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From: bookgirl <bonkgirl@NO-SPAMyahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} A Fundamental Lesson On The Jerry Springer Show (M/F, parody, humor, kooky)
Date: Mon, 25 Aug 2003 07:10:05 -0400
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(At just under 700 words, I forget whether or not this qualifies as
flash fiction but that was my intention in writng this piece. Enjoy :)

A Fundamental Lesson On The Jerry Springer Show

(C) Copyright 2003, bookgirl, All rights reserved. Comments to
bookgirl-mail@yahoogroups.com

There was no mistaking where I was: Jerry Springer's name was stamped
on everything from the doors in front of me to the clipboard of the
young woman who had been marshalling the guests from the Green Room. A
young woman, her demanding, forthright tone and urgent manner
incongruous for a person who appeared to weigh less than a bag of
sugar, concentrated on a voice in her headphones. Then, like Daniel
being thrust into the lion's den, she slapped my bottom and with a
"good luck, hon!" propelled me towards the stage.

I must have looked like a startled rabbit, stumbling up the stairs
onto the stage and then suddenly frozen by the glare of a hundred or
more sets of eyes. Crazy eyes of depravity hungry voyeurs all hooting
lewd remarks at the sight of me. My dress, conservative and
unrevealing, suddenly felt gossamer thin and useless to deflect the
mental undressing of me I sensed was occurring.

"Hello Adrianna. Welcome."

"Hello Jerry." My ears and neck burned with a hot flush of
embarrassment.

"So, what's this about butt plugs?" The question was asked with that
typical Springer nonchalance. He couldn't have sounded more
indifferent if he was asking about light bulbs or tennis racquets. 

I blushed more deeply and waited for the audience to stop chanting.
"Butt plug! Butt plug!"

"I don't know, Jerry."

"You don't know?" He raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"No, you must have me confused with somebody else." The lie made me
acutely aware of the finger sized, plastic anal invader I was sitting
on. 

"It says here..." he referred to his palm cards.

"I'm a good girl!"

"Butt plug! Butt plug!" The audience hooted hysterically. Springer
squinted behind his glasses and grinned broadly, encouraging the crowd
into a concerted chant.

"Really? Then you're on the wrong show!"

"Jer-ry! Jer-ry! Jer-ry!" The audience again bellowed between gales of
laughter.

"What are you doing here then?" Jerry instantly lapsed into his Father
Confessor mode.

The question seemed reasonable, especially considering the company I
was with on stage. 

Beside me, a woman the size of a wheat silo groaned and grimaced
before unleashing a thunderous fart. Her spindley-limbed male
companion, oblivious to the uproar caused by the explosion from her
fundamental orifice, dived head-first between her mammoth thighs and
sniffed deeply like a connoisseur fine aromas savoring the smell of
coffee beans. The audience responded with staccato sounds of dry
retching.

"I'm in love with Steve!" I declared.

"Steve! Steve! Steve!" The audience honked.

I looked at the handsome security man standing off to one side of the
stage. I'm not sure which of us was blushing more: him or me.

At that moment Miss Flatulence, like a half set jello decanting itself
from a bowl, rose from her seat and waddled towards me. She seemed
unaware of the flailing arms of Bean-Pole man, whose head was still
wedged solidly between her thighs. "He's mine! Steve is mine!" She
roared with such angry conviction the sound reverberated visibly
through her body, stirring yet another tempest of rumbling farts. 

Steve immediately rushed to the stage but was too late to stop her
puffy fingers grabbing hold of my dress. With a force proportional to
her diesel locomotive size, she ripped the garment clean from my body
as easily as a magician might pull a table cloth from under a vase of
paper flowers. I leapt nakedly to my feet and hid behind Steve. Miss
Bombay Bottom continued trying to thump me with her clubbed fists
until Steve gave her a gentle push after which gravity sucked her
hulking, boulder-sized body to the floor. Somewhere beneath the
disheveled mound of alabaster flesh colored Buddha was Mr Fart Sniffer
but nobody seemed concerned for his whereabouts.

"I love you Steve!" I cooed, wrapping my arms around the muscled
abdomen of my savior. I was momentarily lost in a sea of bliss.

"I'm gay."

Did I feel disappointed? Cheated? Yes. My fifteen minutes of fame
vanished in the blink of an eye; an ignominous pixilated image of my
butt plugged bum the only thing the viewers at home would have seen as
I rushed off stage.

--
ser-en-dip-i-ty (n) The faculty of making fortunate discoveries by
accident.

"You don't reach Serendip by plotting a course for it. You have to set
out in good faith for elsewhere and lose your bearings
serendipitously." - The Last Voyage Of Somebody The Sailor (The
Sindbad Saga)

http://profiles.yahoo.com/bonkgirl
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/bookgirl/www

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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