I’m not being lazy. Really I’m not.

I honestly had something to get done tonight—so my apologies for repeating a previous post from my blog. But at least it’s one of my favorites!

*** *** ***

“Ken. I’m leaving you.”

Ken glanced up from his reading, his expression wary. “Oh, come on, Barbs. We’ve been through this a million times. You’re not going anywhere, and we both know it.”

“I mean it. This time I’m gone.” Hoisting her pink plastic suitcase up on the bed, she flipped it open and began stuffing it with her size minus-10 clothes. “I’m through being taken for granted. I’m going to be a writer, or mother, or postal worker—some job that will pay me for being taken for granted.”

Sitting stiffly forward, Ken gently folded his vinyl newspaper. “Barbie. You can’t be serious. You can’t leave! We’ve been together since 1959!”

“And you’re still the same lazy beach bum you always were. You never get a job, never get excited, never curse—nothing! It’s MY bed, Ken. MY furniture, MY corvette, MY beach house.” She sniffled, glancing at the thousands of outfits she’d be leaving behind. “If you really cared, you would’ve become anatomically correct DECADES ago! Stiff-fingering gets a little old after a while, y’know.”

“This from a woman who couldn’t bend her legs until 1965! You think it was easy getting to the coochie all those years before then??”

“You are so shallow—it’s a waste of time trying to talk to you. Where’s my Dior stuff? My Manolos?”

“You think I don’t know what this is about? You’ve been screwing that damn steroid-shooting G.I. Joe doll again!”

Barbie smiled wickedly, dangling her laciest Victoria’s Secret in his face. “He isn’t a ‘doll’. He’s an action figure, and I like the kind of action he shows me.”

“Slut!”

“Oh, now you get excited. Now you curse. As if you can talk, eh? Look, it’s right here in The History of Barbie…’Barbie’s girlfriend Christie, an African-American doll, is introduced in 1968…Ken disappears for the entire year of 1968.’ Did you think I wouldn’t NOTICE?!”

“And what about all the others? Did I throw them up in YOUR face? Dammit, when you first came out, you could be had for $3.00, baby! Think I didn’t see those guys tipping out the windows of your personal little playhouse? Superman, Frodo, Han Solo…and what kind of whore gives it away to a Wookie, for God’s sake! Hey, whoa, whoa, hold up…those pink bikini panties are mine…”

“Keep ‘em. Keep all the stuff,” she huffed, forcing the bag closed. “I’m off to New York. There isn’t a publisher or agent on the PLANET who wouldn’t want the stories I can tell. Oprah has already guaranteed me a place in her book club.”

“You’ll be back.” Ken sneered, kneeling, his brocade robe revealing his nipple-free chest. “You’ll come crawling back on those boney-assed knees of yours.”

Halting for just a moment in the doorway, Barbie paused to bend, lift her skirt, and flash her ex-lover one last, sweet sight of her firm, heart-shaped buttocks. And with a brave smile and wistful sigh, she made her way through the door.

“And by the way—there isn’t enough lubricant in the WORLD to pry those babies apart!” he screamed after her in frustration. “Gonna write a tell-all, huh? Oprah, huh? We’ll see who gets to dish first!” Scrambling across the four-poster bed, Ken grabbed the silver slim but stylish laptop with the papier-mache keypad that was an exact copy of an original, with buttons that really pushed, available in black, oatmeal, ecru, or nurse-Barbie hospital blue. “The address. I need the web address for ‘The Smoking Gun’, dammit!”

Grinning deviously, he pounded out the beginning of the world’s next best-selling book…

“I Was Barbie’s Bitch”…