Two fibromites, Helen and Shirley, are sitting in Helen's back yard in lounge chairs sipping iced tea. They are trying to decide if they should go tooth paste shopping at the Dollar Store or head over to Crispy Creme for a box of glazed donuts. They finally decide they have it in them to do both, but just as they stand up to leave they find themselves beeing sucked up like a Hoover Vacuum Cleaner into what they discover is the Mother Ship from some other Universe. Helen likes the sensation as she is old enough to remember Woodstock, but Shirley is mortified. They find themselves in a stark, stainless steel chamber with one scrawny alien. Tall, green with a head the size of a hassock. Through a microspacial electomagnetic voice simulator, he speaks to them in Englsih.
"We have been observing your women on this planet and are confused about this so called Fibromyalgia that seems to plague so many of you. Some of the women on our planet are starting to complain about chronic achiness and have refused to stop polishing our ship." (He waves is arms around the vastness of the chamber which seems to be covered in hand prints, and obvioulsy has not been cleaned in quite some time. Oh, the Humanity).
"You say 'we?' I only see you," Shirley says.
The Alien shakes is montrous head. 'The rest of my crew are hiding behind the Linear Hyberbaric Morphalizer. They have just finished doing research on PMS and quite frankly, are a bit afraid."
'Well, Hassock Head...and I hope you don't mind if I refer to you as HH from now on, there is no way you are going to get any blood out of me or whatever it is you aliens do. Forget it." Helen says.
HH moves closer. 'So how are we going to conduct our research...how can we know if this disease is real if we...."
Before he can finish, Shirley takes her cane and whacks him over the head with it as hard as she can. 'OWIE!" he screams.
"That what it feels like when a fibromite brushes her hair," Shirley tells him. Then she wraps the crook of her cane around his skinny ankles and gives it a good yank. He falls like a tree on the forest, flat on his back. 'Holy Crap," he screams...what is WRONG with you?"
'That's what it feels like when we get up every single day." she replies. Then, while he is down, she cracks him good across the chest. 'And THAT is what we feel like when we mop the floor."
Shirley hears some commotion behind her, a dozen hassock heads crawling on their hands and knees somewhere out of the chamber where they have been hiding.
HH is writhing all over the floor. "Do you want somemore...Huh? Beam us down, buy some Pledge and clean your own stupid space ship before I slam this cane into the small of your back and you can know what it feels like to step out of the shower." Shirley says, her cane poised and ready to give him another jab.
HH is bawling his eyes out like a Nancy Girl, gimps over to to a red button, presses it and down the shoot the girls go, landing in a corn field somewhere in Iowa. (that's where they always end up in the movies.)
"Boy, that was strange...do you think it was real or we just mistakenly doubled up on our Lyrica again?" Helen says, surrounded in an endless sea of corn stalks.
'Oh, it was real. Lookie here, my can is broken," Shirley sighs.
They sit there for a moment. "Do you still have your purse?" Helen asks her friend.
Shirley checks her shoulder and finds it has been swung around her back, but yes, she still has it.
"Call someone on your cell phone and tell them to come and get us," Helen says.
Shirley dumped her purse in the dirt. An ice pick, three boxes of Jello, keys to a car she owned in 1976, a recipie for sugarless fudge and a remote control. She thinks her cell phone is probably home, in the freezer. Helen rolls her eyes. 'Oh, Shirley. You really have to be more organized."
"Oh Yeah? Well...where is YOUR purse, smarty pants." Shirley asks, rooting through a pile of store reciepts."
Helen sighs. She has no idea where her purse is. In the garage...under the sofa...in her pantry..."
They are not doomed. They gimp their way out of the corn field, hitch a ride with two Dead Headers on their way to a concert and 'get their groove on' all the way home.
Fibromites are very resourceful and despite the pain, can still have one hell of a good time!
huggies
Donna