform had been to mix Rolling Rock, Heineken, and tabasco sauce together and declare it a "cocktail."

"She stole my idea! She betrayed me!" wailed Zina.

"Oh no…" Gabrielle moaned. "Don't tell me…another ex-lover, right?" How many were there? On top of Artie (loser!), Hank (can’t fault Zina here, the man is flawless), Ed (doesn't really count)…there was Callie (bitch!), Midge from the gas station (who kept calling Gabrielle "little lady," whenever she got gas—bitch!), Nancy, who managed the automotive section at the Wal-Mart and still gave Zina "discounts" not to mention lingering, lovestruck glances (bitch!)….

And then there was Lao Ma.

Lao Ma, the beautiful woman who ran the Green Dragon, the Chinese take-out restaurant, whose Hong Kong movie career did not take ("Don't even say the name Michelle Yeoh to me," she once murmured in her calm, menacing way to a customer who dared to ask), who always gave Zina vaguely obscene fortune cookies ("Lick a pearl every night to refine your oral skills") and who offered Gabrielle cryptic commentary whenever she would pick up their order ("Noodles are soft, but who could withstand the raging lo mein?").

Gabrielle sighed and seethed, hands on hips. "Well?"

I'm not talkin' about movin’ in...

Zina rubbed the back of her neck in that way she did when she was uncomfortable.

...and I don't want to change your life...

"Look, Zina, just tell me. Did ya lay her or not?"

...but there's a warm wind blowing and...

"Aw, shit, Gabrielle." Translation: Yes.

...blah blah blah blah...

"Jesus H. CHRIST in a frigging HAYSTACK, ZINA!!! How many are there? Will the REST OF MY LIFE be plagued by the PERIODIC UNCOVERING OF SOME PIECE OF ASS YOU SCREWED WHILE YOU WERE THE BIGGEST HO IN THE COUNTY?"

...and I'd really love to see you tonight...

"Uh, yeah, quite possibly," mumbled Zina.

***

"Oh, man," Cyrene moaned, burying her graying head in her hands. "Zina said I'd tell you everything about her and Julie Caesar?"

"Yeah, Cyrene, she's way too pissed to talk about it. We kinda fought about it." Gabrielle was in the farmhouse kitchen with Cyrene, Zina's mother, who sat at the kitchen table while Gabrielle put away groceries.

"'Kinda?'" Cyrene echoed sarcastically. When she had arrived on the scene Zina was tearing off on the Harley while Gabrielle was screaming after her, "You suck! And I don't mean in a good way either!" from the porch.

"Okay, you saw it. We fought. But just before she left she said you could explain everything." She tried to mask the nervousness in her voice. What would the raging Zina do? Would she get thrown out of "Hooters" again? Would more of Farmer Draco's errant livestock suffer at her murderous wheels? She needed the full story, so that she could help her lover rein in those sociopath tendencies. Not to mention her own jealousy.

"I need my bong," the older woman muttered, digging through her purse. With expert hands, she loaded the bong with pot contained in a little black plastic film canister. She lit up, and offered it to Gabrielle.

"No thanks, I only smoke when I study now." Gabrielle had decided to cut back on the pot-smoking for a while, ever since making the declaration in her Film Aesthetics course that Baseketball was "A Citizen Kane for the 90s."

"Okay," Cyrene sighed, "here we go. It all happened, oh, about 10 years ago. Or maybe it was 8. Or 5…."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, it was when Zina was still Bad." The way Cyrene said it, one automatically knew that "bad" began with a capital B.

"Oh…" replied the poet. While her voice retained a forced tone of neutrality, she squirmed in delight. Ooooh…bad = sexy. Sexy sexy sexy. Hello, my name is Gabrielle and I'm addicted to Bad Girls. I realize I am powerless over my addiction to sullen brunettes…

"Yeah, honey, she was Bad. What I'm about to tell you won't be pretty. But we Amphipolittis—like most Italians—have always been a honest, proud family, unashamed of our mistakes."

Gabrielle frowned. "I thought you guys were Greek."

"Whatever." Cyrene waved a bejeweled hand.

3. The Obligatory Flashback

As the Harley tore down the street, Zina was comforted by the cool .45 nestled against her trim waist. Ever since the last time she got out of jail, she had stopped carrying the gun all the time, just in case she got busted again, but whenever she saw her parole officer she brought it along. It was very effective to let the sweaty bastard catch a glimpse of the steel. It kept him off her back.

She pulled into the parking lot of the municipal building, where the his office was. She parked the bike and started to swagger toward the main entrance when an altercation near a white Volvo caught her attention. A grungy young man was trying to divest a yuppie-ish young woman of her ownership of said Scandinavian vehicle of marvel.

"C'mon, lady, hand over the goddamn keys. I got a gun." The dude had his back to Zina, who crept over to them, unnoticed.

The woman had a stylishly messy, Beatlesque haircut, and wore a blue rain slicker, chinos, and those very preppy LL Bean kinda shoes. Hey, is she a dyke or what? Zina thought, as she watched the woman arch an imperious eyebrow at her would-be assailant.

"I'm sorry," she replied in oily, unctuous tones, "but I'm unable to comply with your...rude request. You see, I just had my car cleaned, and I don't allow vermin inside."

"Vermin? What the hell are you talkin' about, lady? I ain't a deer!"

"Let me amend that. Stupid vermin."

The man gave a growl of rage, and as he reared back an arm to hit her, he found his limb ensnared in Zina's powerful grip.

"Hey, ya need this?" growled Zina, squeezing and twisting the arm painfully. With her other hand she pulled out the .45 and grazed it against his sweaty cheek. "I dunno if you have a gun, but I sure do, so I think you should get your sorry ass outta here right now."

Perhaps she only imagined it, perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Zina later thought that, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a rather fascinated—and pleased—look on the woman's face. Almost like she was turned on.

"Okay! Okay! Lemme go!!" he cried.

"No, no, wait a minute. First, you gotta squeal, like a pig."

"What? You outta your damn mind?"

She pressed the barrel into his cheek.

"Weeeee! Weeee! Soooo-EEEEEEE!!!"

Zina unleashed a demonic laugh. She released the sad man, this victim of her recent screening of Deliverance, and gave him a boot in the ass as he stumbled, then ran away. She was still laughing as she turned her attention to the woman who, despite the fact she wasn't blonde, was still kinda cute.

The woman examined her from head to toe, with no discernible emotion on her face except a detached yet intent curiosity. "Hmmm, I suppose I must thank you for your assistance," she murmured regretfully, as if she hated the thought of being indebted to anyone.

Zina transformed her smirk into a dazzling grin, as she decided to do the "aw shucks" routine, which usually charmed the pants off these suburban mom-potential-lesbo types. "Weren't nothin', ma'am. Glad to help."

The woman was not instantly charmed. She continued to look at Zina in that same dour, supercilious manner. "You're...interesting, for someone of your class."

"Class? I'm not in high school anymore, ma'am. But when I was, I would usually cut 'em."

"What's your name?"

"Zina."

"How intriguing. Like that strange alcoholic drink they market nowadays."

"Don't start with that." Zina dropped the cute act. She'd had enough Zima/Zina jokes to last a lifetime.

"I won't," the woman responded coolly.

Zina skulked a little. This wasn't going her way at all. "So, uh, what's your name?" she mumbled, striving for politeness.

The woman looked shocked. She smirked. "You mean you don't know who I am?" she asked, tone dripping with condescension.

Zina frowned. "No. Should I?"

"You should. For someday, the world of TV will be mine."

Zina wanted to roll her eyes. She'd heard this on a regular basis from Artie since his religion kick started.

"Tell me," the woman continued, "do you like steak au poivre?"

"Huh?"

The woman sighed. "Steak. Do you like steak?"

"Shit, lady, who doesn't?"

A business card was pulled from silver holder within the jacket. The card was handed to Zina. "Come to dinner this evening. We'll become aquainted." she nodded. "Until then." Then she was in the Volvo and driving away. Zina looked at the card. JULIE CAESAR. CHEF. CATERING. INTERIOR DECORATING. LIFE CHANGES.

The sexy felon gave a confident roll of her shoulders. "Damn, I still got the touch," she drawled to herself.

***

Usually she was reluctant to drive through the more affluent towns because she got hassled a lot by the local gendarmes. But she felt secure as she drove down a winding road in the scarily perfect village of Port Rome; she had a feeling that the business card nestled in her leather jacket would make any pig back off. This suspicion was confirmed when she pulled into the driveway of Julie Caesar's large, mock-Tudor home. She stopped the bike in front of the garage door, next to the Volvo parked there, and no sooner had she hopped off than she heard the furious barking of dogs.

Two large Dobermans rounded the corner of the house. The dogs paused and regarded her in the same supercilious manner that their owner had earlier in the day. Then, as if a light bulb went off over their collective little canine heads, they charged toward her.

