Fertility Rites
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Green Acres 6: Fertility Rites ...And VWrongs free porn video
Green Acres 6: Fertility Rites ...And vWrongs
Produced by Jay Sommers [1965-71]
Parodied by Ron Dow75
"Where is that man!" Oliver Douglas was fuming when he
entered the back door.
"vWhats man?" Lisa Douglas asked. She still had on her
tailored charcoal gray business suit (she had changed out of the
Yale school tie, though; she now wore a black silk one with small
gold crowns), but had a blue ("Ace Hardware") shop apron on over
it. She was vacuuming without the vacuum being plugged into an
outlet.
"Eb!! I can't find him anywhere!"
"It happened to your fronts again!" Lisa said, looking at
her husband when he was out of the kitchen.
Oliver Douglas had the stranger's blue suit coat he'd been
loaned draped over his arm. The same man's cheap white shirt's
chest was wet, especially around nipples that were larger and
more distended than a man should rightfully have (that was
Oliver's opinion, anyway). "And for the same, miserable,
impossible reason!!"
"If you're going to keeps letting Eleanor squirts you vwith
milk--"
"She's not the one that did the squirting!!"
"vWhere is you going? Its not polites to leaves a
conversation right in the middles of somebody's conversationing
with you."
"Unless it's to go to the bathroom!"
"Oh..." Lisa nodded her head as if she understood. "The
other same 'miserable, impossible reason'."
"No!! I'm going to get some "Pepto Bismo" --So I Don't have
it!"
Lisa watched him enter the bathroom, and said, more to
herself, "I vwonder if the AMA knows about that's maternity
vward-off?"
+++
Lisa had heard the worse cursing she had ever heard Oliver
have while still sober. And he was still in the bathroom! She
paced back and forth, knowing he would be saying those words to
her soon enough.
That 'soon enough' may have come, she thought, when she heard him
raise his voice to tell himself, "Chickens lay eggs only Once a
day!! Cows only give milk two times a day! This miserable,
impossible phenomena is even more miserable and impossible than
it should be!!"
She heard him flush the toilet.
"Oliver!!! You didn't flush your childs!?!!"
"What did you say!?!!" Oliver Douglas flinging the door
open.
"Oliver!! I know you don't think you're ready to be a
mother: But there is adoption!!"
"Adoption!?! For eggs??" And he held out the two he held in
his hands.
"Oliver!! Twins!!" Lisa smiled.
"They're not twins: They're not children! --They haven't
been fertilized!!" He didn't know what to do with his eggs.
"Oh... It's thats monthly word I can't pronounce
correctsly. Only, vwith you, it happens everyday."
"Try three or four times a day!!" Oliver said, angry that
he didn't even get a break on that.
"There goes the budget! Just think how many sanitary
napkins and tampons you're going to be needing."
"I will not use tampons!! --There's no place to put them,
any way!!" His mind on that subject, he took the eggs to the
first logical place it told him to.
"But there's a place for the eggs?!" Lisa questioned his
logic.
"No!! I refuse!! Having a doctor go there once a year is
bad enough!!" he swung around to the woman.
"Oh?" Lisa questioned his embarrassment. "Has you ever
beens to a gynecologist?"
"Llmmm!!" Oliver stifled his scream as best he could as he
went into the kitchen.
"Of course, mine's a vwoman gynecologist. vWhat vwould you
like, Oliver? A man's or a vwoman's? Not that there's any
gynecologists around here, I don't thinks. There's only "Old Doc
Pritchard", and the only vwoman's things he knows about is
birthing babies. Does an egg counts--Oliver! Not in the icebox!"
"What??" Oliver said, realizing what he was about to do. "I
could have eaten them!"
"Yes, you could!" Lisa said, coming up behind him. "If you
had laid thems this mornings, I could have used thems to make you
your hotscakes!"
He turned on her: "Those Infernal hotcake of yours is what
got me this way!!" he yelled.
