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Here it is, as promised: the post-apocalyptic story I wrote last year and then lost somewhere on my computer and then remembered and found and am now posting here for the enjoyment of all humanity… before time runs out!

BOMBSHELL IN A BOMB SHELTER: THE POST-APOCALYPTIC MEMOIR OF A TROPHY WIFE

December 21st, 2012

OMG, it happened. That calendar from those creepy dead people came true. Thank God Chadwick had this shelter built under the gazebo. At first I was like, “Don’t dig a big hole. You’ll ruin the lawn.” And Chadwick was like, “Shut up and go put on a bikini or something.” And I was like, “OK.” I look amazing in a bikini. Pink is my fave. Even Mr. Ruffles – that’s my Chihuahua – has a salmon-pink diamond-studded collar. We’re so cute and sparkly together!

So, anyway. The world ended. Chadwick wouldn’t let me take both the cook and the housekeeper down into the shelter. He’s like, “Pick one. We can’t afford to save both.” Talk about decisions. I mean, Maria does everything for me. On the other hand, Beresford makes a mean margarita. Ultimately, I chose Beresford because I’m having sex with him.

I totally miss Maria. Chadwick has these camouflaged cameras planted around the blast door. When the fog of nuclear gas swept over our Beverly Hills mega-mansion, there stood Maria, trying to pry open the door. “Stephanie! Let me in!” she screamed. (That’s me – Stephanie). She kept doing that, like, right up until her flesh melted off. I’ll completely miss her back rubs. They rocked!

Still, I get that not everyone can fit in here. I’m going to stop writing now so Mr. Ruffles and I can see what Chadwick is doing. He had a basketball court installed, so he’s probably fiddling with that.

December 22nd, 2012

OK, who knew how boring the end of the world would be? It’s been 24 hours since the gas fog invaded SoCal, instantly killing millions of servants, and all I’ve been doing is lounging by the exercise pool, seeing how many doggie treats Mr. Ruffles can catch. I’m bummed because I left my avocado mask behind. Earlier, while sitting in the theater, I just started bawling. Finally, Chadwick stopped tinkering with his putting green long enough to notice.

“What is it, pun’kin?” he asked. “Does my little bunny-wunny not have everything her heart desires?”

Well, yes. I have Beresford. It’s just: something is missing. Something even greater than face cream. “Nelly didn’t make it!” I wailed.

Chadwick smiled. “Yes she did. I had a shelter made for her, on the ranch.”

What. A. Relief. My beloved pony, Nelly, survives. Chadwick managed to save his favorite Mercedes and one of the Ferraris, too. They’re parked in the entry tunnel. So: all is not lost. No word on the yacht and the jet. Chadwick is worried.

December 25th, 2012

Christmas in a bomb shelter. Last year, Chadwick surprised me by sending me to Paris. (Best. Vacay. Ever). According to the emergency radio thingy, Paris no longer exists. Boo-hoo. The shopping there was to-die-for. Chadwick owned a penthouse there, too, so he’s mourning that. OMG, and the food! It sucks here. For dinner last night, Beresford barely managed to scrape together a rigatoni-ricotta amuse-bouche, followed by a beef teriyaki entrée with a side of honey-glazed sweet potatoes. Dessert was nothing more than chocolate pudding and bananas in raspberry sauce (barf). And the salad was missing completely! He tried to compensate by serving one of the Pinot Noir’s, but I could tell Chadwick was as dissatisfied as I was. And I’m rarely dissatisfied with Beresford.

Chadwick gave me diamond earrings for Christmas. When I tried them on, my face looked so pale. Will I ever tan again? Bleach my hair? Get manicured? I don’t think I want to live in a world without salons.

The other night, while doing it in the master bedroom, Beresford told me, “Oh, yes! We must repopulate the Earth!”

He totally makes me feel naughty, he’s so decent and hopeful. I mean, sometimes I think we should all just die. After all, New Year’s is coming, and we don’t even have champagne.

January 1st, 2013

Another year, another day in the Shelter of Gloomy-Gloom. I feel like I’ve been wearing the same outfit forever. Chadwick suggested I try using the laundry appliances, but that just reminds me of Maria. Besides, there’s no dry cleaner. (My Louis Vuitton would quickly turn into Louis Vuigone). Anyway, I can’t tell you how much I crave something new. Am I going to be destined to wear the same forty-two outfits the rest of my life? I’ll have to repeat myself, like, every month or whatever. And to think: I had planned a Saks spree the afternoon the world ended. OMG, all those poor clothes – and shoes! – covered in toxic gas. What kind of world are we living in?

I can’t think anymore. I’m going to go lie in the virtual sunshine. Even Mr. Ruffles is bummed. He misses his little furry friends at the doggie hotel.

January 20th, 2013

Apparently you can’t keep secrets in a bomb shelter. Chadwick caught Beresford and I making love on the billiard table. “How dare you!” he yelled, removing his Armani suit coat and rolling up his sleeves. “I didn’t spend all that money to secure Stephanie as mine, just so some mere servant could take her.”

Beresford was like, “That’s funny, because I take her all the time.” He straightened his bowtie – the only thing I hadn’t stripped off his hot bod.

Chadwick swung at his precious face, but Beresford ducked and grabbed a pool cue. I started weeping, but Chadwick ignored me. They fought straight into the generator room, where Beresford cracked Chadwick’s head against the air filter thing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping toward me. “It had to be done.”

Suddenly, a spark jumped off the fuel line. Beresford was like, “Oh, crap!” Then he blew up.

I grabbed Mr. Ruffles and ran. I only had time to save five outfits and a choice selection of diamonds before the whole shelter went up. Luckily, even though one of my heels broke, I made it up the spiral stairs and out onto the lawn. A man in a mask took me to a decontamination tent. Right now Mr. Ruffles and I are being flown to New York. It’s still there! First thing, I’m going to the salon, followed by Saks. You’re awesome, world!

THE END.

-harymess

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