Rear Admirable Rasputin Riboflavin pondered the particulars of his forearm and the freshly inked tattoo thereupon that read “Kendall Labra Forever.” He had never been so full of regret in his life.
Rasputin looked over at Commodore Shutthedore who was sleeping on the floor. Oh balderdash! It had been another one of those nights!
One didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes, to grasp the extent of the reveling that occurred during the height of the euphoria at last night’s annual British Navy Tupperware party.
Rear Admirable Rasputin Riboflavin hated himself for what he had become. A Tupperware fiend. Some officers could take it or leave it. But not Rear Admirable Rasputin Riboflavin. He could only take it.
If only he weren’t so hell bent on preserving his leftovers in perfectly-engineered containers with their alluring interchangeable lids. If only he could be transported back in time, before he ever heard of Tupperware and before he ever met beautiful Tupperware Consultant, Kendall Labra, whose name was now engraved in his Rear-Admiral forearm forever.
A set of six, neatly-stacked Fridge Stackables lay at Rasputin’s feet. They were blue — a shade of blue that reminded him of something. But what? The blue of the Indian Ocean on a clear day beneath a cloudless sky? Or perhaps the blue of a Singapore Blue tarantula lazing on a leaf in the late afternoon Malaysia jungle?
Oh who was he kidding? Of course he knew that blue! It was the blue of Kendall Labra’s tempestuous eyes, a blue that flashed like a set of 16-ounce turquoise tumblers the day she left him to run away with Jimmy VonJanuary — taking her entire Tupperware collection with her –and leaving nothing in her wake but Rasputin’s broken heart and lots of spoiled leftovers.
“Say old chap!” Commodore Shutthedore was awake now. Hadn’t we best be getting back to the battleship? The war will be starting soon.”
Rear Admiral Rasputin Riboflavin nodded solemnly and unrolled his sleeve until Kendall Labra’s name disappeared.
Until next time . . . I love you