"If that's the vways you feel about it!" Lisa said, always
sensitive about her attempts at housewifery. And she took the
eggs from him.
"What are you going to do with them?!"
"If you don't likes my hotscakes, I'll make you somethings
else!"
"Not scrambled eggs again: You couldn't even make those!"
"I'm going to make somethings I know abouts. A souffl?.
Since you just did the milking, there outs to be plenty of
milk..."
Oliver Douglas ran from the kitchen screaming.
+++
Oliver tore up the bedroom, looking for something to wear
that had pants. "Everything's a copy of what Lisa usually wears:
So why aren't there any pants suits!?!! I know she wears them--
Once in a while!"
He had just finished winning his struggle to get a large
double-handful of clothes off of the pole in the closet, when he
saw that there was somebody standing behind them outside the
house (with no wall it had become more of a door than a closet).
"You'd better change out of that wet shirt, or you'll get a chest
cold," Ralph Monroe told him.
"A cold is that least of my worries about my chest!"
"Suit yourself," the 40-something woman in white overalls
and painter's cap, blue work shirt, leatherwork boots told him,
as she came into the room. "I don't mind seeing a man in a wet
shirt, especially when he's got pecs like yours."
"Ralph!" Mr. Douglas cried, reflexively raising his hands
to shield those "pecs" from view.
As she got by the now meeker man, Ralph said, "It would be
more sexy if you wore just the tee shirt. Oh! You're not wearing
a tee shirt," she stopped to look.
"So: You're one of those kind of men!" she said as a
church-goer would.
"For your information," Mr. Douglas said, squinting his
evil at her, "Mrs. Bradley offered me some. But I wouldn't wear
another man's underwear."
"You won't wear underwear, but it's okay to go around in
women's clothes. You do have your values skewed up, don't you,
Mr. Douglas."
Then she spoke in a more confidential tone, "Think it's
more sexy, hunh?" she elbowed him in the arm, her church-goer had
been replaced by somebody who went to Saturday night stags.
"Ralph!! What are you doing in my room while I'm trying to
change?!!"
"Don't let me stop you," she said, turning away from him,
and over to the badly warped board between two sawhorses.
"Builders are like house doctors. We learn everything about our
patients sooner or later."
"I'm not your patient!!"
"No," she looked over her shoulder to frown at him, "You're
a big tapeworm living inside it!"
"Ralph: Your "patients" have mostly been chicken coops
before me!"
"And you're not going to anything I haven't already seen
chickens do, are you?" she grasped the saw she had left in the
board.
"Dress!?!"
"You haven't heard of dressing a--"
"Don't say it!!" Mr. Douglas warned, ready to exact
rightful punishment if she did.
She decided to look at him, "Mr. Douglas, your chicken
Alice plays the piano and tap dances. What's so odd about a bird
in serge, then?"
"Ralph Monroe; I do not want the subject of chickens or
birds to come up again: Not after the day I've had so far!"
"You've always got to have something that's off-limits,
don't you, you big baby. Just like a man; you're so sensitive.
Tell me, is this something something that other chickens don't go
through everyday?"
"I laid an egg!!"
"There, see?!" she was ready to get back to her job, when
she did a double-take: "An egg!?!"
"Yes: An egg! And, now that you know, I want you to--"
"I don't know. That's the problem. I've always wanted a
kid. Life is so unfair. Here you are, at your age, and you get a
kid!"
"An egg is not a child!! It's not fertilized!!"
"Oh, that explains it," she said, actually looking at the
warped board and trying to saw. "We're both too old to be
fertilized."
Oliver Douglas was about to make another hasty comment,
when he caught himself, and muttered, "No. I'd better not. Not
when there's a word like "fertilizer" out there ready for me to
step in."
+++
Oliver Douglas came out of the bathroom with a towel
wrapped around his now merely damp and clammy shirt. He still
wore his blue slacks and argyle socks, and refused to take them
off, afraid they'd disappear on him.