Zina barely had a moment to jump, with unerring grace, on top of the Volvo. The dogs were deterred by this; they seemed reluctant to jump on the car, probably because she trained them not to, guessed the worried con. But they jumped and bounced around the vehicle unceasingly, barking, their jaws snapping. A vicious line of dog drool splattered angrily against one of her boots. Shit, I wish I brought my gun!

"Pompey! Crassus!" A woman's voice boomed from the walkway along the side of the house. Julie appeared, wearing a denim apron, frowning with disapproval at the beasts. "Heel!" she commanded.

Immediately the dogs were transformed into meek, whining creatures. They both sat down obediently, awaiting their mistress's next order.

Julie pointed toward the backyard. "Go!"

Tails between legs, the dogs galloped away.

Zina took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. "Jesus, that's a real suburban kinda greeting."

"I'm sorry about that. They're angry that the steak I'm making is for you, not them." Julie smiled. Zina blinked. No, wait, she really smiled.

"Yeah, I guess they were just doing their job."

"They were. They don't get much excitement out here. They haven't attacked anyone in long time, poor dears." Julie sighed, and stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should go back to catching live rabbits for them...."

Zina's baby blues went wide with horror. "Rabbits?" Bunnies? Little fluffy bunnies? And people think I'm some bad-ass psycho?

"Yes," drawled Julie. "And once they kill them, I can make a lovely rabbit stew. Now do come inside."

"Okay." The con did not budge.

"Zina."

"Huh?"

"That means you have to get off my car. Please."

Once inside, Zina was sitting on the immaculate counter in the well-equipped kitchen, the kind she had only seen in magazines, where copper pots and pans hung from ceilings, where little chopping machines were neatly lined up like sentries, where there was a dishwasher...where everything gleamed. She fully expected her new friend to yell at her to get off the counter, but Julie merely smiled indulgently and handed her a cold bottle of beer. "Want a glass?" the hostess asked.

Zina's eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

"Never mind."

Shrugging, Zina tried to read the label of the bottle she'd been handed. Except it was in French or something. "What the hell's this?"

"It's a pilsner."

"A what?" I thought she said it was beer.

"It's a kind of beer, my dear Zina. Try some. It's actually quite good."

"I will." She looked at Julie. "So, uh, you cook for a living?"

"Not exactly. I do many things. I cook. I entertain. I show people how to make their miserable lives worth living. I think it's useful."

Zina snorted. "Sounds like you got all the bases covered."

Julie raised a triumphant eyebrow. "I do. It's all one big marketplace when you look at it, but if you break it down, it's quite easy to conquer. Just remember, Zina: divide and conquer."

"Whatever." Zina sniffed the bottle suspiciously, and took a tiny sip. "Mmmm...not bad," she said with grudging surprise.

"I'm glad you like it. Now come into the living room."

Does she talk to everybody the way she talks to her dogs? wondered Zina as she followed Julie into the huge, rustic-looking living room. A fire blazed. The con stood and surveyed the living room with the same awe she did the kitchen. "Wow. Nice."

Julie indicated the couch next to the fireplace with a wave of her arm. "Sit."

"Uh, I'm okay standing."

"Really?" Another arching of the eyebrow.

I gotta learn to start doing that, it's kinda cool. "Yeah."

She wasn't prepared for the playful shove from the domestic dominatrix. "I said...sit." Zina landed on the couch with an oomph. Through much skill and experience, she managed not to spill the beer.

But Julie had a skill all her own. Before Zina knew it, her belt was unbuckled, then her jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and flying at half mast, around her knees.

Her body contracted in delight at her hostess's firm ministrations. I'm drinking beer and getting head all at once. I think I'm in heaven. If only the TV were on....Her eyes flickered to the remote sitting on the coffee table, just out of reach. She stretched out an arm in vain.

***

Gabrielle nearly choked on her fourth Pop Tart. "Ugh, Cyrene, she really told you...about the sex stuff?"

Cyrene had propped her weary head in one hand. "Yeah, honey, she did. Like, during that whole time period we both gave dysfunctional a bad name, you know? And she was so taken with Julie, so...she just couldn't help herself. I think she really dug the power trip Julie was on. She always liked chicks—and guys—like that: Powerful. So it's kinda surprising she fell for you."

Gabrielle scowled.

"No offense, honey. You know I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to her."

The poet was assuaged for the time being. "Thanks, Cyrene. But, uh, I was wondering—"

"What, Gabrielle?"

"Um. Well, Zina doesn't, you know, still tell you, uh, intimate details, does she? You know, like about her and me?"

Cyrene laughed and waved a hand. "Oh, no way, honey. We don't do that anymore."

"Heh." Gabrielle chuckled with relief. "That's good."

"I mean, she doesn't have to."

"What?" Gabrielle asked uneasily.

The older woman snorted. "Hell, honey, the fact that you have her limping and bowlegged about every week speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

Gabrielle buried her face in hands. Shit, I bet no one buys that "I hit a really bad pothole on my cycle" story....

There was a knock at the kitchen door. From the window both women could see red flashing lights. "Uh-oh," Cyrene mumbled, shoving her marijuana and all its accouterments in her purse, and making a mad dash for the upstairs. Gabrielle waited patiently for the older woman to make her getaway, then answered the door.

Zina stood scowling, arms folded, with a tall female police officer behind her, who was grinning under the penumbra of her big state trooper hat.

Gabrielle sighed. "Hi, Officer Minya."

"Hi, Gabby!" responded the cop enthusiastically. "I believe this big bundle of joy is yours." She tapped Zina’s arm with a nightstick. The firefighter snarled at her.

"Yeah," Gabrielle groaned, "it sure is. What was it this time?"

"Not drunk. Just disorderly conduct. Punched out some dude at the Saddle who said Sammy Sosa sucked."

"I’m tellin’ ya, McGwire is nothing but steroids!" roared Zina.

"Yeah, yeah, put a lid on it, smart ass. So whaddya wanna exchange for her this time, Gabby?" Two months ago, after a similar incident when Zina was accompanied home by Officer Minya, the policewoman delicately suggested that she would be willing not to let Zina sit in jail for a night if she could have something in exchange. Gabrielle had given her a chicken salad sandwich. Then another time it was left-over pizza. The poet frowned. This could not go on, she decided. Zina needed to be taught a lesson. "Okay, Minya. How about a whip?"

The cop’s eyes lit up. "Awesome!" she gurgled.

"No!" Zina wailed. "Not my whip!"

"Yes, missy, your whip!" Gabrielle cried triumphantly. "And if that don’t teach you to behave yourself and stop getting into fights, I’ll give Officer Minya your Harley next goddamned time!" With that, the poet stomped up to the bedroom, got the whip, and delivered it to Minya, who thanked her profusely and left.

Zina sulked at the kitchen table. "You just gave away my, my…pride and joy. My womanhood. My, uh…"

It always amused Gabrielle when her companion tried to get deep. "Lay off it, baby. You can always get another whip. Look, I know you’re pissed about this Julie chick, but let’s just try to think about this thing. Maybe we can get her to come around to our way of thinking." She grinned.

4. The Bimbo Bard

"I decided to be what crime made of me."—Jean Genet

"Consequences, schmonsequences. As long as I’m rich."—Daffy Duck

The usual suspects swarmed outside the studio where "Conquering with Cooking" was filmed every week. Julie eyed them with disdain: women, housewives old and young, mindlessly following her every dictate. She sighed with the burden of it all. When, she thought, will I see a fresh face, someone interesting, someone...

Her eyes fixed on someone near the end of the line. Like that. A young beauty. Strawberry blonde. Sucking a bottle of Nestle Quik through a straw. Young. Coquettish. Ah, my Lolita! thought Julie, as she surveyed the young woman, who was dressed like white trash, no doubt about it: green halter top, scandalously short shorts, little hiking boots from which gray and red tube socks peeked out mischievously. But her beauty easily defeated all those shortcomings. As her crimson lips wrapped around the straw yet again, her lovely gray-green eyes met Julie's.

With studied nonchalance Julie sauntered past the crowd, past the calls for her attention and the hands that tried to grab at her, to this nubile little goddess. "Hello," she greeted smoothly. "thank you for coming to the taping."

The girl nodded. "You're welcome."

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before."

"No, this is my first time," she replied with a charming giggle.

"Really?" Julie grew inquisitive. "Tell me why." Gently, she linked arms with the young woman and guided her away from the crowd. They turned the corner of the studio hallway, headed toward Julie's dressing room.

As soon as they cleared the crowd the woman had extracted her arm from Julie's. "I've become interested in you," she said to Julie, eyelashes fluttering like shadows of leaves against a sun-dappled window. Then she slowed to a halt and leaned against the wall, and resumed sipping her chocolate milk.

