Model U.N.: An International Mishap

Owen was sweating bullets when he saw his aunt approaching. Thankfully his mother, Andrea, who had arrived directly from the airport per his aunt's instructions, was still with him to provide support.

Determined to break his lack of resolve, Owen's domineering aunt went on the offensive.

"Pull yourself together Owen," Mrs. Parnell chided as her attempted stage whisper attracted more attention than she or her nephew would have liked. "You're a grown man for God's sake. Do you really need your mommy to calm you down?"

"And Andrea," continued the officious prima donna, "you're doing him nothing but a disservice by being here. Please just go to your seat."

"But . . . but . . . he's my son . . ," mumbled Owen's shocked but cowed mother.

"A wonderful statement of the obvious," scolded Danielle, "now it's time you got off the stage."

Completely intimidated by her overbearing sister-in-law, Andrea skulked back to her seat just as the debate moderator could be heard introducing Erica Lee. When the young Chinese woman stepped to the podium, Danielle, who had not set eyes on Owen's competition backstage, was shocked by what she saw. No longer a poster-child for androgyny, the stunning 18 year-old walked confidently across the stage in a pair of 4.5" black Manolo Blahnik heels, a tastefully tight leather pencil skirt and a crisp, white, fitted, three-quarter sleeved, cotton oxford top that, with the top two buttons undone made it clear to all that the otherwise slight but fit girl had a very impressive bust line. With her hair up in a tight bun, black cat-eye glasses sitting on her nose and a wearing a very bright shade of red lipstick, Erica Lee looked every bit the formidable debater.

"The slutty little tramp," Danielle thought, shaken somewhat by the Chinese beauty. "Nothing but a little tart in women's clothing."

Once Owen had been introduced, the debate began in earnest -- and Owen's meltdown continued. On topic after topic -- from the Ebola epidemic to the rise of ISIS in the Middle East, from the financial crisis in Europe to the weakening Chinese economy -- he was being bested by Erica whose thorough preparation and unyielding command of the subject matter showed hers to be the superior skill at every turn. Watching from her seat, Andrea's heart broke for her son who before this weekend had only gained confidence from his experience debating. Her blood was boiling because she knew the cause of the current predicament was his overbearing aunt. I only hope someday that woman gets a taste of her own medicine Andrea seethed. That day was just around the corner.

Standing backstage in her patriotic best, Danielle was nearly apoplectic. She saw Owen's pathetic performance as an indictment of her country and her methods and she was not about to let the little fool ruin either one's good name. Grabbing a long hook-ended transom poll, the determined lawyer made her way along the back of the stage curtain until that was all that separated her from her flailing nephew -- it was time to pull Slow'en off the stage -- by force if necessary. Tossing her blue bolero jacket to the floor so as not to have to sully her highly moisturized knees, and with her straw boater hat still in place, Mrs. Danielle Parnell lifted the heavy blue curtain behind Owen and began to inch out. Luckily, no one in the audience could see her as she tried to hook her hapless nephew's pant leg.

On stage, the topic had changed to the influence of pop-culture on modern society - in particular the objectification of women. As Erica Lee launched into a withering critique of the issue Owen, in a near catatonic state, began to daydream. Looking lustily at his opponent, he thought, "I'd like to objectify you Ms. Lee - with your leather skirt and cat-eye glasses." But as Erica continued her diatribe Owen's thoughts turned to his sexy but unbearably cruel aunt who had emasculated him at every turn this weekend.

"I wonder how she'd like it if everyone saw her in her underwear," he thought to himself again. In a few moments he would know.

While watching events unfold from the comfort of the auditorium's control room, Rachel Miras, Erica's American sponsor "mom" and one of Mrs. Parnell's neighbors outside D.C., spied on a video monitor the worried visage of the usually hyper-confident Danielle poking out from beneath the curtained backdrop on stage. With a long pole in hand, the arrogant narcissist appeared poised to pull her nephew backwards. The comely counselor also seemed to be mumbling something -- but what thought Rachel. Looking down at the control panel before her -- and outside the notice of the soundboard's technician -- Mrs. Miras flipped a switch labeled "Stage Floor Mic" from off to on.

