The Floridiettas stomped down the garage parkway in their tight white dresses, blue high heels. Their blonde sheens echoed the reflection off the platinum lipstick and the melon breasts. They walked into the Delano to meet Dominick, Esteban, and Carlos.
The Floridiots stood at the bar. Black, black, and more black, they sipped their shiny martinis in the glow of the backlight. Their bronze skin and their Versace belts browned the black ambience – intentional, the Floridiettas knew, so their white and blue would stand out and make their silicone breasts pop out in all their Dr. Zhorvack glory. Everyone … everyone who mattered … had their breasts done by Dr. Zhorvack. If only they could find someone to do their lips right.
A mousy redhead watched the Floridiettas sashay on up to the Floridiots. All six air-kissed one another (that’s 15 pairs of fake kisses, she thought) and each gave the Delano lobby a 5-foot high horizontal scan. Who’s pretty here and when are they going to notice me … each of the six thought, the mousy redhead knew.
She turned her nose back to “Middlemarch.” A hell of a lot more fun reading about the adventures of Dorothea and Will than watching the Floridiots and Floridiettas assert their Floriprimacy here at the Delano. That’s pronounced De-LAN-o, she’d been told. Not DEL-a-no as in the 32nd president of the United States.
Our mousy redhead couldn’t wait to get back to Pittsburgh. Why did Mama always insist she stay at the expensive hotels when she came to visit Granny?
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