"I'm glad you've become interested in me, whatever the reason." Julie leaned with predatory possessiveness over the girl. She dragged a finger over the girl's taut abdomen, which rippled like a pond.

"You don't want to know why?" the girl asked, pouting slightly.

This should be interesting. She probably did my horoscope, and determined we were fated to meet. "Tell me."

"We have a mutual friend."

Julie raised her eyebrows: one in amusement, one in disbelief. Who could this waif possibly know among her acquaintances?

"You remember Zina, don't you?" The girl slurped at the drink again.

Julie's eyes narrowed and her spleen made a grinding noise, as if her intestines were mashing coffee beans. "Yes, I remember her very well. An exquisite lay, as I recall."

Gabrielle smirked. "Yes she is, isn't she?"

Julie sighed and straightened. "Now it all makes sense. All right, o concubine of Zina, what do you want?"

"I have a message from Zina: she wants half the profits from the mayonnaise deal, or she reveals your real name to the press."

Julie's nostrils flared. "She wouldn't dare," she rumbled.

Gabrielle smiled the smile of the triumphant. "Oh, wouldn't she, Hermoine Kaputnik?"

***

Zina's efforts at napping were futile. She lay stretched out in bed, staring at the ceiling, possessed by worrying. I never shoulda let Gabrielle go to Julie by herself. That crazy bitch probably cut her up and served her to those damn dogs…complete with a sprig of mint. Or would Gabrielle taste better with parsley? What the hell am I thinking?

She sat up expectantly when she heard the familiar death rattle of the Escort. A car door slammed. Silence. Then the front door opened, and Gabrielle's beloved bellow: "ZINA!"

"Up here," she called down to the poet. Then she heard Gabrielle galloping up the steps. And then she was there, in the doorway, grinning at her.

She melted. She always did, at that smile. Always would. Ever since I saw her across a crowded, smelly bar…and she smiled at me, without even knowing me. How the hell could I not love…that?

"I got good news and bad news," Gabrielle was saying.

"Bad first," the firefighter quickly replied.

"Okay. The bad news is that Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise is going under. They're discontinuing it 'cause of poor sales."

"Well, I ain't surprised," Zina snorted. "She probably didn't make it right!" Damn Julie. She musta put in too much salsa….

Gabrielle decided it was best not to go there. She continued: "But the good news is this."

She pulled a wad of cash out of the pocket of her Levi’s jacket. "Payoff. Your half of what she already made."

"How much?"

"Nine hundred." She walked over to the bed, and tossed the money, all 10s and 20s (Julie had gotten the cash from an ATM), into the air. As the bills fell and scattered like leaves, Gabrielle jumped onto her lover. They fell back on the bed in an embrace.

"Blackmailing is fun, baby. No wonder you love being bad," Gabrielle said, after a long and breathless kiss.

"Don't enjoy it too much, Gabrielle. I don't want you ending up in jail."

"I won't. I'm just kidding." The poet indulged in nibbling the firefighter's firm neck. "So can we go on vacation now?"

"Sure…with money like this, hell, we could afford a Holiday Inn."

"Hey, " she said, surveying the money-covered bed, "this is just like that movie…Indecent Proposal." She regarded Zina with lust-glazed eyes. "Which is pretty cool, stud…'cause I got a very indecent proposal for you…."

"Gabrielle, the way you walk down the street is an indecent proposal all by itself…."

"You always say the sweetest things to me!"

***

"Mom, get the fuck off the car." Zina tossed a duffelbag into the open trunk of the Impala. Cyrene was lying on the hood of the car, taking in the early morning sun and meditating…or falling asleep, depending on one's religious beliefs or lack thereof.

"Oh come on, man," the older woman grumbled, not moving.

"Let her go, Zina. She's not doing anything." Gabrielle said from the car’s interior, where she had been sitting for an hour: She was that excited. The passenger door was opened and her legs were stretched out. A curled, worn paperback copy of On the Roadlay in her lap. "Are we ready yet?" she asked her beloved for the millionth time.

Zina slammed shut the trunk. "Yeah, I think so." She walked over to the hood, where Cyrene, sun warming her face, had drifted off into half-sleep, half-sixties flashback: heeeeere comes…the Suuuuun Kiiiiiiing….But her daughter's gruff voice cut into her paisley and psychedelic subconscious: "Okay you, listen up," grunted Zina. She dropped a set of house keys on Cyrene's stomach. "Water Gabrielle's plants everyday."

"And don't forget the plant food," added the poet.

Incense and peppermint…da da da da…

"Right," continued Zina. "And make sure there's food on the back porch for the cats. And give them fresh water every day. Oh, and call the gas company about checking the meter. Cancel my fly-fishing trip with Ed. And cancel my dentist appointment too. Call Tommy Ray at the fire department and tell him that if anyone uses my ax while I'm gone, they're dead. And make sure you call Lila and tell her that Gabrielle can't babysit for her on Thursday."

Cyrene smiled beatifically.

"You got all that, Mom?"

Cyrene opened her eyes, blinking. Whether blinded by the sun or a hashish brownie, she realized that she was talking to Grace Slick, and it was 1967. But why was Grace calling her "Mom"? Oh, it was all so confusing sometimes…poor Grace, fucked up again. Just humor her, Cyrene. So she crossed her fingers for good luck. "Consider it done."

Zina stared at her dazed and confused mother. "Gabrielle, your plants are gonna die."

Cyrene sat up, and slid off the Impala. "Okay, time to get ready for the Filmore."

"Oh boy," Zina sighed, and quickly hugged her mother. "See you in a week, Mom."

Gabrielle stood up and did likewise, in addition planting a kiss on Cyrene's cheek. "Yeah, Cyrene, see ya."

Cyrene stared at Gabrielle. "And Julie Christie too?" she muttered, wandering back to the farmhouse.

"You think she'll be okay?" wondered the poet.

"Yeah, she'll sleep it off." Zina slid an arm around her lover's shoulders. "Ready?"

Gabrielle turned to face her. "Yeah. This is so awesome, baby. A road trip. Just like Kerouac and those guys." She looked at her book. "A trip into the heart of darkness. The heart of America. A voyage into self-discovery." She stuffed the book down her jeans, then took Zina's face in her hands. "I am Kerouac, and you are my Neal Cassady," she intoned solemnly. "Dig?"

The beautiful blue eyes were a tabula rasa. "Yeah."

"You don't know what the hell I'm talking about, do you?"

"No."

Gabrielle kissed her. "I love you anyway." Reluctantly she let her hands slide from Zina's face, and the firefighter walked over to the driver's side of the car.

"But you know," Gabrielle continued, "Kerouac, writing in his diary, called himself 'the buckeye bard.' I'd like to have a title like that, someday."

Zina eyed Gabrielle's tight halter top and skimpy shorts. "How about 'the bimbo bard'?"

As she sprinted away from the car, with Gabrielle close at her heels and threatening serious tickling, she thought, once again, damn, I am so whipped.

5. The Heart of Darkness

"American black hole…

Life’s too sweet to eat like candy"

—Girls Against Boys, "Black Hole"

It was like being in the Twilight Zone: Every rest stop was the same, except perhaps that this one had a Burger King, and that one had a Hardee's, and yet another one had a Sbarro's…Gabrielle fought her disgusted way out of the all-too-moist bathroom (everything seemed wet: floors, counters, toilet seats…) and into the parking lot.

Zina was leaning against the Impala, mirrored sunglasses firmly in place, growling at anyone who got too close to the car.

"Okay, let's go." Gabrielle tossed her purse in through the open window.

They both climbed into the car. The firefighter sat in front of the wheel, unmoving.

"Baby, you okay?" Gabrielle asked, touching her beloved's leg.

"Gabrielle, I want you to know…we're entering dangerous territory here."

The poet frowned. "Dangerous how?"

Zina took a deep breath. "We're in Tennessee now."

"Well, yeah, so what?"

Zina turned in her seat, and took Gabrielle's hand. "You've noticed the radio signals are getting weaker."

"Yeah…so?"

"Gabrielle, very soon…" The taciturn firefighter simply didn't know how else to put it. "Very soon we may be stuck with nothing but country music stations."

Her fair-haired companion, however, set her jaw in determination. "I thought so, Zina. I know it'll be tough, but…I think we can handle it."

6. Postcards from America: An Excerpt from Gabrielle's On-the-Road Journal

At first it was even kinda fun. We just kept making fun of the songs they played. Like on two-shot Tuesday they were playing Bonnie Tyler, and I made up lyrics to her songs: "I Need a Hero" became "I Need a Homo" and "Total Eclipse of the Heart" became "Total Eclipse of the Brain." Zina laughed and that was good. But as the day dragged on it got harder and harder.

