Margorie

Margorie


The heat was scorching. Filming in Mexico was always a bitch, but as they said in Casa Del Unga: always make sure you boil the water first, not afterwards. John's man sausage was sweating like an underage pizza delivery guy at Girl's Gone Wild. Damn that clumpucking little appendage, he thought. So handy, but so sweaty. He loosened his belt, undid his fly and pointed his groin at the fan, but as he did this his thoughts turned to Marjorie. She was never far away from him. In fact she was stuffed and mounted in his trailer.

He grabbed a baloney sandwich off the catering table: cramming it into his mouth whole like a real man with his dick hanging out did.

Then he saw it. His groin twitched. How Marjorie would have loved it covered in peanut butter. His jaw trembled. He reached out and touched it. It felt as cool and as tempting as that time in Saratoga Springs when it was just him, Marjorie, champagne and the North Florida Bagpipe Band. Those men sure knew how to blow.

He picked it up and ran his finger up and down it's cool exterior.

But he was jolted out of The Pipes, The Pipes Are Calling by Ford. "Marion, that fucking thing's limp.".

John Ford, his director: small, nuggety and never shy of giving you a good tug on the old nads if you just weren't up to Stagecoach scratch was standing there, staring at him. Half a sandwich shoved up his nostril, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand and Julie the makeup girl hanging off his arm: his usual lunch.

"You try keeping celery fresh in this weather," Wayne spat back as he waved the limp stick in front of Ford's face. "How am I supposed to act on a diet of stale sandwiches and limp celery.

"Dammit Marion. This is Hollywood. It isn't meant to be easy. So the celery might not be as buttockclenchingly rigid as it could be, but we are professionals dammit and when the unwashed American public see this film on the big screen they damn well will believe that celery was as fresh as the day it was picked by a young cajun boy who's testicles had yet to drop." Ford came up to him and looked him in the eye. "Because that's what we do Marion. We make dreams come true and celery crisper and more rigid than it could ever be in real life."

Wayne sighed. "I suppose you're right, but..."

Ford took a swig and threw the whiskey bottle away. "But nothing Marion. Buts are something between the second director and you during the wrap party. You just focus on that celery. Now put your dick back in, shoulder your shotgun and get back out there. We have a movie to make."

Wayne looked at him. "For Marjorie," he said.

"For Marjorie," replied Ford.

Wayne picked up his gun and made his way out.

Ford watched him go. There was a real man who wasn't afraid to bare his groin in front of a free standing fan with no safety mesh on it.

By God, Ford thought. Marjorie had been one hell of a cocker spaniel.