Wait, Wait, Please Tell Me!
A satirical vignette
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. Where your imagination takes you is entirely up to you. All speech included below is protected by the First Amendment, at least for the time being.
The Ten Wives Club
Last week, I shared my musings on the Broligarchy, but one question has lingered: who were the ten women sitting at the table with me at Bore-a-logo? As it turns out, they’re members of the exclusive Broligarchs Wives Club—a mix of past and present wives, plus a ghost or two, all residing at the Wives Compound.
If you recall my investigative piece on the T-room, you’ll remember that the Bros didn’t see us women at the table. At first, I thought we were just decor, like brocade wallpaper. But after some sleuthing, I realized women aren’t mere decoration to these men—they’re property, cheerleaders, vessels for heirs, and beneficiaries of bro-toils and spoils.
Take Brump, Brusk, and Brennedy—each has had three wives. Bramaswamy, the youngest, is still on his first, but give him time. Of all the ex-wives, two are dead (one fell down the stairs, and one met a murkier end), while the rest know better than to criticize the tiny hands that feed them. And children? These Bros excel at spreading their seed—on average, six kids apiece, not counting the "undocumented sprouts" they’ve quietly paid off, shipped away, or aborted. Family values, indeed.
Why do the wives stick around? Why cheer on men with such glaring shortcomings (tiny hands included)? I heard that some of the wives were going to be on one of my favorite NPR shows.
Wait, Wait, Please Tell Me
I turn the radio on . . . The familiar theme song plays.
Wait wait, I have so many questions
Why did you do it, how, when and where
Wait wait, I have so many questions
I'm on the edge, we have no time to spare
Wait, wait, I'm on the edge of my seat
Please tell me, a secret so sweet
Anticipation, won't admit defeat
NPR's game, challenge we meet1
The announcer’s voice crackles to life, “Broadcasting live from from the OPB studios in dark-and-dreary Portland, Oregon, it’s Wait, Wait, Please Tell Me!2 , with your host, Chantrelle Mossbottom. This is the game where everyone looks as clueless as the next guy, and nobody’s a winner.”
[Live audience applause]
“Thank you, thank you! I’m Chantrelle Mossbottom, and boy, do we have a treat for you today. Joining us all the way from the illustrious Wives Compound at Bore-a-logo, please welcome five members of the exclusive Broligarchs Wives Club!”
[Live audience applause—sound of tiny hands clapping]
“Women, welcome to the show. Before we get started let’s introduce—”
“Excuse me. We are not women, we are all ladies!” Queen Maleficent says.
“Ladies, let’s kick off with some introductions. We’ve got Mrs. Brump the First, now a ghost of her former self; Mrs. Brump the Third—Queen Maleficent herself; Brusk’s on-again, off-again techno-muse, sXC3, spelled s-X-C-3; Mrs. Brennedy the Second, whose secrets lie six feet under; and finally, Mrs. Bramaswamy, the rookie in this seasoned lineup. Welcome, ladies.”
“Shall we jump into Round 1? Here’s the deal: I ask a question, and you each spill your secrets. Whoever drops the juiciest tidbit is the biggest loser. First up: What’s your husband’s most redeeming physical feature? Mrs. Brump the First?”
“His butt. Wide as a loveseat. I always adore man with big butt.”
“Interesting visual,” Chantrelle says, suppressing a laugh. “Queen Maleficent?”
“I don’t care. I really don’t.”
“Noted. Moving on. sXC3, what about you?”
“Like, his interface, you know? I’m all about his… uh… connectivity. Yeah, I totally vibe with his Xs and Os.”
“Tech-forward, got it. Mrs. Brennedy?”
“The worm in his brain. At least it explains his poor decision-making.”
“Ouch,” Chantrelle says, “get it out, girl. All’s fair. Mrs. Bramaswamy?”
“I’d have to say his ears, nose and throat, I’m an ENT, so—”
“Me too—Meyers-Briggs ENTP! Sister, I knew I liked you!”
“Not that kind—”
[Ding, ding, ding!]
“Round 2! Let’s raise the stakes: What’s the most embarrassing situation you’ve been caught in with your husband?Queen Maleficent, let’s start with you.”
“His lies, but, of course, I don’t care.”
Chantrelle nods. “Consistency is key. Mrs. Brump the First?”
“Same here, but I did care—deeply.”
“Yikes, that is a surprise! Who knew that Brump ever lied?” says Chantrelle. “sXC3?”
“Like, maybe the time he invited my friend over for a threesome and neither of us was interested? Or when he insisted on calling me ‘Grimey.’ He thinks it’s, like, dirty talk, or whatever.”
“Charming. Mrs. Brennedy?”
“Hmmm… a notebook that details his trysts with thirty-seven different women while he was with me. That’s how I ended up with this noose around my neck. Beyond embarrassing.”
“Well, at least he’s organized?”
“Not the point.”
“Fair. Mrs. Bramaswamy, your turn.”
“Flirting with him by mentioning another guy named Bramy. He walked away, and I wanted to evaporate. So humiliating.”
“Oh, honey, bless your heart. You really need a hobby.”
[Ding, ding, ding!]
“Final round, ladies! The question we’ve all been waiting for: What’s your secret Bro sauce? How do you keep the sparks flying? Queen Maleficent?”
“I don’t care. Loyalty. Stand by your man, or else.”
“Good to know. Mrs. Brump the First?”
“Loyalty. Sometimes people fall down stairs. It happens.”
Chantrelle’s eyebrows shoot up. “Right. sXC3?”
“Like, um, just cheer him on. You know, rah-rah, tiny hands, big dreams.”
“Nice slogan. Mrs. Brennedy?”
“Shut up, smile, and be glad he hasn’t found a new noose for you.”
“Dark. But real. And Mrs. Bramaswamy?”
“Keep him happy in bed, and he’ll never stray. Behind every great man is a great lady.”
“Got it. Blind devotion and bedroom diplomacy.”
[Ding, ding, ding!]
“That’s a wrap, folks! Any final words, ladies?”
In unison, the wives chant, “Give us a B, give us an R, give us an O and an S. What’s that spell? Bros! Go Bros!”
[Exit music fades out]
Sighing, I turn off the radio and bury my face in my hands. So disappointing. The ladies who lunch are no better than I imagined.
©Lyrics by Anne Page McClard, voiced and backed by Udio.
Inspired by the NPR show called Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me!
Vicious. I like it.
Fabulous!