And today was the second day without real music. If I hear another Clint Black song I'll kill someone. I hate country music for making me want to listen to Hanson again.

I'm writing this at a diner. Zina and I aren't really speaking right now, 'cause she did something really horrible. Earlier she had to make an "emergency stop" so she pulled over along some road and ran into the woods like a jackrabbit. While I sat there I decided to read a little of On the Road again and started looking for it. but I couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor, wasn't in the back, or in the glove compartment. I was totally confused until Zina came back. By this time I was standing outside the car. As she walked toward me I noticed something sticking out of her back pocket: It was my book!

I'm not so naive as to think she really wanted something to read while doing number 2. So I said, "Why do you have my book?"

She looked nervous and just shrugged. "I dunno," she said. She is the worse liar ever.

I snatched it out of her pocket, and immediately noticed that a big chunk of the book was gone...then it dawned on me.

She didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

7. If You're Feeling Sinister

"So if you're feeling sinister

Go off and see a minister

He'll try in vain to take away the pain of being a hopeless unbeliever..."

—Belle and Sebastian, "If You're Feeling Sinister"

Zina parked in the furthest recesses of the lot. "I don't wanna risk the car getting scratched," she said to her sulky companion.

They were at a mall. A mall that had a Barnes & Noble. Zina knew that this was the only way she could get her girlfriend to start talking to her again: If she took Gabrielle to a bookstore and bought her a brand-spanking-new copy of On the Road.

But Gabrielle sat, arms crossed, unmoving.

"Come on, baby," Zina cajoled gently. "It'll be a nice new copy...I know the old one had your notes in it..."

Gabrielle glared at her.

"...And a love sonnet addressed to me..." the firefighter admitted guiltily.

The poet sighed melodramatically.

"Yeah, I know, I'm totally unworthy of you, but I am sorry, and I'll buy you whatever you want."

Gabrielle was out of the car and jogging toward the bookstore.

Feeling relieved, Zina locked up the Impala and sauntered toward the entrance. However, her satisfaction did not last long. A Barnes & Noble minion handed her a flyer as she entered the superstore, and normally she would not have even read it except for the photo of a certain grinning blonde psychopath: "Reverend Callie de Ash reads from her first book, I Didn't Find God But He Sure Did Find Me, today, at 3 pm."

A clock on the wall indicated that it was twenty till 3.

Zina cursed softly. Although not so softly that the underpaid lackey did not hear her say, "Son of a goddamn fucking bitch."

Quickly she paced through the maze of the monolithic store, looking for Gabrielle. She had wandered in the huge but desolate Art section when she felt a hand snag her arm and, with surprising force, pull her down. She flopped into an overstuffed chair. Why is this whole place like someone's goddamn living room, she thought irritably, as she looked up...into Callie's face. The blonde, wearing a dark brown skirt and matching suit jacket, grinned down at her. "Will wonders ever cease," she sighed. "Thank you, Lord!" she cried with a heavenward glance.

"Callie."

"Hello, precious!" Callie crooned, once again settling her eyes on her prey. The mad minister straddled Zina's lap. "It's so nice to see you again...even though the last time we met you tried to crush my foot." She caressed Zina's chiseled cheek with a finger.

"Stop it, Callie. It was an accident," replied the firefighter through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, yeah, just like burning down my house was an accident. But my time with the Lord has shown me forgiveness, and I do forgive you, Zina. Verrry much," she purred, grinding against a taut thigh.

"That's great...Callie," Zina whispered. Oh boy, if Gabrielle sees this I am in big trouble...not even all the books in the world would get me out of this jam. "Please...let me go."

"What? You're not gonna stay for my reading?"

"I, uh, Gabrielle and I are on vacation..."

Callie stopped lap dancing for a moment. "You mean...oh, of course the little tart would be along. Honestly, Zina, I don't know what you see in her. But I bet I could show you something much better..."

Even through her industrial strength Levi's, Zina could feel the heat of her desire, so much so that..."Callie?"

"Yes, my raven-haired wonder?"

"Are…you…wearing underwear?"

Callie giggled. "Panties are the devil's diapers, my pretty."

I just had to ask.

Suddenly, from the next aisle, they heard a man's voice: "Callie?"

"Oh great, it's my agent," Callie whispered. "He's coming this way." She looked at Zina. "Don't say anything, just play along." She clamped her hands to Zina's face much like one of those little monster spawn from the Alien movies. The firefighter’s head was immobile, thus, she could not turn to see his approach. "The power of Christ compels you!" Callie shouted as he rounded the corner.

"Callie, what are you doing?" demanded a male voice.

"Sweet baby Jesus, Bob, can't you see I'm in the middle of a healing?" she snapped, glaring at him. Then she turned her eyes to Zina once again. "Sister, let the Lord take away your torment and pain—I cast thee out, demons! Beelzebub! Mephistopheles! You are no match for me!"

"So, like, what's wrong with her?" Bob interrupted again.

"Brain tumor."

"Oh." Bob sounded disappointed, perhaps expecting something more exciting, like paralysis or leprosy.

Zina grew desperate. Callie's sweaty palms were suctioned to her head, and she had to find Gabrielle and get the hell out of this crazy place. "I feel it, I feel it!" she shouted.

"You do?" cried Callie, wrapped up in make-believe.

"Yes, I do, Callie! Praise God! I AM HEALED!" By sheer force of will, she catapulted herself out of the chair and Callie tumbled to the floor, legs up in the air, skirt revealing her valley of heaven.

"Oh wow..." Bob murmured appreciatively, as Zina galloped away.

She sprinted down to the first floor of the store, and spotted Gabrielle sitting, with a bag of books, slurping some fine overpriced coffee drink from the espresso bar. She smiled at Zina's rapid approach. "Hi, I just got done, and you know, these flappacinos aren't half bad..."

Zina snatched the large bag of books, grabbed Gabrielle's hand, and pulled her toward the door.

"Baby, I know you hate shopping, but don't you think this is kinda extreme?"

"Not now, Gabrielle, I tell you once we get to the car."

"Zina, what's that wet stain on your leg?"

8. Chuck Connors, Here We Come

The highway was endless. The driver was edgy.

"Zina, relax. We only got two more exits to go."

The firefighter sighed heavily. They were already doing 70, but it felt like 40. With the tiniest contraction of her foot, the speedometer approached 75. It made her feel better. Until she looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw the flashing red lights. "Shit!" she yelled.

Gabrielle looked up from her copy of The Dharma Bums. "Huh?" She turned around. "Uh-oh. Well what do you expect, Zina? You're speeding."

"Goddamnit, if they find out I have a record, I'll get hassled to no end..."

"Don't worry, honey, they won't," Gabrielle assured her as they pulled over.

Zina pounded her head against the steering wheel. "How do you know?" she wailed uncharacteristically, as the large patrolman lumbered toward the Impala. I swore I would never go back to jail….This would be just like one of those old Chuck Connors movies, Escape from Macon County or whatever. They'll lock her up on trumped-up charges, she'll get raped by the inbred deputy, Gabrielle will get sent to the mental institution and they’ll give her a lobotomy and/or electro-shock therapy, and…and…they’ll trash the Impala!

The state trooper's pink face was framed in the driver's side window. "Y'all speeding," he mumbled, eyes unseen behind the mirrored sunglasses.

Zina's own sunglasses mirrored his own mirrored visage. Her jaw clenched.

"Can ah see your license?"

She dug through her Levi's and produced her license.

"Huh," he snorted softly.

Gabrielle scooted closer to her lover. A little too close, Zina thought. Oh shit...what is she up to?

"Where you going in such a hurry, ma'am?" the officer asked.

"Just visiting friends," muttered Zina.

"And whut friends would those be, ma'am?"

"Is there a problem, officer?" Gabrielle drawled. She leaned forward a little, so that he could hear her clearly and see her cleavage. She wiggled provocatively.

"Not yet, miss." Hey, how come I get called ma'am and she gets called miss? wondered the perpetually pissed-off firefighter. "I'm just tryin’ to ascertain here, what the situation is," he said in ominous doublespeak.

"Aw, officer, we ain't doing nothing wrong, we didn't mean to speed," Gabrielle pouted. Oh, I get it. She’s just flirting with him, so he’ll go easy on us. Lessen the fine. "We can't help it. We're just excited."

"Excited by what, may I ask?"

Suddenly Gabrielle flung her arms around Zina's neck, and pressed her curvaceous form close to her beloved. "Why officer, me and sweet pea are gettin' married in Memphis!"

The closeness of her sunglasses prevented Zina's eyes from totally bugging out of her head. Okay, now I have no idea what she’s doing. Chuck Connors, here we come.

The patrolman sputtered. "Whut in Sam Hill you talkin' about? You're both girls! You—you—can’t get married!"

