I look at poor dead Charlie and think how fabulous I look as his widow.
"Doesn't Charlie
look natural."
I can thank Charlie for
demanding that I lose weight. Otherwise, I never would have fit into this
little black dress. Its deep neckline accentuates my cleavage, which swells
ever so softly as I sob for poor dead Charlie.
"Poor Marsha. She
must be devastated by Charlie's death. He was so young to have a heart
attack."
One look at this dress
and I knew Charlie would have loved it. It's a style he appreciated so often on
other women ... young women. I have never spent $850 on a single piece of
clothing in my entire life. However, since it was for Charlie, I bought it.
"Imagine how
devastated Marsha must have felt finding Charlie like that!"
Of course, once I bought
the dress, I had to have shoes and handbag to match. After all, I had nothing
even remotely suitable to go with such a dress. The black Italian made
stilettos and handbag were $1,750.
"I heard she
found him with another woman. His slut du jour, no doubt."
My mourning lingerie from
Victoria's Secret cost $370: sheer black stockings (with seams!), a black
bikini, and a black lace bustier, something my mother used to call a merry
widow. How apropos.
"Marsha walked
right in on them ... in the act! The shock must have been too much for Charlie
because he died right there on top of that little whore Connie."
My large brimmed black
hat and a pair of black gloves were another $380.
"One of the
paramedics told me that when Charlie died, Big Chuck became so engorged he
became stuck in Connie!"
My costume jewelry just
wouldn't do. Oh, no. So I bought a simple diamond line necklace, with matching stud
earrings, for another $7,500.
"He said that
Connie was pinned underneath Charlie's weight. She couldn't push him off
because they were stuck together. He said she could barely move."
Having spent $10,850 thus
far, I figured I might as well look as though I belonged in the clothes. So I
made an appointment with Mr. Maurice. Hair, facial, manicure, pedicure, and
makeup. We both agreed that ruby red lipstick, a color Charlie had often noticed
other women wearing, was not too ostentatious for a funeral.
"I heard that
Marsha just stood there watching as that hysterical twit struggled beneath
Charlie. She begged for Marsha's help, but Marsha turned and walked away
leaving the little bitch to fend for herself. Connie told the paramedics that
it took her quite a while to wriggle close enough to reach the phone on the
nightstand."
And while I was there,
Maurice talked me into a massage. He reminded me how terribly tense I surely
must have been having been the one to actually find poor Charlie. And I simply
couldn't be tense for poor Charlie's funeral.
"Marsha is
putting up such a brave front, considering the circumstances. My, doesn't she
look lovely today."
I never would have
thought I could have afforded such luxuries had I not discovered another bank
account safely tucked away. I never realized how much we were worth.
"Poor Marsha must
be simply devastated."
So here I sit at poor
Charlie's funeral, managing an occasional tear to trickle gently down my cheek,
nodding at the well-wishers as they file by, looking like the vulnerable
grieving widow.
"Poor Marsha. How
will she ever manage?"
Funerals are terribly
expensive these days, but they're worth it.
