World-weary Bettie finally wises up to the fact that the universe is trying to tell her something – and that something is actually far, far worse than even she could have possibly imagined.
Fresh from the news that my stepmother was released from her Lake Erie looney bin and sent via crate to the Isle of Man, I abandoned Big Frank in London and hightailed it back for the five-hour boat ride.
Arriving in Douglas harbor, I questioned the authorities and found that the USS Invincible had faked some medical emergency and was fast-tracked to the Genito-Urinary Trauma Ward. Jumping the taxi queue, I headed for the hospital only to find that my hypochondriac stepmother was already scheduled for more surgery. And I couldn’t get to see her as only family members are allowed and she’d signed herself in as ‘Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt’.
There was nothing for it but to wait for her release, and I decided that the best venue for my vigil was somewhere that sold liquor. The Isle of Man’s beatific populace was once described as 80,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock. That night, there were eighty-thousand and one.
Unfortunately, as scotch follows gin, my subsequent arrest was less than ceremonious. Just before dawn, as I was staggering along the shoreline in the general direction of my home and hearth, the cops jumped me. The official report said that I was found pissing on a sign that said ‘No Dumping’. Technically not breaking the law, I argued. Unfortunately, the po-po thought different. The final straw came when they questioned what I was doing shambling around Ramsey beachfront at daybreak wearing one stiletto and half drunk.
“It’s not my fault,” I pleaded, “I ran out of cash.”
Bundled into the local police cruiser, my civil liberties were not the only thing at risk as they sped me down the country lanes and marched me into the cop shop. Obviously since my days as First Lady at Bazongas, the world’s only nudist casino, my profile has slipped a bit.
“Don’t you know who I was!” I yelled as I was dragged kicking and screaming into the cell. Regrettably, they didn’t.
And it was about then that Mona broke through the pig blockade to deliver a telegram from my dearly beloved. It read:
ARRESTD BY US GOVERNMENT STOP DEPORTED 2 DC STOP DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE HEARING NEXT WEEK STOP CU NEXT TUESDAY? BIG FRANK
Hell’s bells, diary, just what’s going on? My bet was on something to do with 39-4-Ever, but who knows? All I did know was that in the past four months my life had gone from tip-top to rock bottom. Since Big Frank got hit by the crazy notion of selling our Bazongas cash cow and buying this 39-4-Ever money pit, we’ve moved from the desert to an iceberg, I’ve lost everything I valued in a Size 9 Wide, and my world has spiralled into what can best be described as the Seventh Circle of Hell itself. Now my insane stepmother is about to check in and it sounds like this whole brainless business is about to check out.
There’s only one explanation: the universe has it in for me. What I needed right here, right now was a comeback plan.
But luckily, diary, comebacks are what Betties do best…
