Humor Fiction posted June 24, 2012

This work has reached the exceptional level
A ribald romp; not for the prudish

The Census Taker Cometh

by JeffreyStone

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

Having produced and sent out into the world two progeny, Mary Belle, nineteen, and Norman Ray, twenty-two, and having outlived a like number of Golden Retrievers, Gladys and Melvin (Bubba) Chance had watched dispassionately as their marriage dissipated into a mutually grudging acknowledgement of each other’s existence.  In the waning days of their civility, only smoldering ashes of a once fiery love-life remained. Intercourse consisted of the exchange of seductive sexual innuendos when they met in the hallway each morning: Fuck you, Gladys. Fuck you, Bubba.
This sorry state of affairs between Bubba, age forty-seven, and Gladys, age forty-four, did not happen overnight. Rather, it evolved over many years as their idiosyncratic habits—so easily tolerated during their courtship and early years of marriage—matured to screeching sources of irritation. It came to a decisive head when Gladys informed Bubba that she no longer found him sexually desirable and would henceforth remain chaste until the day she died. However, her assertions of celibacy were blown to bits when Bubba found, hidden under the mattress, a well-worn male phallus, dwarfing the instrument Bubba had exhibited with pride wherever and whenever the occasion called for it.  Needless to say, he took umbrage at being replaced by a piece of electrically stimulated twitching plastic, no matter how real in appearance.
Gladys’s renouncement of her conjugal obligations came at a time when Bubba was considering unholy inclinations toward Wanda Wilcox, the wife of his best friend, Claude. Bubba was confident that Wanda’s lingering touches and seductive glances happened too frequently to be unintentional. Now that he had been rejected by his own wife, he thought it time to explore possibilities with wild-eyed Wanda, ten years his junior. His suspicions of her potential promiscuity were confirmed one evening when he dropped in unannounced at her apartment, knowing full well that Claude worked weekdays from four until midnight. She proved only too happy to restore his confidence in his manhood, sending him home well-worn and with a new spring in his step. Following this encounter with Wanda, he found the courage to inform Gladys, in no uncertain language that he no longer gave a fiddler’s fart whether he ever again had sex with her, that she was, and always had been, a bum fuck.
Normally, such a rebuke by one’s marital mate would stimulate an immediate move toward permanent dissolution, but this was not the case with Gladys. Her mind worked in its own peculiar fashion.  She had never coped well with rejection and needed for Bubba to be miserable and longing for her affection—fat chance with Wanda waiting, around a few corners, up a few streets, less than fifteen minutes away. As Gladys’s suspicions grew, Bubba became more and more adept at inventing excuses for getting out of the house several evenings each week.
“I suppose you’ll be going for your evening walk after supper.” Gladys cast a knowing eye at the top of Bubba’s head on which the hair was beginning to grow thin like lawn dying out after the first frost.
Bubba looked up from his beef stew and noodles. “Yeah, guess so.”
“Why the sudden interest in physical fitness?”
Bubba stood, patted his rotund belly, protruding just slightly over his cowboy belt buckle. “Gota stay in shape. Don’t wana get that middle-aged spread.”
“Guess you don’t mind if I come with you. I’m startin’ to put on a few extra pounds.”
Bubba suppressed a tendency toward a smart-ass snicker, but thought a whole lot better of it. “You sure? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Give me a few minutes, and I will get my tennis shoes on.” Gladys left the table and headed for the hallway closet.
Bubba grabbed the kitchen phone and frantically dialed Wanda’s number. “Can’t make it tonight, Doll. Gladys is on the prowl.”
Bubba played it cool for the next few days, but grew restless as the weekend approached.  With wanton Wanda waiting impatiently, his mind churned to devise new reasons for getting out of the house. “Gladys, I think I’ll run up to the filling station and top off my tank.”
“Why tonight, Bubba? Why can’t it wait ‘til morning?”
“Gotta be in early tomorrow. So, thought I would fill up tonight. I’m about on empty.”
After observing that Bubba filled the tank at least three times during the next two weeks, Gladys’s suspicions mounted. The next time he mentioned a trip to Mr. Zip’s Gas and Go, she decided to tag along.
“Give me a minute, and I will go with you. I need cigarettes.”
Damn. Bubba hurried to the bedroom and dialed Wanda. “Can’t make it tonight, doll. Gladys is on the prowl.”
Although Gladys viewed Bubba’s sexual prowess with amusement, almost certain no other woman would want him, there still was a small portion of her brain that suspected he might be hankering to slip his weenie into another bun, and she was not about to let that happen. She decided it was time to stow her dildo—for which by now, she had developed great affection—in the bottom dresser drawer and coax Bubba back into her bed.
