clear up to her patootie

Leave it to the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA to give me material......

Renovation of the exercise-gym at the Canandaigua YMCA has put three 42-inch wide/flat-screen, high-definition plasma-babies above the treadmills on the wall.
Since they can’t push sound, they also display the translations for the deaf.
Normally I disregard the video-inputs, like the new Cardio-Theater machines.
But here I am blasting an elliptical, a machine I kind of loathe, so I was distracted by a plasma-baby.
I have no idea what channel it was on (since there are 89 bazilyun any more), but here comes “Tyra;” the so-called “Queen of High-Low Living,” flouncing down the runway trying to look super-sexy.
EX-KYOOZE me, but she’s a big girl; at least 20 pounds overweight. With thighs like that she shouldn’t be wearing short skirts.
(Is this some sort of subliminal motivation to work out?)
They began to detail the so-called “Twelve Commandments of high-low living.”
A youngish big-thighed strumpet was trotted out. “Welcome Tasha!”
“See that purse? $2,000! A Chanel purse.”
“WHAT?” I thought to myself. “Two-thousand smackaroos for something ya might be able to front on the street for five bucks? They’d love ya at White’s Flower-Farm: basket of pine-cones, only $385.”
Tyra turns to designer number-two and asks how ya accentuate a $2,000 purse.
“Everything monochromatic,” designer trumpets.
“What about the dress?” Tyra asks — a monochromatical white strapless ya could not work in for fear of distracting the male eye-candy. And the skirt on big-leg Tasha was clear up to her patootie.
“$19.50 at ‘Play-it-Again Sam’s lightly-used clothing rag-bag.’”
“And how about those pumps?” Tyra asked.
“$25 at shoe-dollar!”
“Wow! You scored big, girl!” shrieked Tyra.
“WAIT A MINUTE!” I thought. “$2,000 plus $19.50 plus $25 equals $2,044.50. This sounds like Dubya’s budget for the war in Iraq.”
“How come that designer didn’t get that there handbag from Sam’s?”
Tyra began interviewing an aging hottie-wannabee (over 35) that only bought designer clothes.
She was upset doing so cost so much money, but “designer clothes make me look sexier.” (Ahem!)
“Here I am out on some date with a hot guy, and he puts his arm around me so he can look at the designer label.”
“WHAT?” I think. In the world I come from that was called instigating a pass. (ILL REPUTE ALERT!)
Meanwhile Lady Dame Chanel, or her heirs, or her establishment/WHATEVER are laughing their way to the bank. “Slap another steak on the grill, Lady Chanel; someone just bought one of them purses.”
Probably made by China by Chinese child prison-labor out of embossed vinyl on a cardboard/lead casing. That there label ain’t worth two-thousand buckaroos.

“Plasma-babies” are what my macho, blowhard brother-in-Boston calls all high-definition, wide/flat-screen TVs.

“Dubya” is George W. Bush, our current president.

A loud famblee argument has surfaced about “hottie.” I follow the old definition where “hottie” equaled a slut. But all my Christian-zealot relatives loudly declare that “hottie” has become a symbol of Christian virtue and attractiveness.

“Slap another steak on the grill, (Lorrie)” is my response to my macho, blowhard brother-in-Boston, a Harley-guy, walking into his local Harley-shop to order custom-wheels for his Harley. The Shop is called “Monty’s,” and an owner is “Lorrie.”