Even Cowgirls Get The Blues Page #5

SISSY:

I've always been proud of the way

nature singled me out. It's the people

who have been deformed by society I

feel sorry for. I've been steady

moving for eleven years and some

months. Maybe I should rest up for a

spell, I'm not as young as I used to

be.

THE COUNTESS:

Sh*t O goodness, you won't be thirty

for another year, and you're more

beautiful than ever.

SISSY:

Does that mean you might have an

assignment for me?

The Countess taps his monocle with his cigarette holder. He

looks on his wall, and on a poster advertising a feminine

hygene product, Yoni Yum Dew Spray, stands Sissy Hankshaw,

her thumbs neatly hidden, chopped off by the borders of the

photograph.

THE COUNTESS:

You were the Yoni Yum girl from,

let's see,

(peruses the ad layouts

on the wall)

from nineteen sixty-eight through

nineteen seventy. You've always

smelled so nice. Like a little sister.

The irony has just killed me. You,

the Dew Girl, one of the few girls

who doesn't need Dew. I loath the

stink of females! They are so sweet

the way God made them, then they

start fooling around with men and

soon they're stinking. Like rotten

mushrooms, like an excessively

chlorinated swimming pool, like a

tuna fish's retirement party. They

all stink. From the Queen of England

to Bonanza Jellybean, they stink.

SISSY:

Bonanza Jellybean?

THE COUNTESS:

What? Oh yes. Tee-hee. Jellybean.

The Countess's jaw muscles calm down, his dentures ease into

a samba...

THE COUNTESS:

She's a young thing who works on my

ranch. Real name is Sally Jones or

something wooden like that. She's

cute as a hot fudge taco, and, of

course, it takes verve to change

one's name so charmingly. But she

stinks like a slut just the same.

SISSY:

Your ranch?

THE COUNTESS:

Oh my dear yes, I bought a little

ranch out West, sort of a tribute to

the women of America who have

cooperated with me in eliminating

their odor by using my vaginal

products, Dew spray mist and Yoni

Yum spray powder. A tax write-off,

actually.

He looks out his window as a squirrel crosses Park Avenue.

THE COUNTESS:

Sissy, Sissy, blushing bride, you

can desist from wearing paths in

those forgotten highways. The Countess

has arranged a job for you. And what

a job...

SISSY:

A job for me?

THE COUNTESS:

I am once more about to make

advertising history. And only you,

the original Yoni Yum/Dew Girl, could

possibly assist me.

The Countess hands Sissy an article that she reads clenched

in her fist.

SISSY:

The Food and Drug Administration

said Wednesday female deodorant sprays

may cause such harmful reactions as

blisters, burns and rashes. Although

the FDA judges that the reported

reactions are not sufficient to

justify removal of these products

from the market, they are sufficient

to warrant the proposed mandatory

label warnings.

THE COUNTESS:

Sh*t O dear, that's enough to make

me asthmatic. The nerve of those

twits. What do they know about female

odor? Don't interrupt. Here's my

concept. My ranch out West? It's a

beauty ranch. Oh, it's got a few

head of cattle for atmosphere and

tax purposes. But it's a beauty ranch,

a place where unhappy women --

divorcees and widows, mainly -- can

go to lose weight, remove wrinkles,

change their hair styles and pretty

themselves up for the next

disappointment. My ranch is named

the Rubber Rose, after the Rubber

Rose douche bag, my own invention,

and bless its little red bladder,

the most popular douche bag in the

world. So get this. It's on the

migratory flight path of the whooping

cranes. The last flock of wild

whooping cranes left in existence.

Well, these cranes stop off at my

little pond -- Siwash Lake, it's

called -- twice a year, autumn and

spring, and spend a few days each

time, resting up, eating, doing

whatever whooping cranes do. I've

never seen them, understand, but I

hear they're magnificent. Very big

specimens -- I mean, huge mothers --

and white as snow, to coin a phrase,

except for black tips on their wings

and tail feathers, and bright red

heads. Now, whooping cranes, in case

you didn't know it, are noted for

their mating dance. It's just the

wildest show in nature.

It's probably the reason why

birdwatching used to be so popular

with old maids and deacons. Picture

these rare, beautiful, gigantic birds

in full dance -- leaping six feet

off the mud, arching their backs,

flapping their wings, strutting low

to the ground. Dears, it's

overwhelming. And picture the birds

doing their sex dance on TV. Right

there on the home screen, creation's

most elaborate sex ritual -- yet

clean and pure enough to suit the

Pope. With lovely Sissy Hankshaw in

the foreground. In a white gown, red

hood attached, and big feathery

sleeves trimmed in black. In a very

subdued imitation of the female

whooping crane, she dance/walks over

to a large nest in which there sits

a can of Yoni Yum. And a can of Dew.

Off-camera, a string quartet is

playing Debussy. A sensuous voice is

reading a few poetic lines about

courtship and love. Are you starting

to get it? Doesn't it make the hair

on your neck stand up and applaud?

My very goodness gracious! Grandiose,

lyrical, erotic and Girl Scout-

oriented; you can't top it. I've

hired a crew of experts from Walt

Disney Studios, the best wildlife

cinematographers around. You're my

eternal favorite. Princess Grace

herself couldn't be better, not even

if she had your personality which

she doesn't; Anyway, dear, I'm out

of photography now and into water

colors. Ah how circuitous conversation

is! We're back at the beginning. The

exact man I've wanted you to meet is

my artist the watercolorist.

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