Suddenly there was a loud crash from the kitchen!
He ran to see what it was.
"The souffl? fell!!" Lisa cried in frustration.
"What did you have in that--" Before he could finish the
question, he saw that laying on the floor was the door of the old
black, wood burning stove.
"It was the stove door!"
"It vwas the souffl?!" Lisa insisted, on the verge of
tears. "It popped, and felled the door!"
"Good!! I wouldn't want to eat it, knowing where the
ingredients came from!"
"You know vwheres they comes from from before," Lisa found
fault with his logic.
"That was different!!"
"It certainly is! As long as its not your relatives, you
can be a real Simon Le Grees!"
"I am not a "Simon Legree"!"
"No, you're vworst! He didn't eat children!"
"Eggs are not children!!"
"No: Because you vwon't let them have a chance!" And she
stormed out the back door.
+++
"Look, Lisa!" Oliver Douglas said, going after her in his
towel. "If you start laying eggs, I'll fertilize them for you!"
"Now you're mocking me!!" Lisa stopped to yell out loud in
the middle of the driveway between the house and the barn.
"I am not--"
She turned on him: "You know I can't bear childrens! It's
biologically impossible for me!"
"I'm sorry, Lisa. I didn't mean anything by that last
remark. I know you can't have children. (Heaven knows we've done
the first step often enough. Rabbits should be so lucky.)"
"Now you're mocking me vwith the "Rabbit Tests"! It's not
my fault rabbits won't die!"
"Oh, you defend other animals' right to live, but not
rabbits?"
Lisa screeched at that last, very insensitive remark, and
ran for the barn.
+++
"I'm back!!" a male voice called out from the front door.
"And just were where you!?! You were supposed to be
working!" Mr. Douglas called back from the driveway.
"I wasn't "I'm back"ing you, Mr. Douglas! I'll come back
when I can, "I'm back" to Mrs. Douglas," Eb Dawson said.
"You can do it back here: She's in the barn!!"
"Uh, oh..." Eb said, heading (from the sound of his voice)
back towards the barn. "I hope Mrs. Douglas doesn't have hay
fever!"
"She doesn't. She's never been bothered by ordinary
allergies. She gets a rash, if she has to drink domestic wine;
and she can tell which end of the Caspian Sea her caviar was
caught on."
"It doesn't matter!" Eb told him, coming into view, now.
The tall, lean young man was dressed in clodhoppers, jeans, a tan
and black plaid coat, red plaid shirt, and an Army fatigue cap.
"Anybody can develop hay fever. I've heard stories of farmers
that were in their sixties before they got it."
"Yes; I think I have heard stories of people who've been
exposed to something so long that a residue of protein is built
up within them that the body treats as if it were an attacker on
its immune system. But that doesn't apply to Mrs. Douglas: She's
only been on the farm for a couple of years!"
"I don't know what you meant by all that fancy, high-
education show-off talk, Mr. Douglas, but that's not what I meant
by hay fever. Have you ever heard of dance fever?!" Mr. Douglas's
hired hand said, stopping in front of him.
"'Dance fever'? It's a fad, a craze for some new moves,"
Oliver Douglas said, eying the young man who was taller than he
was.
"Sort of: Dance fever is like gold fever; both make want
you to pick up your feet and move."
"What has that have to do with 'hay fever'!?!"
"You've never heard of a barn dance? Any good hootenanny
has hay in it! (In fact that's what you sound like when you get
hay fever: An owl and a goat.)"
"You do not!"
"And, then there's hay rides: They involve moving, too."
"If you mention one word to Lisa about moving, I'll give
you a haymaker! That'll send you moving!"
"Yes, sir."
"It's bad enough that this stupid "Green Acres Curse" has
her doing crazy things to us. I don't want to give her the idea
she can move because she has the illiterate's version of 'hay
fever'!"
"I'm not illiterate," Eb defended himself. "I can read a
script as good as anybody around here." Then he looked at his
boss, and implied, "...Better than some."
