Busy body bartenders Betty and Bonnie blew billows of smoke from their Benson and Hedges behind a bar on Bute and belted back brandy and Benedictines. Before bussing to the bistro, they had just baked bread in their brand new bungalow beside the abandoned barracks in Burnaby, and were beat from brandishing bicarbonate. They preferred bantering with their buddies, one being Bob, a bon vivant biologist, who was late. “He’s probably bonking that bitch from Bosnia, Beatrice, the babe with the boobs.” The previous night’s brouhaha from the basement next door hadn’t boosted Bonnie’s mood, either. “Did you hear the banging from Brad’s basement before breakfast?”

“I told Barbara she shouldn’t rent to a bachelor.” Betty butted her cigarette, burning the blister on her finger. “And to think she balked at renting to us because we breed birds. Beastly bats, she calls them. Just because Bennie the budgie bolted from his cage and buzzed her beehive, she got all bent out of shape.”

“Not as bad as her brawling brats. Those boys battered my begonia boxes. I hope they brought home bugs.”

“Wasn’t Barbara bedridden with Barr Epstein?

“Bosh! You mean bulimia. Did you get a boo how much she blimped out?”

Bob and Beatrice bellied up to the bar to buy beer, bowls of borscht, and biscuits with brie and bacon bits.

“Beautiful.” Betty boogied off to the kitchen, bumping the billiard table.

“Then, after, let’s blow out to the bay for a blast in the boat instead of bivouacking around here bickering on such a balmy evening.”


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