“Why in the hell are you standing there,” Mildred asked, left hand on her hip, right hand holding a pot of cold baked beans, “stark naked? Put something on, George. It’s January.”
“Aw, come on, Mildred,” George said, a plaintive tone in his watery baritone – and the scratchy years of heavy tar nicotine edging his words, “have a heart. I ain’t had sex in two months.”
“And ya ain’t gonna have it for another two, either,” Mildred said, pushing her lips out as far as they’d go. Like an angry duck who made it alive to the end of duck hunting season, she thought – and giggled to herself. Mildred walked back to the kitchen, but before she got there –
“Hey wait a second,” she said aloud, her chicken’s voice echoing off the bare walls and linoleum (which she loved, but George kept pestering her to take up in favor of plastic tiles), “two months?”
She stomped back to the bedroom, where George had turned away from her. Boy, did he have a pimply ass. Bald head, fat beer belly, and a pimply ass. No wonder she didn’t want to get laid by him anymore.
“Two months!” she screamed at him, “we haven’t had sex in nine months! So who’s the bimbotini, Mr. Wilkins? Huh? Who is she?”
George turned around. “What’re you talkin’ about? I ain’t never been unfaithful to you, Mildred. That’s a load of malarkey.”
She stomped over to him. “This,” she said, lifting the pot of cold baked beans, “is a load of malarkey.” So she leaned back, emptied out the baked beans onto his beer belly (which went straight down into his nothing-crotch and three-incher).
“You bitch,” he said. “Now you’ve done it.”
“Oh, yeah? Well now I’ll really have down it.” And she leaned back with the pot and swung it at his head, full force. Conk! And down he went, his pimply ass landing on top of her piano bench needlepoint work.
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