Amanda #2

Poor little girl, lost as ever.   Between her brother’s insidious ways and Zack’s wandering eye, Amanda paced to and fro in her bedroom.   She wondered whether it was chocolate or vanilla ice cream Zack had consumed with his apple pie.   Created some sort of rationalization that if it’s chocolate then perhaps he’s sexually charged.   In some woman’s magazine, perhaps Elle, Amanda read that men who consume chocolate on a regular basis have a high sex drive.   But chocolate ice cream and apple pie?   Yuck, thought Amanda.   Vanilla ice cream tends to combine better with apple pie.   Vanilla, according to this article, when consumed by a male, signifies low sperm count.    “Subconsciously,” Amanda read, “a man eats the vanilla thinking that it’s his own sperm.”   Although those words scattered across her brain, Amanda saw something else—

Zack in a midnight blue robe, its belt dangling at his sides.   He mouths the words, “Ready for it?”   Amanda licks her lips.  He extracts his forty-foot penis whereupon a laser beam of vanilla ice cream sprays her in the face.

Crash baloom!  Jim didn’t even bother knocking or hollering.   He just knew that Amanda would pull some maneuver.   Either that or he saw through the windows, dining room chairs pushed up against the doorknobs.  All of them.

Once inside, Jim dragged the dining room chairs under the table and stormed into his room whereupon he filled a plastic bag with dirty clothing.  Amanda watched him.

“Going somewhere, Jimmy?”

“Like you care!”

“You stick around here and yeah I care!  Doing laundry?”

Jim shoved his middle finger into Amanda’s nose and then marched out the house like a spoiled teenager.

A mad grin took over.    Amanda figured with Jim possibly gone she can invite Zack over.   There’s that beat-up MG in the garage.   He could come by, check under the hood and while he’s leaning into the dusty engine, she can grab his ass.  If only she knew his number.

“No Blueman a hundred miles from me.  Dat’s nuts!”

“Can I help you with anything else, madam?”


“No,” the operator laughed.  “I said ‘Madam’. M-A-D-A-M.”

“It’s spelled B-L-U-E-M-A-N.”

The operator hesitated, clearly doing everything in her power to contain her frustration, “Let me repeat, the nearest Blueman is one hundred miles from you.   Have a good day.”  Dial tone.

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