Wrapped Up Like A Douche

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (The Thrilling Conclusion.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party; or here to read Chapter 2, in which said hero narrowly avoids a public transportation melee by flagging down a passing taxi; or here to read Chapter 3, in which a sordid tale of shame and redemption is recounted, leading to our hero's confrontation at the gates of Cryer Estates with his archnemesis, one Darya Folsom of KRON 4 News.)

CHAPTER 4

“Aren’t you that Grandpa sniffs granddaughter's panties?” Darya asked as she barred the entrance. “You’re not getting in.”

“No, that’s someone else. Listen, you person that resembles Police Brutality Red Sox in World Series 2004,” I shouted at her, “I’ve been a close friend of Jon’s since before Yasmine Bleeth nose surgery, so you best tuck in your Bob Dob Ellroy t-shirt and let me the funk in before I go medieval ninja on your ass!” (To make matters worse, I could already see Condoleezza Rice naked on a jet-ski, David Schwimmer shirtless, and Emmanuel Lewis's significant other through the fence, reinforcing what a great party I was missing.)

My taxi driver, who’d been gawking at Secretary Rice, came to Darya’s defense: “Give her a break! She held on to your tap shoes in her panties while flying threw the air like a god damn lawn dart!”

“Shut up Father Guido Sarducci!” I screamed, but I suddenly realized he was right, even if I had no memory of the incident in question. Why was I harassing this poor fake nude sportscaster who was only trying to do her job, when I really wanted to tell her that I loved her?

“Listen, Darya, let’s forget about all this,” I said frantically. “Forget Cryer’s stupid party, forget the breast scams, the Red Sox fan flipping the bird, even Felipe Alou's comments about Vietnam--let’s get out of here and start a new life. We can get fake indoor palms in San Diego and sit in my apartment talking about wonderland swimwear etiquette. It’ll be a dream come true. So whaddya say? What’s it going to take to get you to come with me?”

“Why, Asian girls with pigeon eggs in their ass, of course!” she responded with a wink and a smile, and took my arm.

“Sweetheart,” I said as Father Sarducci’s taxi drove Darya, myself, and my wicked cool spatula into the sunset, “did you even have to ask?”

THE END