"Script?" Mr. Douglas looked at him with his squinty-eyed
look, daring him to elaborate.
"Don't you remember the barn we local hip-and-happening
young-adults meet at, where we go to hear scripts, because there
are no good movies (or TV shows, for that matter) playing around
here? What's the use of spinning a tale, if it's wasted by nobody
appreciating the effort?!"
"That's right; you said that Billie Jo Bradley liked to
read most of the scripts for your 4-H Club."
"'4-H Club' I never heard of that. He said as a set-up.
What is it?"
"'Hip-and-happening-hayseed-hucksters'!"
"Except for the derogatory term 'hayseed', that was pretty
good, Mr. Douglas. Would you like to make a guest appearance on
'Impromptu Nite'?"
"No! Come on: Let's see if we can get Mrs. Douglas out of
the barn, and into something more comfortable."
+++
They found her talking to Eleanor the Cow.
"What is she saying?" her husband asked.
"I was going to ask you. She's your wife."
"She's speaking in Hungarian."
"Gol-ly! Is that what it sounds like?!"
"You've heard her speak in Hungarian before!"
"Only when she's so upset she can't remember how to speak
English. And my delicate ears don't like to hear such language!"
"Well, she doesn't look that upset, right now."
"That's because she's not talking to you. Maybe I should
leave and come back to clean up after you've been verbally
incinerated."
"Stay!" Mr. Douglas said, grabbing the young man's arm
before he could get away; but not because he thought he might
need him to help protect himself. (But it would be nice to have
somebody on his side, for once.) "Lisa! I apologize for the
uncalled for remarks I made just a while ago," then he said under
his breath, 'Right after I made all those very called for
remarks.'
She pulled herself up into her most dignified posture, and
said, "----------------."
"What?? You're still speaking Hungarian!"
"She says to tell you she's not speaking to you."
"She is speaking to me: In Hungarian!"
"She says that since you don't understand Hungarian, it's
the same as she not speaking to you. You can't understand her,
then, too."
"Oh... I can understand her perfectly when she gives me the
silent treatment. Her body language has less of an accent than
her mind does!"
"I don't think I want to translate what that word means."
"Eb! How is it you can understand Hungarian all of a
sudden!?!"
"I thought you said you could read her body?"
"It's my wife's body!"
"Oh, in that case: I'm just reading the subtitles."
"What!??!"
"There, in front of her. Can't you read them? They're in
English."
"There's nothing there!!" Mr. Douglas yelled, gesturing to
the emptiness he saw in front of her.
"When was the last time you were at the optometrist's?
They're there as clear on the nose on your--Well, actually,
they're not that clear. But anybody who looks can see them."
"They're not!!"
"Mrs. Douglas says they are; and you're in a deep enough
hole with her to without making it any deeper--
"Hey!! I'll bet that's why you can't see the subtitles:
You're in over your head!"
"Eb!!"
"Don't blame me: I'm just the messenger. The guy caught in
the middle. Tell it to Mrs. Douglas. Apologize, and she might not
be so upset."
Oliver Douglas looked at his wife, and said, "I don't know
if I want to any more. Let's give her trial separation from
English a try."
Lisa Douglas stomped her wingtips in anger.
"Ahh... Do you hear that?" Oliver Douglas said, cupping an
ear. "No mangled English. My barrister's rhetorical training is
already beginning to heal."
+++
Stripped to the waist, Oliver Douglas was standing over the
kitchen sink with the pump handle, squirting dishwashing liquid
soap on the borrowed-and-his-only-shirt, trying to keep the milk
from setting in. "Oh, this is ridiculous. I should remember my
Army training. They were very particular about their uniforms. I
haven't done anything like this since college; right after me and
'Stinky' Coolidge drove the fraternity's valet away with our
pranks."
"Maybe I should call Mrs. Bradley and ask her what to do,"
he said to himself, twisting his body around to look out into the
living room. "Climb the telephone pole outside the bedroom window
without a shirt on?! There's a chill out there already!"
