My one attempt at Golden Girls fan fiction

I had this idea for a regular blog written by Sophia Petrillo. Never made it past the first post.
A Cry for Help from Shady Pines Retirement Home
by Sophia Petrillo
Okay, I think I finally got this working. I'm lucky to get the lid off my Metamucil bottle and my bozo grandson buys me a computer. Dumb like a post.
So now that I've found a way to put a message in a bottle, what do I write? At least it can't be any worse than the garbage that's out there now. What the hell is “my space”? It sounds like a 6-year-olds name for his you-know-w-h-e-r-e, and it reads like one too. And who the hell is this “Craig” guy? I've known several Craigs, and believe me, they couldn't even track down their own jobs.
By way of an introduction, my name is Sophia Petrillo. I was born 100 long, boring, Bob-Hope-soaked years ago in that goat's-armpit of a country, the Sovereign Republic of Italy. Not that I don't miss it. Sometimes I really long for the smell of urine on every street corner.
You probably know me best from from that hack-job NBC refers to as “The Golden Girls”. A goddamn travesty. Seven best years of my life boiled down into little half-hour nuggets of schmaltz and conversations about Blanche's backside. Not that we avoided talking about her tuchus. How could we? It was like a saggy elephant in the living room. And in the dining room. And on the “lanai”, as my overeducated daughter calls it. It's a concrete slab with bird crap on it! Where I come from, that's called “a final resting place”.
I shouldn't talk about my daughter that way. For a while, it seemed like Dorothy was the only person on this earth that gave a damn whether I was up and about or just lying in a puddle of my own drool. She's a good kid. Even if she did run off to marry old ugly what's-his-face and leave me to wrangle The Elephant in the Living Room and Rose the Amazing Brain. Eh, well, what are ya gonna do. Love is like that. And speaking of love, my Ovaltine is here.
Okay, where was I. Oh, right. My sweet darling Dorothy. She took real good care of me during those years at Blanche's. And have no illusions: that house was Blanche's, regardless of how democratic we look on TV. As long as it wasn't time to clean the gutters or squish one of these huge Florida creepy-crawlies (I've had manicotti that were smaller!), Blanche was always with the “There'll be no wet dogs in my house” and “I'll bring to my home whomever I like” and “In my house we respect the memory of The King.” jeesh.
Sure, Dorothy put me in a home once before. This home, actually, back before the fire that God apparently set because he thought that Shady Pines was trying to compete with Hell. Back then this place was the pits. Ugly wallpaper, no air conditioning, and staff that made Caligula look like Bing Crosby. It could've used a good coat of soot, believe me. Not that I'm confessing to anything. I have been exonerated of all charges by a little due process and a lot of crying. Oh, sweet justice.
So Pussycat took me in, gave me my own room, let me keep making my own marinara, even gave me a weekly allowance (she never found out about that five-card stud game at the rec center that was the real reason I could dress as fine as I did. And still do.) So, even though she was responsible for my initial incarceration, and even though she did kinda sorta run off with that guy who looks like the captain from Forbidden Planet, the fact is, she was there for me when I needed her. Like when the racetrack starting having senior specials on Tuesday afternoons. She was always good for a sawbuck.

Suspension of the Ethical as applied to real life

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