Goodnight Stormy Night ... Goodnight Moon ...
Though not meaning to, Sally created havoc when she lifted her skirt in anticipation of getting off the escalator. Petticoats, bloomers, and an unmoored bustle billowed in an unseasonal snowstorm of lace and white cotton as the edges caught between the moving handrail and metal safety guard; emergency lights flashed, and the machinery ground like a Datsun's transmission as it slowed and stopped. Had it been a simple cotton number, it is likely that no one present would have remembered Sally's name or, indeed, her existence.
Aghast, Mrs. Smythe-Johns from Ladies Undergarments and Fine Lingerie came dashing over and said, "Has Zell Miller gone completely insane?"
Sally, strapped to the handrail of the escalator by her bustle strings and noticing the ominous silence in the store looked at Mrs. Smythe-Johns and said, "Listen toots, who the hell is Zell Miller and why are you just standing there gawking." And with that she gave her skirt a spirited yank, ripping a hole in the lace and cotton that revealed a Superbowl XXXVIII Souvenir rip-away thong. A young man passing by, distracted by the sight, slipped on the yards of material strewn about. To break his fall, he instinctively reached out and grasped the table holding the prominently displayed volumes of the Unabridged Oxford English Dictionary on sale as Valentine's promotion to "The Man looking for Just The Right Words". As books and table went careening across the highly polished floor of the Ladies Undergarments and Fine Lingerie Department, he landed at the base of the escalator, stunned and said, "This story's dying on the vine, babe. I've gotta find myself a new gig as a character, especially since it appears no one's gonna get around to tearing off that thong. Aloha." And with that, the character who had yet to be named departed the text.
"Aw, hell! If he gets to leave, I am, too!" groused Sally. She yanked free of the wreckage of the dress, leaving her in only a thong, camisole, and stiletto heals.
In parting, Sally yelled, "And that's the last time I get my pubes waxed in the shape of a corporate logo! Ingrates!"
(With apologies to Deb. I couldn't find a way to work in Mrs. Smythe-Johns' dilemma. )