Gabrielle gave her best wide-eyed innocent look. "But officer, didn't you know? Tennessee now allows same-sex marriages!" she nuzzled Zina's hair. "Isn't that right, sugar booger?"

"Uh...huh," Zina mumbled the reply, wondering if there was some quick way she could simply kill the patrolman and be done with it.

"Aw, come on now, lady!"

"No, it’s true! Don’t you read your newspaper?" Gabrielle chastised.

He frowned. No, just the sports page, he admitted.

"See?"

"I'll be damned! This whole country's goin' to hell in a handbasket, I swear!" the trooper spat.

I know...whip off his glasses and stab him in the neck, just like the one guy did to the other in the Godfather Part III. Zina allowed her hand to stray out the window…

"Now, sir, that's no way to speak to a lady on her weddin' day!" Gabrielle pouted anew.

The power of the pout was one of the poet's greatest weapons. Duly chastised, the trooper apologized. "Look miss, no offense, but...I just don't get it."

"Don't get what?" Gabrielle asked.

He threw his arms up in frustration. "Y'all are both girls!"

Finally, Zina spoke. "Look, buddy," she said to him, arms around the flawless midriff of Gabrielle, "let me put it this way. If you were me, wouldn't you want to marry her too?"

"I...I..." he stammered, hypnotized by the green eyes of the beautiful poet. "Never mind. Just fergit it. Just fergit the whole damn thing. Have a nice honeymoon."

"Thanks, officer!" Gabrielle chirped happily. She lurched into the back seat, and brought forth a bag of Krispy Kremes. "Wanna doughnut?"

Well, he thought, warily accepting a powdered jelly doughnut, maybe homos aren’t so bad after all.

9. The Twinkie Defense

Several hours later, the Impala was creeping along a dirt road in scenic, rural Tennessee, in search of the elusive recording studio where Effie and the Amazons were holed up, recording their second CD.

The radio had been abandoned. Zina was so desperate for half-decent music that she permitted Gabrielle to sing every song she knew from Meatloaf’s "Bat Out of Hell" album. The musically challenged poet was currently winding her way through "Paradise By the Dashboard Light": "I gotta know right now, do you love me, will you love me forever—hey, Zina, doesn’t that guy up there look like Elvis?" Off in the distance was a figure standing on the left side of the road.

"Told you not to eat all those doughnuts, Gabrielle."

"No, look!"

Sure enough, standing innocently at the side of the isolated, back-country road, as if he were nothing more exotic than a sparrow, was an Elvis. He resembled 1970s Elvis: chubby, with the spingle-spangle-shiny white suit, lots of jewelry, an unnaturally jet-black pompadour, and big fat shades.

The Impala rolled to a halt beside him.

"Howyoudoin’, ladies," he murmured, index finger and thumb cocked, like a gun.

"Fine, Elvis, how are you?" Gabrielle responded politely.

Zina gave her a Look. Then she addressed Elvis. "Hey, uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where Jimmy Joe Bob Hightower’s studio is?" Jimmy Joe Bob was the Amazons’ producer.

"Youbetcha, ladies. Down this here road just another mile. First turn on the right. Can’t miss it."

"Thanks," Zina said with a nod.

"No, thankyou. Thankyouverymuch." With one fluid motion he flung the white scarf around his neck through the car window, where it landed on Zina’s lap. The firefighter bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to scream in pure disgust. She let it slide off her legs, onto the floor.

"Bye, Elvis!" Gabrielle waved.

Zina put the car back into drive and they continued down the road. They were quiet for at least a minute.

"Maybe we’ve both had too much sugar," Zina conceded.

"Yeah. Maybe we should lay off the sweet stuff for awhile and just eat potato chips."

***

The sight of Effie waving frantically from the balcony of the large wood house almost sent both women into tears of relief. Zina allowed herself to collapse over the wheel—after the car was stopped and parked, of course.

Then the squealing began. Effie had sprinted down the stairs and ran outside to greet Gabrielle, who jumped out of the passenger side. Soon they were jumping up and down like rabbits on crack, shrieking with joy at the sight of one another. Pony and Sally had wandered outside as well, and contributed to the cacophony of camaraderie.

Zina, eyes closed, head pressed against the steering wheel, weary from driving 8 hours straight, moaned. And this is a goddamn vacation? She tried to block out the jabber of voices and relax for a moment.

She had almost succeeded, when a voice a scant three inches from her eardrum shouted: "HEY YOU DAMN OLD GOOFY-ASSED MOTHER!"

Her head snapped back and her eyes popped open.

Hank was leaning in the window, grinning at her. "Heh, got ya," he chuckled. He pulled away just in time to avoid the furious swipe of her hand. "Hey now, Z, take it easy." She was out of the Impala in a nanosecond. "Car looks great. How’d it drive?" he asked, trying to change the subject. But he knew, seeing the wicked grin on her face, that it was too late.

"Start running, you sonofabitch," she growled pleasantly.

And, with a whoop of joy, he did.

10. The Best Freaky Trip Ever

Sally placed a hamburger in front of Zina, who sat at the picnic table in the backyard. The friends were having a barbecue. Pony and Hank were at the grill, and Sally was serving while Effie made potato salad in the kitchen. "So, did ya see my uncle Pete out there?"

"Huh?" Zina was sufficiently distracted by the question that it afforded Gabrielle the opportunity to swipe the burger from under her lover’s nose. "Hey, you pig!"

"Is that any way to talk to the love of your life?" Gabrielle sniffled with mock tears.

"Yeah, when she eats all my food."

Gabrielle grinned. "So what’s this about Uncle Pete?"

"Did you happen to see Elvis on your way here?"

"Holy shit! Yes!" cried Gabrielle.

Sally smiled proudly. "Well, that was my Uncle Pete. Best Elvis impersonator this side a’ this Mississippi. I sent him out earlier to look for you guys, in case you got lost."

"Wow, it’s nice to know I wasn’t hallucinating," Zina said, who had earlier wondered if, due to her mother’s drug proclivities, she was genetically predisposed to spontaneous freaky trips.

"No, you weren’t," Sally laughed. "I just had to keep him occupied. He’s been driving us crazy, keeps doing his lounge act for us every night, wants to marry us all—"

"Marry?" blurted Gabrielle.

"Yeah, he’s a minister too. He wanted to get Hank and Effie hitched, then he even said he marry me and Pony." Sally rolled her eyes.

"Crazy dude," affirmed Zina, with a swig of beer; bored, she wandered over to the grill to hassle Hank and Pony. It was then that Sally noticed that Gabrielle looked as if she had been hit by a lightning bolt.

***

Zina was firmly pinned to the bed by Gabrielle’s weight. Her wrists were ensnared by the poet’s hands and pressed into the mattress. Gold hair tumbled in her face, and Gabrielle’s scent was sweet, intoxicating…

"Come on, Zina," purred the poet.

"Hmmm?"

"Make an honest woman out of me."

"You’re already an honest woman, Gabrielle."

"Don’t avoid the question."

"Who’s avoiding?"

"You are, bitch."

"It don’t prove anything. It’s not legal."

"I know, I know. But it’s symbolic, ya know? Like showing your love…"

"I love you."

"Prove it."

"Why do I have to?" A challenging arch of a black eyebrow. "Don’t ya believe me?"

Gabrielle paused. Well, that’s a good point. She touched her lover’s face. Oh, I do believe you. And I don’t need to hear a Celine Dion song to know it either. She smiled. Then she nodded slowly. She relaxed her predatory crouch and stretched along the length of Zina’s body, resting her head against a strong shoulder. So, it doesn’t really matter. But…what the hell? It might be fun.

***

Hank wrapped an empty can of Bud in one of Elvis’s disposable white scarves, placed it on the ground, and jumped on it. Up and down. Several times. "Mazeltov!" he roared.

Effie laughed. "You’re not Jewish, you!"

Hank smiled. "Come on, honey, you gotta get in the spirit of the thing."

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it. "I think…there’s been way too much spirit—or spirits—already, Hank," she commented wryly, surveying the twilight backyard.

The tape deck blared as Sally and Pony danced around, and Elvis—a.k.a. Uncle Pete—approached the newlyweds: Gabrielle sat in Zina’s lap, while the firefighter’s head lolled back on the lounge chair, as the two six-packs she drank before the ceremony were really kicking in and seriously impairing her ability to move.

"Congratulations," said Uncle Pete. "I’m sure y’all will be very happy."

"Thank you, Elvis," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "It was a beautiful ceremony."

"Yes ma’am, it was. The weather was perfect, and, you know, I don’t perform that special love medley for just any couple."

"Oh, I know, I know. It was just…great. I’m sorry Zina fell down during it."

"That’s all right, little lady. Y’all take care, now." And he went back into the house.

