He goes into the next room where he can hear me and I yell out a name from history. He then shapeshifts into the form of the person I call out and returns to where I am.
I use it to sharpen my knowledge of history and expand my intellectual background. It’s purely an educational exercise.
“Next,” he yelled from beyond the doorway.
“Uh,” I said, “how about a young Sophia Loren?”
“Oh … maybe 19 or so.”
I heard a shuffling and in he (she) walked and, oh my goodness.
I couldn’t answer. It was impossible for me to talk. Sophia made a circle around the room while I tried to catch my breath. She smiled at me and paraded out before I could request another circle. From the other room, I heard a sweet voice, articulated by a soft Italian accent. “Mrs. Big Dope had better not catch us playing this game.” There was quick chuckle. “Remember the last time?”
By now, I had found my voice. “That was a different game,” I said.
“It was called ‘Modern Movie and TV Actresses’ and it didn’t qualify as historical education.”
“Oh,” he said. “Who’s next?”
I thought. “Brigitte Bardot,” I said.
There was a silence, then, “What age?”
“How old was she when she made ‘And God Created Woman?’ That should do it.”
“How in the world should I know, darling?” This time the voice had a different accent, maybe French. I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
“Say, 21 or 22.”
“Wait a moment,” the voice said.
I dropped my coffee in my lap when she walked in. As I jumped to wipe it up, she giggled. “Your wife will be furious.”
“Just wait a moment,” I said, not able to look back at her for cleaning the mess.
“Oh,” Bridgette said, “here she comes now.” I looked up as she pointed at the window. I spun around, spilling the rest of the coffee. There was no one in sight.
“Ha ha,” she said, turning to leave. “I fooled you.”
Did I mention that she (he) was only wearing a small bikini bottom?”
“Are you sure,” the voice from the next room, “that this game is educational?”
“Quite sure,” I said, wiping the last of the coffee away.
“You earthlings have a strange way of learning things,” a man’s voice sounded. “Did you hear the one about the woman praying for her husband to be cured of cancer?”
“No,” I said.
“A voice comes down from the sky and says, ‘Why hell, I sent you Charles Darwin.’” He laughed long and hard.
It reminded me of the laugh of a James Bond villain. “Jane Seymour,” I yelled, “as Solitaire in ‘Live and Let Die.’”
“Oh I’m sure,” a soft feminine voice said, “that this one is educational.”
“The study of American film is taught at our colleges and universities,” I said, “so …” I didn’t finish for I heard a car driving toward our farmhouse. Oh no. It was the wife and mother in law.
“Wait,” I yelled, “change of plans. The Jane Seymour who was one of the wives of Henry the Eighth.”
“What?” I could hear a lot of scurrying and shuffling about in the next room with the sound of car doors slamming outside. “Married to whom?”
|For some reason that I've never understood,|
Big Dope enjoys my company more
at some times than at others. - C.W.
Seconds later, my wife opened the door as a figure clad in a tight waistcoat and close-fitting breeches that displayed the outlines of a grossly overweight male body, waddled hurriedly from the room.
She regarded the scene. “I’m not even going to ask,” she said.
“It’s an educational game,” I said, “about the Elizabethan era, tailored to teach history.”
“Elizabeth Taylor,” a sexy voice said from next room. “Wait one.”
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