A Review Article and Business Proposal
By Patricia Lee Sharpe
Remember the brouhaha over the French politician who waylaid a maid in a classy New York hotel? It was a colossally sordid encounter that ruined the guy’s reputation, career and marriage, a rare trifecta for a Big Man, although mere maids are more easily crushed by the—ahem!—weight of the least scandal. Sneaking around. Doors opening and shutting. The he-said-she-said routine. Was he taking advantage of her? Was she taking advantage of him? The gossips couldn’t decide and the courts were mushy. From opening to end game, the affair gave a sex a very bad name. Again. Hyped or psyched, sex seldom escapes the tsk-tsk chorus.
How odd this is. Sex may not make the world go round, but it sure keeps the globe populated. And fed. As Georgia Okeeffe so elegantly demonstrated, even flowers are breathtakingly sexy, though their own seedy practice is less than emotionally engaging, notwithstanding the suggestive power of nectar-sipping ruby-throated hummingbirds. As for the human sphere, what a contrast! Everything is sexualized, eroticized or at least romanticized. Sex sells and sells and sells, and yet the smut clings. The latest sex slave blockbuster proves it. Millions of copies sold. Millions of readers wallowing in a masturbatory sty of guilt and shame, captives in an upscale mix of harem and tool shed.
Dust Bunnies of the West is committed to changing all that. Sure we’ll have branches in the East, too, but we’re in love with western connotations—wide open spaces, sunshine, blue skies, zephyrs caressing the prairies. Think New Mexico. Hardly ever a day with anything like a shade of gray sky. Ditto the Dust Bunnies’ vision: no dirty corners and no dirty minds—and never never never a dust bunny under a rumpled, unmade bed. We’re energetically on top of every challenge every day. Clean houses. Clean sheets. Clean minds. Clean sex. And this, too: we’re an equal opportunity employer. None need go with his/her/their requirements unsatisfied. Male nurses abound these days. So why not a gamut, a whole bright and beautiful rainbow of options? However you like ‘em, satisfaction guaranteed, in technicolor, with a smile.
Plus we lavish full attention on all senses. For instance, we’ve tamed the cacophony of industry’s most joy-crushing, most obnoxious machine: the vacuum cleaner, an eardrum busting monster that sucks everything up, your pink pearl earring along with table crumbs and boot dirt. Roar and slurp! But not our vacs. They hum. They purr. Wisps of sound, lovely little nothings, intruding so lightly on aural space they’re easily tuned out. But why would you? To hear traffic? To hear the dishwasher? Ah no. These are the sounds of Dust Bunnies of the West functioning perfectly to make you happy: the breeze slithering through prairie grass, the wind slipping among cinnamon-scented ponderosas, the lover with perfect pitch.
Which reminds me: why should a discriminating customer suffer a home that ends up reeking of pine or lemon oil? Or French perfume clichés? Or the funereal obtuseness of lilies and tuberoses? What in this blessed world could be sweeter than the scent of sheets aired in the sun to say nothing of newly showered skin to match? Don’t draw the curtains or close the blinds, fearing exposure. Be bold! Open the window. Open your mind. Open your arms. Breathe deeply. How sweet it is! The deep deep deep holistic Dust Bunny experience!
Uniforms. What to wear? We bounced that around ad nauseum. The body suit was obvious. Leotards are the ultimate tease, concealing and revealing. Easy on, easy off, too, with nape to nookie zipper. One of us—amazingly!—suggested a cute little apron, with ruffles. We hooted that one down, along with the notion of rabbit ears sprouting from a Bunny’s temples. That bit had us in stitches, our gym-sculpted abs screaming in pain. But ah! given the demise of the miracle bra era, it was clearly time for a bunny tail renaissance. No one ogles what’s up front these days. Only the outback catches the eye. Bottoms, buns, rears, asses, buttocks—these are the new boobs. Rubenesque haunches are in. Jeans come with curvy padding.
So Dust Bunnies of the West voted, unanimously, to create the apotheosis of bunny tails, relegating all known cotton ball aberrations to the dust bin of history. Our vision of tail perfection: a generous and truly marvelous downy puff, seductively soft. Gossamer heaven with a velcro anchor. Thus: easy on, easier off. So, close your eyes and brush it across your cheeks. Bury your nose in silky ecstasy. Toss it on the sofa among the throw pillows to remind you of the marvelous moments that make up the all inclusive Dust Bunny experience, because you can have your very own bunny tail for a mere $29.95. Double that for the leotard, too, in the super sexy color of your choosing. Or spring for two tails and join the Dust Bunnies of the West cheer leading squad. Give me an S, give me an E, give me an X. Give me....satisfaction!
Not surprisingly the lemon oil types are hurting—and the things they’re saying! Truly scurrilous! As if our rigorously selected Dust Bunnies of the West were nothing but tumble weeds. We do like a tumble—in the grass, on the beach, on an oriental or a broadloom or, best of all, on a well made bed. After all, spontaneity and you-know-what make the world go round. But as for the weed accusation, we may have to call a lawyer. We’re clean. We honor our contracts. We pay our taxes. Our customers are euphoric. We’re Dust Bunnies of the West, the ultimate in superior maid service—and if you heard “made” service instead, blame it on the slippery English language.