Drabble: Wet
Title: Wet
Fandom: DWP
Words: 282 words
Notes: Miranda Priestly
A/N: Written for the prompt meme and punky_96's prompt on the phrase: "You sunk my battleship."
Miranda Priestly would never speak openly of her dislike of some of the more fashionably-challenged hangers-on of the glitterati that seemed to delight in making everyone wish that they were blind; and all this at the annual Costume Institute gala. Her only solace was the fact that these embarrassments that sought to be on the cutting edge would never be allowed to even step into the elevators to Runway. Being on the leading tip of fashion did not permit oneself to leap off into a pool of foolishness that beggared itself as design.
It was always with some ironic amusement that Irving Ravitz's companions for these evenings also fell into that particular trap. Bedecked and bejeweled with enough 'bling' to have supported a small country, his guests were the epitome of ostentatious consumption and drew more titillating laughter than praise. This year proved no different -- if nothing, Irv was predictable in his choices -- tall, willowy bottled blondes that always seemed to suggest that their colourists had dipped too far into the colourant and had lost some of their brain cells on the way. Beyond having a very well-endowed bosom, these young ladies were as vacuous as the blow-up dolls they so resembled.
It was with no small degree of amusement to witness a collision between the waitstaff and the latest young lady and the revelation that her magnificent bust had unfortunately sprung a small leak and was deflating at an unseemly pace. Indeed, it might have been with a hint of glee barely hidden that she made her observation on the nature of sweetheart gowns serving as prows; Irv had just had his trophy battleship sunk and retired off the field.
Fandom: DWP
Words: 282 words
Notes: Miranda Priestly
A/N: Written for the prompt meme and punky_96's prompt on the phrase: "You sunk my battleship."
Miranda Priestly would never speak openly of her dislike of some of the more fashionably-challenged hangers-on of the glitterati that seemed to delight in making everyone wish that they were blind; and all this at the annual Costume Institute gala. Her only solace was the fact that these embarrassments that sought to be on the cutting edge would never be allowed to even step into the elevators to Runway. Being on the leading tip of fashion did not permit oneself to leap off into a pool of foolishness that beggared itself as design.
It was always with some ironic amusement that Irving Ravitz's companions for these evenings also fell into that particular trap. Bedecked and bejeweled with enough 'bling' to have supported a small country, his guests were the epitome of ostentatious consumption and drew more titillating laughter than praise. This year proved no different -- if nothing, Irv was predictable in his choices -- tall, willowy bottled blondes that always seemed to suggest that their colourists had dipped too far into the colourant and had lost some of their brain cells on the way. Beyond having a very well-endowed bosom, these young ladies were as vacuous as the blow-up dolls they so resembled.
It was with no small degree of amusement to witness a collision between the waitstaff and the latest young lady and the revelation that her magnificent bust had unfortunately sprung a small leak and was deflating at an unseemly pace. Indeed, it might have been with a hint of glee barely hidden that she made her observation on the nature of sweetheart gowns serving as prows; Irv had just had his trophy battleship sunk and retired off the field.