Her uncharacteristic decision created a dilemma for Bubba: should he give up wicked Wanda, once and for all for the sake of domestic tranquility, or could he summon his once youthful exuberance, keeping both ladies sexually sated and unsuspecting?  It would have been entirely out of character for him to choose the saner course of action. So, while Gladys regained confidence that the marital crisis had passed, Bubba dreamed of wayward Wanda and waited for his first opportunity to get out from under Gladys’s watchful eye. That opportunity came one Monday evening when she was glued to the television, watching George Hamilton on Dancing with the Stars.
Knowing that nothing could tear Gladys away from her favorite program for the next hour or more, Bubba made a daring proposal. “We’re out of bread, Honey; think I’ll run down to the Mr. Zip’s to grab a loaf. Want to come with me?”
Gladys stuffed her mouth with potato chips and mumbled something akin to no, never taking her eyes off the flat screen TV.
Ten minutes later, Bubba’s 4X4 Ford F350 screeched to a stop, bumper against the garage door, in the Wilcox driveway. Grateful that the gods of fornication were smiling down on him, he hopped to the ground and bolted up the front steps. He knocked and waited in anticipation until Wanda cracked open the door. The surreptitious lovers fell into each other’s arms. Wanda threw her legs about Bubba’s waist in a scissor lock as he frantically worked the buttons of her shirt (actually, it was Claude’s white Sunday shirt, the hem striking Wanda’s thighs just above the knees). Bubba staggered toward the living room couch, holding onto Wanda who clung to him like a suckling chimpanzee.  Depositing her onto the sofa, he dropped his trousers, preparing to climb aboard the undulating love train, writhing in anticipation beneath him.  
“Hurry,” she said breathlessly, “I’ve missed you, Bubba.”
 Bubba had always been a sucker for such sexy talk, and knowing how much Wanda wanted him heightened his excitement. She arched her back and thrust her body upward, toward him as he began to administer the coup de grace.  
A knock at the door sent visions of shotgun blasts scurrying through Bubba’s brain. Christ, Claude’s home early! With his trousers about his ankles, Bubba penguin shuffled in circles, his eyes searching for a place to hide. Wanda shrieked, bounding from the couch as she pulled up her panties and smoothed down Claude’s white Sunday shirt while moving toward the door.
“Yes?” she inquired, sweetly. “Who is it?”
“The census taker.” An authoritative government voice boomed from the other side of the door.
Bubba stood, slack-jawed, his eyes transfixed in the direction of the door knob. Wanda motioned with both hands for him to get on his pants, which were still mostly on the floor. Her hands trembled as she reached to open the door. Now fully clothed, Bubba sat down and stretched out his legs, presenting the image of a totally relaxed man, not one who was breathing a sigh of relief that he had not just inhaled a mouthful of buckshot from Claude’s sixteen-gauge. 
Wanda slid back the night latch and pulled the door wide enough to insert her face into the opening. “How can I help you?”
“I’m a census worker.” The man held up an ID card showing a picture of a full-bearded grizzly bear. “You mailed in a census form, but I need to verify some information.”
By then, Wanda was shaking as if she had developed palsy, relieved that Claude was still at work, but fearful she might be eaten by the beast standing at her door.
“May I come in?” The bear sounded less menacing.
“’Scuse my poor manners,” Wanda stepped aside and gestured for the carnivore to enter. She extended her hand. “I’m Wanda Wilcox.”
“I’m Mo Tally. It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Wilcox.” He turned to Bubba who sat, now dumbstruck by the course of events. “And you must be Mr. Wilcox.”
 Wanda intervened before Bubba could respond. “Yes, this is my husband, Claude.”
Mr. Tally took a seat across from Wanda and Bubba, clipboard in hand, and began his interview. “Number of adults living in the household?”
“Two, just two.” Wanda grinned and squirmed. Bubba stared into the corner, hoping he had lost his voice.
“Any children, and their ages?”
“Two,” she replied, syrup dripping from her mouth,  clutching Claude’s white shirt about her knees, “but they’re with their real daddy for the summer . . . I get them ten months out of the year.”
“I’ll bet you miss them. How old are they?” The census taker was proving to be entirely genial and understanding.
“We sure do. Twelve and ten.” She reached across the couch and patted Bubba’s knee affectionately. “Don’t we, Honey?”
Bubba cracked his knuckles and nodded his assent.
“Do you own, or rent?”
“We rent now, but my husband wants to buy; dontcha, Honey?” She patted his knee again. 
Bubba almost smiled as he nodded in agreement.
