Gabe loves fan fiction. You Can Make It Up features his own personal alternate adventures starring some of our favorite characters.
Betty White’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and spoke into the conical mouthpiece. “Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line was very faint, so Betty gave the lever a few cranks. That was better. “Hello?” She pulled a Werther’s Original from her right housecoat pocket, and delicately unwrapped it. She placed the warm toffee in her mouth, and then carefully tucked the empty wrapper into her left housecoat pocket. Each week, she would refill her right housecoat pocket with more candies, and empty out the wrappers from the left housecoat pocket. She had found, over the years, that life was made easier by having reliable routines.
“Betty, babe, it’s me.” It was Betty White’s publicist. Betty could hear her loudly smacking on that cocaine-flavored gum she was always chewing. And she could picture her staring at her nails the way she always did, like some harlot who had double-filled her dance card. But Betty always kept her mouth shut (lest the candy fall out), because the woman had been incredibly effective in secretly resuscitating her career and making it look like a grassroots Internet campaign. Which reminded her, she needed to call her nephew and ask him what the Internet was.
“Oh hi, Sybil,” Betty said. “I was just eating a candy.”
“That’s great. Betty, sweetheart, I need you to do me a favor. Everything’s been going great with this whole 10th-inning career reboot. Everybody wants a piece of your hot, geriatric ass. And the best part is everyone thinks this was their idea. And I look like a fucking genius. But what is gonna take to get you on Facebook? The kids will eat it up, Betty.”
Betty watched a squirrel playing in the yard. “That’s nice dear.”
The publicist sighed. “Stay with me, Betty. Will you set up a Facebook account? I’m telling you, people on the Internet will shit their pants. They will jizz EVERYWHERE.”
Betty White should have been upset by the crudeness of her publicist’s language, but she wasn’t, because she hadn’t heard it, because she’d set the phone down to go outside to pet the squirrel.
“OK,” the publicist said, a hopeful tone in her voice. “I’m sending someone from the office over this afternoon with a computer. He’s going to help get you set up. Stay bad, bitch.” The publicist hung up her Bluetooth and punched the gas in her Maserati. Her dog was going to be late for puppy pilates!
Later that afternoon, a young man in a two-button Ed Hardy suit and wraparound Oakleys with the Bluetooth headset actually built in to the arms knocked on Betty White’s door. She invited him in, but before he could say anything, she had already sat him down for tea and cucumber finger sandwiches. “A gentleman puts the napkin in his lap,” she said sternly, motioning towards the iron-pressed napkin rolled in an ivory napkin holder. The young man, high out of his mind, and still thinking about the blowjob he’d gotten that afternoon from a girl he had told he was casting director stared at her. “A gentleman puts the napkin in his lap,” Betty White said again. The gentleman, who was not a gentleman at all, did.
After tea, the young man booted up the computer he had brought with him and asked Betty for her wireless password. “My what-erless huh?” Betty said. The young man groaned and then plugged a 3G wireless card into the USB port. Once he was on-line he went to Facebook. “OK, he said,” desperate to get out of there and go call his drug dealer for some more expensive designer drugs like the kind he was on right now. “You’re all set. You just need to put in your email address and then it should be pretty straight forward.”
Betty White sat down at the computer and typed in her street address.
The young man groaned again. He quickly set up a hotmail account, email@example.com. As the man hurried out, Betty White smiled and said, “you’re going to make a young woman very happy someday, you heartbreaker.” She watched him back out of the driveway to make sure he was OK. Then she watched the empty driveway for a few minutes, thinking about death and people she had loved along the way.
Betty White sat down once more at the computer. “Interests…hmmm…well, I like to play Mah Jongg.”
That reminded her, she needed to call Carol and set up next week’s Mah Jongg game. She closed the laptop, wrote “To: Facebook” on the front, placed a stamp in the corner, and put it in her mailbox. Hopefully Carol was still awake, although Betty knew it was risky to call after 5PM. Worst case scenario, she could leave her a message on her coal-powered answering machine.