I say: Let’s get ready to ruuuuummmmmmbble!
We who are ringed about the tacky old oak veneer parquet dance floor (measuring certainly no more than 12 feet by 16 feet) at deep center of the Parisian styled Versailles Room of the De Ville Party Center, Drive-Through Package Store and Methadone Clinic in the very heart of Compton are in for a real treat tonight! Stay close, people, because you won’t want to miss any of the coming action, and those latecomers drifting in past the twelve foot tall lucky floral horseshoe at the front entrance will certainly try in just a moment or two to elbow you aside and crowd in amongst you for front row exposure to the impending fireworks! And, oh what fireworks there shall be!
For it appears that the hot and lush and lovely (but exceedingly excitable, to put it mildly) Ms. Tiresiana Faella Jefferson has at just this instant locked her gaze onto Ms. Dreamhope Dawneé Jones-Smythe through the glitter-balled cocktail crowd, and let forth with her piercing cry.
And just what does she see? It appears that it was not enough of an affront to Ms. TFJ’s dignity and style and class and presence that Ms. DDJ-S had the very nerve, within only the last few hours of the waning afternoon, to dash out and be fitted for the exact same hot little black dress with matching fm pumps as appear on Ms. T! Oh, no, it did not stop there! Ms. DDJ-S had to then go and compound (some might say accessorize) the insult, via the acquisition of matching mis-matched bracelets, pendant chevron earrings and long sleek cigarette holder as well.
It was a still further about-to-be-regrettable choice for Ms. Dreamhope to seek out the services of Ms. Tiresiana’s very own personal hair stylist (that wonderful Wayne of Wayne’s Wigs, Wearables and Works of Wow) for an exact twin to Ms. T’s own shimmering shovel-do with descendant spit-curls
And so we spectate upon the heart-stopping result: two identically decked out emotionally fraught women now standing mere yards apart, locked together by blisteringly hateful laser sightlines.
But, perhaps the ultimate, the over-the-top, the very last straw, the thrown down gauntlet, was for the daring Ms. Jones-Smyth to also be escorted to this evening’s soireé by none other than ‘Big Roof’ Rufus Stump, Ms. Jefferson’s recently cast aside former beau (see him there, that really big guy at Dreamhope’s elbow, the one with the slab-like pompadour).
So I repeat: Let’s get ready to ruuuuummmmmmbble!
Let the ladies at the rear begin fashioning napkins and tablecloths into tourniquets and bandages. Let a few of those who aren’t busy pointing their cell phones for paparazzi photos of the looming carnage dial 911 and call out the EMS. Let the party center staff whisk those most breakable and dangerous items from the epicenter of the coming storm. Let us all clear chairs out of the way so as not to block the combatants’ movements (or our views).
I have a feeling this is going to be good!
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