by Bob Iozzia
He was universally despised. If He were one of two entrants in a contest, the judges would not vote him into the top five. She was so dumb, She needed a GPS to locate her GPA.
Six years after graduating from separate high schools, and when they have almost given up on finding true love or the next best thing, they will meet in Traffic Court, date for a few weeks and marry, each believing the other is their perfect match. She will believe that because She is dumb and will believe almost anything. He will believe that because He will recognize that She is too dumb to realize that He is a major asshole…and because She has large, natural breasts that are atypically non-saggy.
They will have three children: Jacques, Pamela and Phoebe. Phoebe will eventually insist on being called Terry. Pamela will then call herself Phoebe, since that coveted name will be available. This will screw-up her Social Security benefits and credit rating for the rest of her life. She won’t care.
Jacques will have a sex-change operation, change his name to Jacquie and become a militant lesbian. She will have a 6 1/2-year affair with a bisexual, married dental hygienist named, ironically, Pamela Terry, who will incessantly baby-talk to her pet Shih Tzu (a gift from a shiatsu class admirer) named, also ironically, Phoebe. Jacquie’s favorite movie will continue to be “Six Degrees Of Separation.”
Jacques/Jacquie, Pamela/Phoebe and Phoebe/Terry will graduate from the University Of Delaware and move as far away from their parents and each other as a modest inheritance from their maternal grandmother will allow.
He will lose interest in She when her breasts begin to sag. He will then lose himself in yodel record collecting. She will initially be heartbroken and confused, being too dumb to understand the subtle nuances of yodeling and the inner peace that can be spawned by yodel record collecting.
Searching for her own hobby, She will rummage through dozens of sealed boxes, the forgotten orphans of several house moves. In a box marked # 12—Living Room, She will find a smaller box containing a pill vial with a homemade and handwritten label which will claim, “SMART PILLS—Take 2 at bedtime and 3 before exams.” She will recall that it was a cruel practical joke perpetrated by delinquents unknown. The vial mysteriously appeared in her high school gym locker after She failed a rules of dodge ball test.
“Maybe these really are smart pills,” She will say aloud, alone. She will examine a pill as if it were a Rubik’s Cube. “I just now realize that these pills must have belonged to a rich person…someone with so much money that they could afford to have their own personalized, engraved pills. Oh my god,” She will exclaim with discovery. “These pills belonged to someone in the Bayer family. These must really be smart pills, since the Bayer family is rich, and rich people are smart—and now I know their dirty little secret of smartness: smart pills.
“I can’t believe that I could have taken these a long time ago…I could have been smart a long time ago. I am so dumb,” She will cry before chugging the contents of the vial.
Several minutes afterwards, She will change into a push-up bra and visit He in the room above the Garage, where the Holy Yodel Rounders’ Yodeler On the Roof will be blasting on the stereo. “Oh, I get it now—yodeling is supposed to sound gay on purpose,” She will epiphanize. “And here I used to think that these were deviant, underground recordings of homosexual orgies,” She will say, mispronouncing ‘orgies’ so that it rhymes with ‘Porgy’s’, as in Porgy And Bess. “I guess the smart pills are starting to work already.”
He will zone-in on She’s uplifted breasts, which, paired with her newborn interest in yodeling, will rekindle He’s interest in She. Their marriage will be refreshed and they will live happily ever after for two more weeks, when they will be killed by a tsunami while second honeymooning in Belize.
Bob Iozzia, a former child, lives a normal adult life in Pennsylvania. He is the reigning Bob Iozzia’s Favorite Author award winner. Email him at email@example.com