Getting the Picture.

Wicked wienie wonce was woman whuut. That’s what you wrote in my yearbook. We were in bra and panties it was fright night alright.

 

Now don’t get your panties in a bunch, you’d say. I pictured carrots. Bugs Bunny munching scanties that were worn by Elmer Fudd.

 

But everything was a slasher flick with you. Or mutants. You wouldn’t see aliens. Devil flicks bored you. You screwed the devil you said

 

and he wasn’t any good. That’s a devil for you. Speak of the devil, saw the ex on a cross-town bus. I’d like to say he let himself go.

 

But no more than I. No more than Tallulah Bankhead had in Die, Die My Darling or Bette Davis in Burnt Offerings.

 

Which, by the way, you refused to see. And who could blame you? You said you’d seen enough trash. Swinging an axe.