want just one, and you deny having two!” Trina shouted. “Trifling, just trifling.”
Mr. St. John looked at yet another page. “No. It’s right here. It seems you gave them up for adoption. You used an adoption agency twice to ‘sell’ your children.”
“I most certainly did not!”
LIE!
“Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said, “we have the proof right here.”
There is so much paint on her eyes, and now she’s trying to cry it all off. If it were lead-based paint, she’d have more brain damage than she already has. Why do women do that to themselves anyway? Don’t most men want to see a woman’s eyes and not the tin roof over them?
“All right,” Tonya said. “I had two children, but I was very young.”
TRUE!
“How old were you?” Mr. St. John asked.
“I was . . . eighteen.”
LIE!
“I was desperate.”
TRUE!
“I couldn’t support them.”
TRUE!
“Didn’t you make one hundred thousand dollars from selling your children?” Mr. St. John asked.
“I didn’t sell them for a hundred thousand dollars.”
LIE!
She probably bought a tanning bed with the money. I’ll bet she sleeps in it every night. She looks like a human football, and her teeth are the laces.
“Please relax, Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said. “This is actually your lucky day. A delightful, enchanting young lady saw your picture online at this show’s Web site. She saw a strong resemblance between her and you, so she contacted the show’s producer. The producer mentioned this to me, and—”
“Those records are supposed to be sealed!” Tonya cried.
“Well, the young lady is twenty-one now and wanted to meet her birth mother,” Mr. St. John said. “I didn’t have the heart to deny her.” He looked back at the file. “You wrote in your application that you’re twenty-five. That would make you a medical miracle, Miss Thomas. Did you really have a child when you were four years old?”
“It must be a misprint,” Tonya said.
LIE!
“And you misprinted it,” Mr. St. John said. “This young lady wants to meet you. Tonight.”
A young woman walked out of the mansion. Though she didn’t have a tan, her resemblance to Tonya was unmistakable.
“Mama?” she said. “Mama, is that really you?” She ran to embrace Tonya from behind. “I am so glad I finally found you!”
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Tonya whispered.
“Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said, “I would never consider a woman who didn’t want her own children, denied having children, and lied about her age. You two have a lot to catch up on. Good-bye, Miss Thomas.”
That poor child! What this must be like for her. The mother who didn’t want me is a football . . .
8
T rina thought that Rich Man, Lucky Lady was like the worst of Maury, Montel, and Jerry Springer all on one show. The ratings must be off the charts.
During a commercial, Trina surfed to Facebook and looked at what her friends—all five dozen of them—were already saying about the show:
“This show is off the chain! This is REAL reality TV! I can’t stop laughing!”
“Is this for real? ’Cuz if it is, I will be watching this show every week!”
“That man is DESTROYING those women! Those LYING WENCHES are getting what they DESERVE!” “Who chooses the women for that show? They’re all trifling hos. Let me get up on there.”
Trina clicked on a comment below the last post:
“Girl, you tripping. You know you just got out of jail. LOL!”
That last woman, Trina thought. Just when she thought she had a shot at millions from lying about having children, one of the kids she “sold” robs her of the chance. A fitting end. Life does come full circle sometimes. Karma’s gonna get you. I truly like Vincent St. John’s methods.
Oh, it’s the tall woman in the short silver metallic cocktail dress. Stork lady, you’re about to be cut down to size.
“Miss Lauren Gray, you are employed at Bess Baron as a stockbroker, is that right?” Mr. St.
Mr. St. John looked at yet another page. “No. It’s right here. It seems you gave them up for adoption. You used an adoption agency twice to ‘sell’ your children.”
“I most certainly did not!”
LIE!
“Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said, “we have the proof right here.”
There is so much paint on her eyes, and now she’s trying to cry it all off. If it were lead-based paint, she’d have more brain damage than she already has. Why do women do that to themselves anyway? Don’t most men want to see a woman’s eyes and not the tin roof over them?
“All right,” Tonya said. “I had two children, but I was very young.”
TRUE!
“How old were you?” Mr. St. John asked.
“I was . . . eighteen.”
LIE!
“I was desperate.”
TRUE!
“I couldn’t support them.”
TRUE!
“Didn’t you make one hundred thousand dollars from selling your children?” Mr. St. John asked.
“I didn’t sell them for a hundred thousand dollars.”
LIE!
She probably bought a tanning bed with the money. I’ll bet she sleeps in it every night. She looks like a human football, and her teeth are the laces.
“Please relax, Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said. “This is actually your lucky day. A delightful, enchanting young lady saw your picture online at this show’s Web site. She saw a strong resemblance between her and you, so she contacted the show’s producer. The producer mentioned this to me, and—”
“Those records are supposed to be sealed!” Tonya cried.
“Well, the young lady is twenty-one now and wanted to meet her birth mother,” Mr. St. John said. “I didn’t have the heart to deny her.” He looked back at the file. “You wrote in your application that you’re twenty-five. That would make you a medical miracle, Miss Thomas. Did you really have a child when you were four years old?”
“It must be a misprint,” Tonya said.
LIE!
“And you misprinted it,” Mr. St. John said. “This young lady wants to meet you. Tonight.”
A young woman walked out of the mansion. Though she didn’t have a tan, her resemblance to Tonya was unmistakable.
“Mama?” she said. “Mama, is that really you?” She ran to embrace Tonya from behind. “I am so glad I finally found you!”
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Tonya whispered.
“Miss Thomas,” Mr. St. John said, “I would never consider a woman who didn’t want her own children, denied having children, and lied about her age. You two have a lot to catch up on. Good-bye, Miss Thomas.”
That poor child! What this must be like for her. The mother who didn’t want me is a football . . .
8
T rina thought that Rich Man, Lucky Lady was like the worst of Maury, Montel, and Jerry Springer all on one show. The ratings must be off the charts.
During a commercial, Trina surfed to Facebook and looked at what her friends—all five dozen of them—were already saying about the show:
“This show is off the chain! This is REAL reality TV! I can’t stop laughing!”
“Is this for real? ’Cuz if it is, I will be watching this show every week!”
“That man is DESTROYING those women! Those LYING WENCHES are getting what they DESERVE!” “Who chooses the women for that show? They’re all trifling hos. Let me get up on there.”
Trina clicked on a comment below the last post:
“Girl, you tripping. You know you just got out of jail. LOL!”
That last woman, Trina thought. Just when she thought she had a shot at millions from lying about having children, one of the kids she “sold” robs her of the chance. A fitting end. Life does come full circle sometimes. Karma’s gonna get you. I truly like Vincent St. John’s methods.
Oh, it’s the tall woman in the short silver metallic cocktail dress. Stork lady, you’re about to be cut down to size.
“Miss Lauren Gray, you are employed at Bess Baron as a stockbroker, is that right?” Mr. St.
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