The Short Humour Site

Home : Writers' Showcase : Submission Guidelines : A Man of a Few More Words : Links

Writers' Showcase

Mr. Mack Gets His Bead On
by Wanda Morrow-Clevenger

A less than illustrious R&D career had come down to the frayed wire with little to no juice surging through the circuit. Dean Mack, Mack the Hack around the water cooler, checked the time, brushed lint from his ten-year-old suit–Montgomery Ward's Executive Line in baby-poop green–then shuffled a handful of papers into a nondescript manila folder. Almost as nondescript as he. An adios amigo tacked to the fridge, from his wife of thirty years, concurred: his bright ideas had gone as limp as his dick.

He hadn't rung the bell since the suit was new. With her or the top bananas in upper management. But before then, when brains trumped buzz words, when Springsteen was irrefutably the boss, he'd seen a little of the glory. Rode the wave for his small part in developing the Scrunchie. His ex had sported a burr, didn't appreciate the genius, never understood the hubbub. He'd show the chrome-dome his lightbulb hadn't blown. Somehow, someday, he'd show them all.

With retirement still a couple of years away, and the young bucks clacking antlers, Mack needed to score some prodigious points. He'd pulled out all the stops with this one: studied Letterman; watched Will & Grace reruns; took note of current trends in People Style Watch. Though, couldn't decipher the superiority of Jellies over platform flip-flops. Both looked hideously uncomfortable.

“Good luck, Mr. Mack.” Kandi, his thirty-something secretary, gleamed as he plodded off to, yet another, marketing meeting. A raspberry-pink Scrunchie corralled flowing, blonde locks. “Knock'em dead, sir.”

He paused at the unsolicited encouragement. Kandi: the one perk granted in all his years at the firm. Lovely Kandi with the body and the hair and the Farrah Fawcett smile.

“Thank you, Kandi.” Back straightened and shoulders squared, he patted his folder. “I've got a dandy proposal worked up. What'ya say after I nail this sucker to the wall, make my fortune, you and I escape to a tropical island, leave the Gucci coochie-babies and their YouTube behind?”

“Sweet,” cooed from luscious lips. Then, pow, there was that smile.

Sweet indeed.

Two hours later, jacket slung over forearm, pit stains nearly to his waist, Dean Mack slumped to his office. Another day. Another failure. Kandi's desk sat vacated, her personal effects suspiciously MIA too. Just as well he didn't have to face another disappointed female.

The office door quietly closed, shutting out a Bluetooth world he no longer had a bead on. His proposal for glow-in-the-dark, recyclable condoms sailed toward the ceiling. “Fly, fly my pretties.”

Maybe it was time he was put out to pasture. Embraced the inevitable. Relinquished the reins to the xyz-just-bite-me generation. Sighing, he sank into a worn swivel chair, noticing dear Kandi had tidied his desk before leaving. Front and center, a lime-green sticky atop an airline ticket to Aruba read: Right after becoming your secretary, I purchased stock in Scrunchie. I've got a dandy proposal for you, Mr. Mack. What'ya say we leave the coochie-babies and their YouTube behind?