Atop her bed was a heap of conservative wear that did not meet the cut for tonight’s meet-the-parents dinner. With thirty minutes until show time, Bea frantically sifted through her closet for an intellectual, virginal-looking dress, which, if she had paused to collect her thoughts, would realize didn’t exist in her wardrobe.
“Are you OK?” Bea’s roommate, Janet, had returned home from her fancy investment-banking job.
Annoyed by the disruption, Bea turned her attention from the closet toward her door, armed with a telling scowl when she noticed the simple, black, knee-length dress that practically screamed intact-hymen.
“JANET! Quick! Take off your dress! I need it for tonight’s dinner at Kenny’s parent’s house! PLEASEEEE!”
Janet didn’t need an explanation, as she was familiar with Bea’s impending parental introduction that Bea had been dreading as well as whining about for the past three weeks. She also knew that Bea did not own a single decent dress with fabric that stretched more than an inch below her butt cheeks. With that, Janet went into her room to remove her dress.
The dinner at Kenny’s parent’s mansion was going surprisingly very well. With sincere interest and zeal for getting to know the lucky girl who snatched their son’s heart, the parents bombarded Bea with a host of questions about her life as a street artist. To her surprise, Bea had discovered Mr. and Mrs. Martinez had earned money for their college tuition by reciting poetry at shopping malls. This fact definitely alleviated Bea’s anxiety about stereotypical wealthy parents who received JD/MBAs from Harvard University.
At one point, Bea felt a sudden jolt within her bowels, so she excused herself to the guest restroom. She flipped on the fan and light, tossed some toilet paper into the bowl as a landing pad to prevent streaking, and then sat down to settle business. “WaaaaHHHhHHHHHH!!! EEEeeeee!” Bea mouthed as she silently squirmed in pain from the byproducts of last night’s spicy chicken dinner and its untimely decent through her anus. After the last piece made its exit, Bea leaned back to take a moment to rest her face in her hands as she signed out relief. Note-to-self: No more spicy chicken a day before important meetings.
DING! A text came in.
KENNY: Everything OK in there?
BEA: YES! Coming out soon. Are your parents mad?
KENNY: No, but they think you fell in the toilet.
KENNY: Take your time.
BEA: Coming! Done!
Bea cleaned herself off and the little bit of poo on the hem of her dress, then turned to flush the toilet. Oh my God. Two more attempts at flushing the toilet only caused the water to flood closer to the brim of the bowl. What the fucking hell?! She stood back and gawked at the toilet in disbelief that her spicy chicken dinner had clogged the toilet. She then snapped out of it and tried to find a plunger in every crevice of the bathroom. Nothing. Shit.
BEA: Can you bring me a plunger, discreeeeeeeeetly?
Three minutes later a light knock at the bathroom door greeted Bea with a plunger. “Can I help? OH MAN! THE SMELL!” Kenny gagged half-jokingly.
“SHHHHHHH… Go away,” Bea whispered and then shut the door.
Bea casually returned to her seat as if it was perfectly normal to spend twenty-minute bathroom breaks during meet-the-parents dinners.
“Oh I should really keep a plunger in the bathroom. Sorry Bea, hope everything is OK,” Mrs. Martinez sympathized as Bea glared at Kenny with utter mortification.
“So how did it go? Did my dress do the trick?” Janet asked as Bea walked into the kitchen. Bea kicked off her pumps and walked passed Janet to open the fridge and pull out a box of leftovers. She then placed the box onto the counter, pulled off the black dress, and then handed it to a dumbfounded Janet as she plodded off to her room with the box of spicy chicken drumsticks.