“Now, this portion,” the tally man explained, “you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Bubba welcomed the opportunity to stop the agony. Knowing he would never see Mr. Tally again, he raised his right index finger, signaling an end to the inquisition. “In that case, we don’t want to answer any more questions.” He opened the door and bade the grizzly goodbye.  Bubba’s eyes now turned to Wanda who lay on the couch with Claude’s white Sunday shirt unbuttoned from top to bottom.
Bubba checked his watch. With ten minutes allotted for his transaction with Wanda and five minutes to pay for a loaf of bread at Mr. Zip’s Gas and Go, he would get home before Gladys missed him. His arrival was timely, finding his wife bereft that George Hamilton and his partner were eliminated from the Dancing with the Stars competition.  Bubba held her gently, offering consolation that only one’s understanding mate can provide. Gladys responded to his comforting embrace by suggesting a romp in the sack. Unfortunately, because of his prior activities with Wanda, Bubba was unable to rise to the occasion and adequately supplant the electric plastic device now lying fallow in Gladys’s bottom dresser drawer. This failure created serious doubts in her mind as she suddenly realized Bubba had disappeared for nearly an hour and returned with only a loaf of stale bread.
Bubba explained that he ran into an old Navy buddy from Joplin, Missouri down at Mr. Zip’s. The two of them spent the next half hour reviving memories of high school football heroics and swapping sea stories. Of course, as he explained, he tried to break away, but his friend kept talking. For the life of him, Bubba couldn’t recall the friend’s name—pretty damned embarrassing.
Gladys reluctantly accepted Bubba’s explanation, but she could not overcome her nagging suspicion her husband was up to no good. She vowed to get to the bottom of things, and began monitoring Bubba’s every move. He resorted to toeing the line, keeping his distance from the Wilcox abode. After several days away from Wanda, he considered intimacy with Gladys. However, fearing rejection by his wife, he waited for her to make the first move; and Gladys, wary of Bubba’s apparent wilted condition, waited for him to do the same, wondering if he had finally succumbed to total erectile dysfunction. This impasse left the unhappy duo no choice but to spend their evenings watching TV game shows. It seemed they would live out their lives, sitting on opposite sides of the room, tolerating each other, stuffing their faces with popcorn and potato chips. Thankfully, their humdrum lives changed with the ringing of the doorbell. 
Happy for the unexpected interruption, Bubba rushed to the door, swung it open and looked squarely into the face of Mo Tally., the census taker.
“Who is it, bubba?” Gladys’s shrill voice carried over a Wheel of Fortune contestant’s sounds of big money, come on big money.
Bubba shrank to the size of his penis.
“Well, Mr. Wilcox, we meet again.” The census bear roared loud enough for Gladys to hear above the ear splitting volume of the television set.
Hearing the name, Wilcox, her eyes were suddenly opened. She grasped a small vase, filled with artificial roses, and flung it across the room. “You bastard.” Milk glass exploded into shards as the vase struck Bubba in the back of the head. He crumpled to the floor. Gladys hurried to his prone body, his eyes open, showing only the whites. She placed her foot on his chest. “I should have known it was that damn hussy.” Then she glowered at the census taker. “Who in the hell are you?”
Mr. Tally, apparently concerned for his own safety, stammered, “I’m Mo Tally, a government census taker.” His demeanor was, putting it mildly, subdued. “I need to verify a little information if you don’t mind.”
While Bubba lay on the floor unconscious, unaware he was about to be counted twice in the U.S. Census, Gladys explained the situation to Mr. Tally. He limited his questions to only three to which she provided succinct responses before sending the now domesticated bear on his way.
Gladys then turned her attention to her wounded mate whose memory had been tragically eradicated—a profound case of amnesia. His slow and painful convalescence was enhanced by a steady diet of game shows and soap operas, Gladys constantly by his side. Several weeks later, Bubba realized his memory was returning when he began thinking of Wanda and wondered if she had laundered Claude’s white Sunday shirt. Of course, Gladys was never made aware of this miraculous recovery. However, her suspicions were aroused when Bubba began to exhibit his old aggressive sexual behavior, once again, initiating hallway sex each morning: Fuck you, Gladys, to which she defiantly responded: No, fuck you, Bubba.


Once in a while I spiral out of control, the sailor coming out in me, and this is the result. My gratitude to Bertodi for the artwork entitled, The Other Woman.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

Artwork by Renate-Bertodi at

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