A pithy one-liner fought its way through twelve Rolling Rocks to Zina’s conscious mind. "Ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the backyard!" she slurred. She peered at Gabrielle. Who had flowers in her hair. "Did I tell you how pretty you are?"

"About a million times. But keep telling me."

"And I said ‘I love you’ and ‘I do’ and all that stuff?"

"Yeah, Zina."

"So I got it all right?"

"You sure did, baby. Now I’d like you to sober up a bit so our wedding night is not a total bust."

"So we’re…married?" Zina gazed at Gabrielle in pure wonder.

"Yeah. Kinda."

"But not…really." Trying to wrap her drunken mind along the elusive concept was too much.

"Right."

"So we’re both married and not married."

"Gotta love this country, huh?"

"Yeah, but…Gabrielle?"

"Huh?"

"It’s not so bad, is it?"

Gabrielle looked around her. Her friends were happy, and their laughter rang out through the yard. The setting sun slanted and tinged the fading blue sky with gold.

Blue skies, blue eyes. "No," she replied softly. "It’s not bad at all."

In fact, it was pretty damn good.

THE END

[spookbusters]

Awkward Daring

Summary: How will you ever tell your crush you’re into him? You have to work up a little nerve and work past that self-doubt!

Pairing: Ray Stantz x Reader // Word Count: 2k // Warnings: None

A/N: For Anon! I hope you like it, I’m sorry it took so long! Don’t forget to check my A/N’s at the bottom! Also, pls someone give me more Ray gifs, this is the ONLY cute one that’s him alone :((

There were slow days at the restaurant and then there were slow days like this.

Your pen tapped against the order pad, your attitude thick with boredom. The light hum from the fans overhead and the light, airy music the only sounds to keep you any real company.

All in all, you’d seen twenty customers at most since you opened in the morning. You could stretch for thirty when the “lunch rush” came in. You were just about ready to close up the store early and send the rest of your co-workers home.

Until the phone rang. You heaved a sigh of relief, thinking, “Finally, something to do.” There’s a soft click as you pick up the line, your voice clear as crystal as you deliver the most practiced of greetings.

“Golden Dragon restaurant, how may I help you?”

“Pardon me,” a posh English voice articulated, you could hear soft chuckling in the background, “Would you have any Grey Poupon?” Crank calling was never your thing, but you knew who was on the other end instantly and it was definitely something he found enjoyable. No doubt, his maturity peaked when he was fourteen. A soft, exasperated smile lazed on your face as you let out your own sense of humor get the best of you.

Of course you were joining in. You’re no stiff, and it was a welcome retreat from the boring hell you’d been put through all day.

In a hysterically faux accent of your own, the kind that ends up producing laughter from all those in a five-mile radius, you dramatically respond, “But of course.” The boys in the background have their laughs at the perfect execution of response and comedic timing, and once you seem to settle down collectively, you settle for a quipped, “What’s up, Venkman?”

Your good friend clears his throat gently, aftershocks of laughter rolling off of him, “The boys and me just wanted to see if you guys down there are busy or not.” “I’m never too busy to feed my best customers,” you reply, already picking up silverware and placing it on the counter, “But I was planning on closing early, the place is nearly dead! So I hope you don’t mind it being just me.”

“Course not, Y/N. You got the usual?” You nod, jotting down a few notes on the order pad, “I’ll have it ready in fifteen. See you boys soon.” You notify your kitchen staff of the order and state they can go home once it’s done. The smiles on their faces were more than enough proof they were glad to close an hour and a half early. You could’ve sworn they got it done a little faster than usual.

Once your staff left and the table was covered in a decent chunk of your menu, you locked the front door and turned off the ‘OPEN’ sign. Finally, you were able to switch the radio station to something a little more your speed. The music in the restaurant switched from smooth easy listening to right smack in the middle of one of your favorite songs. You sigh to yourself, mildly disappointed that you’d missed the first half.

The second half is disrupted by a knock on the glass front door. You spot the whole crew on the other side and leap up from your place behind the counter. “Geez, sorry guys,” you rush to unlock the door, ushering them in and away from the chill outside. A gust of wind pushes against you as you struggle to close the door. You manage it shut with a soft ‘thud’, and turn to your friends.

“Ok! Now that that’s over with,” you huff, smiling, “I’m so sorry I didn’t notice you guys sooner.” Peter has already made a beeline for the dining area, marveling at the sheer emptiness of the place. “Look at this,” he gestures, “ No people, mood lighting, romantic music; you’re not hitting on me, are you Y/N?” You giggle, leading the others with you to the round table you’d set everything at.

“This is a massive-ego free area, Venkman,” you hear one of the guys kid. “Ah, don’t worry Stantz, I’m just messing with your girl.” You felt a deep flush paint your face. His girl. Now, why’d Peter have to go there? You’d kind of avoided looking Ray in the face since he’d walked in. As rude as it might seem, it was only because you seemed to be incapable of stopping yourself from staring.

Your crush, aside from being blatantly obvious, had been around for a long time. He stepped in your restaurant one time and your heart decided this was the guy you were going to pine over for months. Thankfully, he seemed blissfully unaware of your condition. The last time you’d gotten into one of these situations it didn’t entirely end well, and you were unsure as to whether or not you were ready to take a risk again just yet.

“You guys must be hungry!” You pivot the conversation with little grace, but it gets the job done and for that you are thankful. You retreat to the comfort of your counter, flipping through a magazine and doing your best to not think about the matter at hand. Things are going well until you hear Winston trying to get your attention.

You lift your head from the words on the page to see all four of them looking at you. A raise of your brows replaces any verbal response, and Winston offers that you come eat with them, “That is, if you haven’t eaten anything recently either. We kind of ordered too much.”

The smile that forms on your face can’t be contained. The guys were always nothing short of kind to you. And Winston was right, you were pretty hungry. You end up sandwiched between Ray and Egon, laughing along with the guys as they joke about some weird spirit they’d encountered on a more recent excursion. Every once in a while you’d catch Ray’s eyes, finding yourself next to breathless.

There were always moments like this with the two of you. The starry-eyed glances, him placing his arm on the back of your chair whenever you sat next to him, how you’d both make jokes you knew only the other would understand. They made things dangerous for you. You couldn’t decipher them as being flirtatious or just his personality.

You were petrified of saying too much, fearful that you were reading too much into it.

But this feeling was torturous, being so close. He literally radiated warmth, the kind you want to lean into and never move away from. Not to mention you were catching the slight scent of his cologne. It took everything in your power not to lean into the overall atmosphere he let off. But you knew better than that. You needed to distract yourself again, and you knew just how to do it.

“So, who’s gonna help a girl out with dishes,” you ask, standing up and picking up several empty plates. You prayed Egon would volunteer, so you’d get a bit of relief from your emotions, if only for a moment. But alas, some higher power had other plans.

“I got you, Y/N!” You feel the movement of the air around you as Ray stands, unknowingly throwing off your whole plan, and you feel the softest of shivers. No way out of this one, you’re in too deep. So you hand him the stack of plates you’d made, “Okay then, let’s go,” and grab the few remaining dishes.

The walk to the kitchen isn’t usually a trek by any stretch of the word, but it truly does feel like one with him so close behind you. The sink is just slightly too small for the both of you to wash dishes at the same time, so you settle for washing them while he dries. The sound of running water is all that fills the kitchen for a bit while you warm the water up, save for Peter laughing at his own jokes in the dining area.

After you turn the pressure down a little, you start the process of scrubbing things down.

The silence between the two of you hangs in a delicate balance you’re not sure of tipping. Yet, against your better judgement, you break it. “So, how was your day,” you ask, hesitation lingering in your voice. He seems nearly shocked that you spoke to him for a moment, and to ease any semblance of worry on the face you found so charming, you offer a gentle smile.

You’re glad to see he returns it, then goes on to talk about a busy day full of trap-cleaning, fixing up the car, and having it all lead to having dinner at the “best Chinese place in Manhattan”. Your smile becomes twice as enthused, the compliment blooming pride in your chest. But you couldn’t muster up anything more than a meek, “Thank you.”

Your mind wanders to the times the two of you were alone together like this, whether they were planned outings or one of the spontaneous times you’d popped up at the firehouse to visit. Of course you wanted more of these moments. They’d leave your heart thumping a mile a minute, and your brain all frazzled. It felt wonderful. But, if you really wanted more of these moments in your life, you’d have to confront your monstrous fear of rejection.

Deciding to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and get on with it, you rally as much of your courage as humanly possible. You feel a thump in your chest. The water cools your rapidly warming skin as you continue cleaning dishes. You wanted to maintain as casual an air as possible when this all happened.  

“We have fun,” you began, “Right?” He places the dish he was working on at the top of the pile, “Yeah, of course. We love being around you.” We. He thought you were talking about all the guys. You scrub a little harder at a particularly stubborn blemish on the plate. Your hands were quivering, “I mean you and me, Ray. Us.”

