Miss Giggles and Chubby Chunks

Imagination Station:

George, or “Geo” as his friends would say, works at H&R Block, preparing peoples taxes. Contrary to popular belief, George doesn’t hate his job. In fact, he loves it. He loves taxes. And tax forms. And tax laws. And he was born on April 15.


I’m going out with George today, on his birthday. No, I’m not his birthday gift. I’m the unfortunate soul whose sister has decided since I haven’t dated in a year that I need a man like George, who loves taxes. And tax forms. And tax laws.

Goodie.

“Happy Tax Day,” George beams as he hands me wilted carnations. I always love getting cheap, dead flowers. Nothing makes me feel more warm and fuzzy inside.

“Happy birthday George,” I mutter.

“It’s nice to finally meet you Cecilia. You have such a pretty name…and figure,” he snorts, his cheeks turning the color of a strawberry milkshake, “You’re really pretty.”

“Thanks George,” I say, “Tell me, what’s the difference between really pretty and just plain ol’ pretty?”

“A really,” he laughs like Wilbur the pig, “Ha ha ha. Get it? Ha ha ha.”

“Yeah, I got it George,” I bite my lip and sit down at a booth by the front door of the restaurant.

“Call me Geo. All my friends do. If you’re my friend, you’ll call me Geo,” he says, taking the spot next to me.

“Hey, George, why don’t you move to the other side of the booth? Okay? You’re all up in my bubble,” I slink back.

“Sure,” he smiles. He licks his fingers and starts rubbing my bubble, “Squeaky, squeaky, squeaky. I’m cleaning your bubble. Get it? Even though you can’t clean something that isn’t real, but that’s just a technicality.”

“I got it George,” I grit my teeth, “You’d be a great window washer, complete with your own sound effects.”

He sits on the other side of the booth and the waitress takes our order and goodness gracious, can his cologne be any stronger?

“So, what do you do in your free time Cecilia?” George wipes his saliva drenched finger on his hair. Oh, I can’t wait to run my fingers through those spit soaked locks.

“I get caught in the rain and bust out show tunes, all the while dancing with my umbrella. Sometimes I fight for my right to party. But violence isn’t the answer, though I’ll keep on fighting ‘til the end,” I smirk.

“What else?”

“Well, um, on weekends I think I’m turning Japanese. Then I stand heartache to heartache with young people who don’t make promises or demands…on a battlefield. And if I’m in the mood for anything, I’ll blind people with science.”

“You are cultured, but how exactly do you turn Japanese?”

“Have you ever heard of the Vapors? They had a famous hit about turning Japanese.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Awkward silence.

“So, do you do anything else Cecilia?”

“No. What about you George? What do you do when you’re not doing taxes?”

“I spend time with my cats.”

“Oh. That sounds…fluffy. How many cats do you have?”

“Six.”

“You have six cats? Isn’t hard to take care of six cats?”

“No, they’re all dead.”

The water in my mouth lands on his teal shirt.

“Oops, sorry about that,” I say. I need a drink. A stiff one.

“No, that’s my fault. I understand why that statement is shocking. I’m a taxidermist in my spare time. I sit at home and I pet my cats,” he beams, “McFluffy’s my favorite kitty.”

“So, you pet your dead, newly stuffed cats in your spare time?” My face contorts.

“Yes. Do you want to see pictures?”

Before I can answer, George whips out his wallet filled with pictures of his dead cats.

“This is Miss Giggles,” he points her out as if she’s his child, “Look at that cute little smile.”

Miss Giggles looks like she’s about to get hit by a bus. Her lime eyes bulge out of her head and her mouth is pulled back to reveal her pearly fangs. It looks as though she’s biting her lower lip.

Miss Giggles, courtesy of Google.

“Did you make her face look like that?” I ask.

“Yeah, she used to make that face when she had to use the litter box. Isn’t she cute?”

“Oh, for a dead stuffed cat that looks like it has to pee…she looks adorable…”

“Goodness me, I forgot to show you Chubby Chunks. Here he is. I added on wings from a hawk I shot down in the backyard. I think it makes him look like an angel.”

I pissed my sister off. That’s it. It must be. Or George is a part of the CIA and this is their new form of water boarding. Okay, I’ll tell you what you want to know. I stole the cookie from the cookie jar. I tried to pin it on my five year old cousin and it worked. Then you guys—the truth isn’t all that great. I just wanted a cookie.

“Yes, he looks like an angel,” I groan, “Why don’t we just call it an evening?”

Chubby Chunks, courtesy of Google.

“I see. So you want me to invite you up for coffee?” He winks.

“No George. I hate coffee,” I get up.

“Wait,” he pets his hair, “We’re adults and you’re right. Let’s just be honest. You and I don’t need codes. You want to get Geo-graphic.” He licks his top teeth and flicks his head upwards.

I grab my phone, making a buzzing noise.

“I should answer that,” I say.

“You’re the one who buzzed, not the phone.”

“Listen George, nobody likes a liar liar pants on fire,” I “answer” the phone, “Oh, oh. Really? Wow.” I hang it up.

“Nobody called you.”

“Yes, someone did…my…um…my boyfriend was MIA and now they found him, so…got to go. Bye,” I sprint out the door.

Ah, dating. So much fun.