He didn't like it, but that was the answer he gave himself,
"Why cry over a little spilt milk?" Then, he raised his eyes up
as he realized what he had just said: "A little!" he laughed
humorlessly.
He went back to trying to clean his 'good' shirt.
In walked a more humbled Lisa.
"Are you finished with your hurt feelings?" he asked, but
not as harshly as he thought he should have been able to.
"------."
"You're still speaking Hungarian!"
"-----------------."
"That must mean yes. In Hungarian, it's only the
complicated thoughts that are short."
She shrugged, and headed out of the kitchen.
Oliver watched her leave. He found himself feeling sorry
for her. She was his wife; and he did love her. Despite all that
she had done to her. ("But who doesn't do things to me?" he heard
his own thoughts as if he were talking to himself.)
Oliver dropped the shirt into the sink, and, wiping his
hands on the dishcloth first, followed her.
She was definitely moping around in a way that didn't seem
staged to him. ("But how much can I trust my judgment? Ever since
I moved to this farm, my instincts have been wrong!")
She plopped down ("Lisa plop!?!" he heard himself be
surprised) on the faux leopard skin couch. She slouched back on
its back, and sighed.
"Lisa what is it?" Oliver found himself going over to be
with his unhappy wife.
She said nothing.
Oliver sat down beside her. "Please, Lisa, speak to me. I
regret that I said anything about your mangled English. If I
could speak Hungarian, I would probably mutilate it worse than
you do."
I do not mutilate Hungarian.
"Wha...?" Oliver stared. The words in front of her seemed
to disappear before he could be sure that they had been there.
And all that time, Lisa had not said a word. ("I wonder if she
can read my thoughts?" he asked himself without opening his
mouth.)
"I don't need to read your thoughts," Lisa at last spoke.
"You don't need subtitles when you speak. You speak English."
"Lisa!!" Oliver grinned for joy. "Your accent: It's back to
being as good as it ever gets!"
"I could go back to as bad as it gets," she offered.
"Why would you want to do that," he said to her in his most
"daddy-to-his-little-girl" voice, hoping to get her to smile.
"Oh, because love is good, but bad can be very nice," she
smiled that smile at him. After all these years together, they
could still forget they were man and wife.
"Yes. It can," Oliver felt his voice break as other another
part of his body wanted to dominate his thinking. "Too bad it's
early."
"Is it really ever too's early?" Lisa Groenitz said with
her accent thickening again, this time in a very appealing
manner.
"I'll get the wine," Oliver said, heading for the kitchen.
"Imported from France!"
"No, not France, Oliver, dear. I feel like something
different tonight."
"Okay," he paused at the kitchen door. "What will it be?!"
"Shlivovitz."
"Shlivovitz, it is!" Oliver smiled, rushing to get it.
Lisa smiled a pleased smile to herself.
He can never hold his shlivovitz: Fetish him up, and I'll
be able to fertilize one of his eggs.
Lisa looked down at what was written in front of her. "Is
that what I'm thinking?"
Then she made sure that she had read it right, "Oo! I
didn't know I could read backwards and upside down."
+++
I am still continuing the story.
[Please note: I am committed to finishing this series up. I know
where I'm headed with this; I just don't know yet how long it's
going to take me to get there. I hope I haven't offended any
Fictionmania readers. The opinions expressed are those I imagine
the characters themselves would have.. I am sure you will be
pleased with the way I'm thinking of ending it.]
P.S., I voted for Harvey Korman's legs, too. They had 5 or 6
chorus girls (or so you were led to believe) sitting on what
otherwise looked like a children's puppet stage with the curtains
drawn so that all you could see where they're crossed, nylon-clad
legs. The largest pair in the middle easily won by audience
acclamation. They then opened the curtain, and the contestants
got up; he was dressed like the other chorus girls (a one-piece
'tux'), but he was the only one smoking a cigar.
Kaylin
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