Us.

What an implication on your part. Such a simple word with so many meanings; you only hoped he’d get your subtlety. “Mhmm,” he hums. With that, the dishes were done, and you no longer had anything to keep your mind preoccupied. You were losing what little grip you had.

“I was just thinking that you know, we-,” you stumble, before he interjects. “I like you too, you know.” The sentence stops you dead in your tracks, “Wait, what? Are you serious?” Your eyes trace over his features as he tosses the dish towel over his shoulder and leans against the counter. “Dead serious,” he grins, “Egon serious.”

Your eyes widen, but you can’t help the laughter that erupts from your lips. “Wow,” you marvel, “Well, that eases my nerves like you wouldn’t believe.” You let the silence nearly return before his curiosity gets the better of him. “When did you know,” he asks, and your eyebrows furrow, “That-… well, you know.”

Your answer is instant, “When you walked in here for the first time.” It’s his turn to be shocked, and his expression is nearly enough to make you burst out laughing all over again. “You were so sweet; the first person to walk into this humble little place and not act like a complete jerk,” you reminisced, smirking all the while, “And I always thought you were the cutest of the Ghostbusters.”

The blush that forms on his face makes your heart flutter. The few actions that follow all happen so fast. You’re tucking a few stray hair strands back, and then his hand is holding yours. He’s just a little closer before, and then much closer. You’re elated beyond belief, and then curiosity draws you in. You’ve come this far in so little time.

Should you kiss him? Should he kiss you? Is there a mutual interest in what the others lips feel like? The story of your first kiss with this man being in the cramped kitchen of your Chinese restaurant is not the most romantic.

But now you’ve pulled him towards you and there’s no way you’ll be telling that story any other way.

A/N: The joke at the beginning of this piece is L A M E, I know. But if you watch the commercial I’m referencing, it’s actually pretty funny. Anyways, HOLY HELL IN A HANDBASKET, I HAVEN’T POSTED IN ALMOST A MONTH!!

[michaelreaderreblog]

My truemate pt12

AN: Sorry it has taken me so long to post the next part to this series. So here it is finally. If you need to catch up on the series or would like to start from the beginning I will post the links below.

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN 

I think I was suppose to tag others to these parts but sorry I forgot who I was suppose to tag. Oh well the part is finally up. Thanks for being so patient with me 

***************************************************************

Word Count: 1,960

He had always wanted to make sure that you would like his mate and thats what made him even more accepting to the other person.

“Thanks, we are going into the city though for dinner. I wanted to make this extra special and she doesnt know that so dont tell her. You kids are going to be home by yourselves over the weekend. I ask both of you no partying, no staying out all night just because I wont be home doesnt mean either of you are allowed to wolf out” he says with a stern expression as he looks between you and Dean.

You simply roll your eyes at him while Dean does the same.

“Hey Im an angel, tell your rules to y/n” he says as he whips his towards you.

“Scouts honor” you reply sarcastically to Sam and Dean who chuckle

The rest of the evening is spent with conversations about the work day and how its like working at the city hall for Sam which doesnt sound so bad.

“Speaking of which, is it possible to get a hold of y/n's medical records without tipping off the good ol' people from the Government and Academy extremists?” Dean asks Sam as you clear the table to get the empty dishes into the sink for the wash tomorrow.

“Dean, y/n doesnt have medical records. You never took her to the hospital for anything” Sam replies while looking to Dean and knowing very well you dont have any.

“Not even about her shots or anything?” Dean asks looking to his younger brother

“No, those are sealed tight. After she presents is when she would be able to get one but since you never took her to the hospital. She has absolutely no medical history” Sam explains more as he looks to Dean

“Why do you want her medical information?” he asks while taking a gulp from his beer

“I thought I would ask since we moved here wasnt I suppose to notify her doctors back in Sioux Falls and transfer them here” he says while finishing off his beer as well.

“Oh no. No need. But if she were to be sick or seek out for suppressants then she would have a medical record” Sam tells him while making his way to the garage with the empty beer bottles.

You decided that you would do the dishes the next day and you placed the remaining food in containers for tomorrows lunch.

You also decided that you would get Sam's lunch ready for tomorrow since he didnt like to eat out so much. You looked into the fridge to make sure that there was spinach for his sandwich and to your surprise there is still some left.

You take out the pesto sauce to go along with the spread, you shredded the chicken to carefully place them on one side of the bread that were spread evenly with pesto sauce. You topped the chicken with cut tomatoes and mozzarella cheese, when you finally did that and placed the other slice of bread on top to finish it off. You placed his sandwich in a container.

“You dont need to clean up, I can do it” Sam says from the table as he watches you doing something with the containers and the remaining food.

“No thats fine, I got it. You keep talking to Dean about whatever you were talking about.” You said not turning to face your brothers.

“Y/n what are you doing?” Deans turn to ask as he watches you get one thing from one cupboard to another.

“Im just getting Sams lunch ready for tomorrow so that he doesnt need to rush to make it” You answer your brother still not turning around to meet his gaze.

“Really I can take care of that later” Sam says from the table.

“What about my lunch?” Dean asks as if he sounds so hurt like you forgot about him.

“Dont worry I got you, Im adding beef on yours along with the swiss cheese and honey mustard” you reassure Dean that you didnt forget about him and his deliveries.

“No grey poupon?” he asks randomly as you turn your head to his direction to give him a weird look.

“Really? Grey poupon?” Sam asks giving him the same reaction as you did.

“Popped into my head” Dean says as he shrugs his shoulders.

You shake your head as you keep making the sandwiches for your brothers.

When done you place each of them in containers and put them into the fridge.

While you also place the remaining food in there also.

“Alright you guys, I am done with your lunches and you’re all set for tomorrow” you tell them while turning away from the fridge.

“Thank you” they both say in unison

“You’re the greatest” Dean says while standing from the table and pushing in his chair.

“You really are” Sam says and does the same.

You and Dean decided to stay up a little late than usual as Sam went to bed. The both of you settled into the living room to watch a little tv.

Dean decided to watch the sports highlights from the evening games that he missed and you didnt have a problem with it.

Finally when you couldnt keep your eyes open anymore is when you decided to head to bed.

You told your brother goodnight and to sleep well himself he said the same thing back you.

You get into your bedroom and change into sleeping clothes and crawled into bed closed your eyes as the exhaustion took over and slept all through the night.

**

You were the one to rise early as your brothers were still a sleep in their bedrooms, you went down the stairs and into the kitchen.

You take out the grinded coffee to make a fresh pot of the morning and decided to make for breakfast.

You heard someone coming down the stairs but paid no attention as you were making pancakes.

“Good morning” Dean says with a groggy tone.

“Have a glass of water first before you take a cup of coffee” you tell him while you flip over the pancakes.

“Ok mom. Have any orders today?” he says as he fills his glass cup with water and takes a few gulps from it before making a cup of coffee.

“Yeah I have a few and I have one delivery but have no idea on how I am going to make that delivery though” you tell Dean as you take the pancakes from the pan and into Deans plate that had eggs and bacon on the side.

“What do you mean you have no idea how to deliver them? You have my baby to do that” he says looking to you as he takes a bite out of his bacon.

“You mean the very same baby Sam is going to take to work, like I said genius I dont know how I am going to make the delivery” you tell him as you take another set of pancakes from the pan and place them on Sam's plate that has a side of eggs and fruit.

You thought pretty soon you would just give him grape fruit for breakfast instead rather cooking him a full breakfast.

“Oh crap, I forgot. Well looks like we are gonna have to get you a car. I can go half and you can go half, how does that sound? And what kind of car do you want?” he gives you his proposition about the car he would generously go half with.

“I remember uncle Bobby used to talk about this Mustang um damn forgot what year he said it was. I remember seeing the car and getting inside of it and thinking one day I would love to own that car. Then Bobby ruined my day dream by telling me the customer is picking up his car and if I didnt get out he would sell me along with it inside.” you tell him as you smile and giggle at the memory.

Sam finally comes into the kitchen as he see his siblings talking over the counter.

“What are you giggling about Y/n? Morning guys” he says with a smile on his face as he makes his way for the cupboard to get himself a cup of coffee.

“Drink a glass of water first” Dean says as he follows his brothers movements around the kitchen.

“Ok dad. What were you two talking about anyways? Y/n is this plate mine or is it yours?” Sam asks as he looks at the plate on the counter before he takes it to the table.

“Yeah thats yours, Im just going to have a bowl of fruit along with the Greek yogurt” you tell Sam as you get the yogurt from the fridge and he sees you pour the contents into your bowl and he is pleased with the food choice.

