I worry a lot about white slavery. To put a finer point on it, I should say what I really worry about is that I personally will be captured and sold into white slavery.
That would suck.
The slavery part would be pretty awful. But as a woman who has more old wedding rings in my jewelry box than I have sets of sheets in the linen closet, I'd have to say I don't think it would be too much of a stretch for me to get the hang of it.
How hard could it be, really? I mean what? You probably do some laundry, pick up after your white slavery boss, maybe wash his white slavery car or something?
Nothing to it. I could knock that out in a couple hours. So long as I didn't have to listen to him go on and on about his day at the white slavery office and how it's all about politics and he feels like he's suffocating there, I'd be alright.
No, what causes me so much worry about being captured and sold into white slavery is the actual selling part.
I've seen enough Dateline to know that the white slavery trade is one of tremendous competition. I'm afraid I'd be standing up there on the auction block and you could hear crickets chirp. No one would bid.
"This one can't make babies because she's old and her ovaries are all shriveled up, but she is really good at Saturday Night Live trivia."
I'd probably suck my tummy in and try and make my boobs look perky, but I rather doubt it would do any good.
"Come on now guys. Did I mention that she can twirl fire batons while tap dancing? What? Hang on a minute fellas. She's mumbling something.
"Um, looks like the twirling tapping thing was all a big lie she wrote on her blog. She just told me she has no sense of balance and often falls down even when she's not standing up."
There I'd be, holding my stomach in and arching my back, while an auditorium filled with fat cat white slavery guys sat with their check books closed, judging me. Maybe I'd do a little pose down female body builder style, but without the muscles and the vegetable oil, it would be unimpressive.
"Alright listen. I know she's a washed up forty-something who can't make you any babies, or dance for you, and I'm not even going to pretend that you don't see that weird mole on her foot that should probably be biopsied. But she's a human being, dammit and every human being has value. Now I want you to reach deep into your wallets and your hearts and let's get this bidding started!"
Long story short, I'd eventually be sold to some old guy way in the back for $8 and a set of hubcaps for a 1972 Camero. It would be humiliating. Even though he wouldn't expect as much work out of me as his other white slaves because he would think I was a brain damaged, factory second, blue light special, clearance slave, I wouldn't be happy.
Oh man. White slavery's the worst.
Copyright © Sherri Bailey
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