Les Angeles was as happy as a prune at a bake sale. He was returning with a truck load of antique whatnots he had found stuffed in a garage in an obscure corner of Vinegarroon County. He’d got it for a song from a guy who’d inherited the stuff from his aunt Mehitabel. It wouldn’t take much restoration at all on most of it. Sally would be very happy.
Only Sally wasn’t happy. He didn’t know why and she wasn’t telling. She answered his questions with one word, if at all, and when she looked at him it made his insides feel squirrely.
Finally, he’d gotten it from her. Sally had been searching the Internet for some new candle lines for their gift store. When she typed the first letter, “H,” into the search engine (for herbal scented candles) it had dropped down a list of previous searches beginning with the letter “H” to help her. Those first words were for a website called “Hollywood Babes.”
“Hollywood Babes?” she’d puzzled, clicking the mouse. What she saw froze the marrow in her bones. Pictures of film ingenues filled the screen, frolicking on a California beach in bathing suits that left little to her imagination. The more she thought about it the madder she got.
“Oh that,” Les grimaced. “Uh, hmm, well, it was sort of an accident.”
“Accident? Les, I wasn’t born yesterday,” she answered while turning away.
“Aw, hey, aw,” was all he could say before following.
That night dinner was cold and lumpy.
You can say no to a cat but sometimes it’s just better to give in.
—Farmer Ooka Brown
That evening Les sat down at the computer. While he was waiting for his modem to dial up he reflected upon his turbulent day. “All’s well that ends well,” he sighed. She had finally calmed down but not until he’d eaten a lot of crow. He burped sourly. He had promised never to visit such deplorable websites again.
“Let’s see now,” he murmured squinting at his to-do list. “I’m looking for wholesale organic beet enhancers for the vegetarian restaurant.” He typed “B” into the search engine. A helpful list dropped down, followed by his jaw.
“Sally!” he yelled, turning red. Sweat popped from his brow like juice from an imploding mango. “Sally!”
“Beverly Hills Hunks,” the list began, followed by “Beantown Boys.”