“Look there is more bacon and eggs you can have that. I dont think that is going to keep you energized till lunch” Dean says as if he got offended you didnt want to have a perfectly good breakfast with the bacon and eggs.

You laugh at his generous thought but you simply decline and stick with your fruit and yogurt.

You heard someone parking outside in the drive way and you thought that one of your customers were way early than expected. Sam is on the move to get to work, as he steps out the door.

“Castiel, good morning c'mon in” Sam says as he opens the door for him to walk out.

“Morning Sam, thank you” he says as he enters into the house and removes his jacket along with his shoes

“Im in the kitchen Castiel, want some breakfast? Coffee? Tea?” you raise your voice from the kitchen and finally remembered that Dean was still in there with you.

You turn around to see how Dean was doing and he appeared to have it together.

“Yeah I could get you a plate of breakfast if you want, please sit relax.” Dean says while rushing around the kitchen as he tries to make Castiel comfortable

He enters into the kitchen with a smile on his face as he follows Deans movements around the kitchen and struggling to keep his cool.

“Good morning Y/n, Dean. I would love breakfast, I didnt have time to eat before I left the house. I rushed to wake early and came driving over as soon as I could” Castiel says while he pulls up the chair from the table and seats himself there.

Sam watches what Dean is doing and he smiles at the scene in front of him.

“Well Im off to work. Y/n have a good day, Dean try not to get into an accident today and good luck Castiel” he says and out the door he goes and enters inside the impala to drive to work.

You smile at Sam and couldnt wipe off the smile from your face as you watch Dean stumble around the kitchen.

“Dean, relax. You can go off to work now. I can handle everything from here” you tell him as he looks to you.

“Right work, I should be off now” he says while he gives you Castiel' plate of food and a cup of coffee.

He exits the kitchen only to come back and get his jacket along with the truck keys, gives a smile to the both of you.

“Later Y/n and Castiel” he smiles nervously.

“See you later Dean and thank you” Castiel says as he looks at Dean.

You see the interaction between the two and you couldnt be more proud of Dean for behaving.

[sohannabarberaesque]

Just picture this scenario taken to Hanna-Barberian heights:

Many of you probably recall those commercials from the 1980's and early 1990's for Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard which closed with the exchange "Pardon me ... do you have any Grey Poupon?" "But of course," with the response including a jar of the product being handed over.

Still, who could imagine this being taken to classic, "old school" Hanna-Barbera heights, with Daphne Blake from the Scooby-Doo franchise, say, asking the question as above ... and some other H-B character responding and providing some snarky rejoinder serving, in a way, as commentary on just how hackneyed Scooby-Doo is becoming.

(The exercise, as per the commercials, usually taking place when the car is stopped in traffic.)

So ... at any rate, I'd be curious to know, through your reblogging and otherwise, what your treatment Hanna-Barberian of "Pardon me ... do you have any Grey Poupon?" would be like.

[adtothebone]

Pardon me. Would you have any Grey Poupon?

Whisper: (trying to act all sophisticated) “But of course. In the litter box.”

[self-loathing-angel-of-thursday2]

Beautiful Spouse’s Thoughts SPN 07x01

Meet the New Boss

“Baby is all fucked, but they bothered to put the fender protector on. Was it to protect the tools or the car?”

“I guess the idea is that Dean is trying to bring it back. You wouldn’t want any more damage”

“Dean is bending the roof back with a hammer? That’s not how it works”

“Sam needs a haircut.”

“Dean has aged well”

Laughed at the updated glass mosaic

“Please tell me that there’s people with the mosaics”

“This could have been a kick-ass video game. It’s got good progression”

“Where was Godstiel in 2020?”

“Does Cas need to keep consuming souls? Is he fake God? He’s burning through his vessel”

“Dean’s getting ready for painting Baby, I see”

“Why can’t Cas run the Universe? He seems a lot better than the last guy.”

Cas is a better God, but he is going about this all the wrong way. 

“That’s kinda weird” when we see the creepy crawlies in Cas

“I don’t think Cas is going to be God much longer”

“They are in a fancy neighborhood. Why not Grey Poupon?”

“Is folgerite really that rare?”

“Blood-stache Cas?”

“Why 6pm and not 5 o’clock?”

“Goddammit. That’s hilarious” to Dean wanting to watch anime porn

I appreciate how Sam is trying to help Cas still

“It’s not nice to say that reservation thing, Sam. Fucking dick”

“Oh how the tables have turned now that Cas needs help”

“Lucifer would look less like a douche if he didn’t have the platinum blonde highlights”

“Time to puke some Leviathans out”

“God saved Cas again. The real one”

“Might want to ditch the trench coat to avoid getting recognized”

“Cas sounds like an addict with wanting to redeeming himself to Dean”

“Are there memes of this version of Cas?”

[idkwntht-blog]

A Bitch Made a Sandwich

Between this outcry of hurt black (men) nerds blaming black women for pushing them into the arms and beds of non-black women because the Beyonce’s of their grade school years rejected them and this Yale #NappingWhileBlack incident, I have a lot to say this week. But, I am also tired and sad and pms-ing, so instead of taking on the world’s issues at this very moment, I will instead share this recipe for a turkey club sandwich I made earlier that was super tasty and fulfilling for my soul. Okay, so I clearly love sandwiches. Hell, I named my blog that has very little to do with sandwiches about my constant urge for sandwiches. In fact, before I went to bed last night, I promised myself I would make a bacon and cheese sandwich with egg in a basket toast. Clearly, that’s not what I made so that’s a different sandwich for a different day.

One of my favorite sandwiches in the world is a turkey club. I’ve always been a huge of them and they’re one of my favorite sandwiches on days when I want a filling meal, but not a lot of work. In this case, I was heading to work...late as per usual because I was enthralled in a Facebook debate about how blerd men cry about black women not wanting them while simultaneously treating blerd women like trash. After all that trash, I needed something to soothe my soul. You know what never lets you down (well, until the possible heart attack anyway)? Bacon.

I eat turkey bacon. Don’t judge me.Or my toes that I just realized are in this photo.

Since I was running late af and watching the three little dots on Facebook gyrate like a nervous stripper, signaling some hurt man going in on his keyboard to formulate a half-assed rebuttal to my five paragraph essay response, I popped the bacon in the oven while I went to throw some clothes on. 

I literally meant throw some clothes. One day I’ll put some effort into my appearance at work...but not any time soon. I don’t need to give the security officers another reason to chat with me in the elevator.

Anywho, after getting myself ready, I returned to the kitchen to check out my bacon. It was flaccid, like the penis of one of my least favorite ex-boyfriends so it needed a few more minutes, which, oddly enough, was also reminiscent my ex.

At that moment, I realized I had no tomatoes. I had this great homemade turkey breast that my grandma made for a dinner the previous weekend and no goddamn tomatoes. But you know what goes with turkey? Cranberry sauce.

I, for some reason, keep crasins in my house. I don’t ever eat crasins. I’m still confused as to who purchased them. Anywho, apparently you  can rehydrate them by boiling them in some water. When they were good and looking all cranberry like again, I blended them up with my immersion blender and removed a few tablespoons to mix with some mayo.

Sidebar: stop spreading the myth that black people don’t like mayo. Mayo is fucking delish. It’s egg whites, lemon, oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. That shit is tasty af and you’re a hater if you say otherwise idc idc idc.

Honestly, that was really all the work I had to do. I layered both sides of bread with cranberry mayo (I eventually went back and added some Grey Poupon to one side to add some kick cuz it was a little sweet for my tastes). I layered one side with Swiss cheese, turkey bacon and the turkey breast and the other side with mixed greens. I then smooshed both sides together and cut in half. 

It was really good, if I say so myself. I then ate half, laid in my bed for another 20 minutes and went to work. I haven’t cursed anyone out yet today, so I say it did the trick.

 Ingredients:

2 slices of bread (I used rye, but I wish I’d had some sourdough) 1/4 cup of dried cranberries  3 tablespoons of mayo, give or take (I only used Hellman’s and prefer the one with olive oil --DO NOT USE MIRACLE WHIP CUZ THAT’S NASTY) Grey Poupon to taste 3 or 4 slices of bacon 1 handful of mixed greens 2 slices of Swiss cheese homemade turkey breast

Directions:

Fry or bake  bacon. While bacon is cooking, bring cranberries with just enough water to cover to a boil. When cranberries are rehydrated after about 6-8 minutes, use a food processor or blender to puree. Mix three tablespoons of cranberries with mayo, add more to get a smooth, spreadable consistency.  Toast two pieces of toast. Generously spread each piece of toast with cranberry mayo, spread one piece with Grey Poupon. Layer Swiss, bacon and turkey on one piece of bread, and place mixed greens on the other. Smoosh sides together, cut in half and serve. 

[elpresidentelindo]

Would you have any Grey Poupon?