"You idiot," a highly amplified but faceless female voice suddenly broke into the debate, to the shock of everyone in attendance.

"Can you do nothing right," it continued, trumpeting from the Reagan Center's loud speakers but as yet without a known point of origin.

"I waste an entire weekend trying to help you but you're just a pathetic loser . . . and a pervert," the mystery voice continued, as the competitors, audience members and moderators, laughing somewhat uncomfortably, began craning their heads to see who was speaking.

"And what do I get for my efforts anyway . . . NOTHING . . . nothing but a Chinese girl beating your ass. Why didn't you just explain that -- to you -- objectifying a woman means spying on your aunt changing at a clothing store."

With that, and for the first time, Danielle heard it -- amidst the silence of the shocked auditorium -- the echo of her own voice. Thanks to Rachel Miras, Mrs. Parnell's self-awareness came hand-in-glove with the crowd's, for at that moment a giant screen above the stage flickered to life showing the stunned diva, on her knees, pole in hand, with her straw-boat hatted head poking out from under the curtain. The daffy look on her usually smug face telegraphed the humiliation she felt at having all those present hear the insults she usually targeted only at individually terrified recipients. Still unaware of the floor microphone below her, the mortified mother of three shamefully shouted out, "I'VE NEVER BEEN SO EMBARRASSED IN MY LIFE!"

Noticing that three of the curtain's weighted hooks had brushed over Danielle's very firm backside and settled under the hem of her skirt, and having been on the receiving end of more than one of the preening prima donna's put downs, Mrs. Miras smiled to herself, "wanna' bet!"

Frozen in place by the sound of her own terrified voice, Mrs. Parnell failed to notice, until it was too late, that the hooks from the curtain had snagged onto the hem of her all-American dress. As Mrs. Miras, now manning the control panel herself with the encouragement of the male technicians, caused the curtain to climb quickly from the stage floor, Danielle's once stylish white wrap-around pleated skirt opened wide to the cheers and laughter of the men and women in the crowd.

"Now it's show time," said Rachel to her new friends as she accelerated the ascent of the curtain.

On stage, the once supremely confident Mrs. Parnell was coming undone. No sooner had her skirt unclasped and left her body than did the curtain hooks catch on the back of her red and white striped cotton tank-top sweater -- pulling it up over her fit arms and ample bosom before tearing it completely off. In an instant, the bane of Owen's existence had been publicly stripped to her 5" blue and white spectator platform heels, her tiny stars-and-stripes thong and her matching push up bra. While every man watching could feel the blood flowing to his nether regions, the women in the audience, particularly those who had watched the little tease parading into the arena only thirty minutes or so before, went wild.

"Nice panties sweetheart," yelled one.

"You're a great American," teased another.

"That's what you get for messing with my son," cried a thrilled and howling Andrea Parnell.

Danielle's head was spinning. What had just happened, where were her stylish clothes, her armor? She was the one who was supposed to be in control . . . not these peons. How dare these people laugh at her? And then . . . oh my god, I'm practically naked . . . I have to do something . . . they're all looking at me . . . even . . . oh no . . . even Slow'en. Without waiting for her mind to catch up, and while her hands alternatively shielded her thong covered bottom and her glorious 34Cs, Danielle's body made a break for it. But as she attempted to run off stage, the now incredibly confident Owen, happier than he'd been in days, picked up the transom rod and lunged after the fleeing sexpot. As the pole's hooked end snagged the back of her red, white and blue bra, the nearly naked Mrs. Parnell came to an abrupt stop before the flimsy garment . . . strained to its breaking point . . . unclipped in front and flew into the audience.

With the laughter and cat calls nearing a crescendo, and with her spectacular tits now on display for all to see, the nearly broken show-off, in an effort to hasten her escape, kicked off her sexy platform heels. Thinking the end was in sight, Danielle was shocked to run squarely into Erica Lee, who in her own 4.5" heels now towered over her previous day's tormentor. Remembering how rude the arrogant American had been to her, the gorgeous Erica Lee mockingly remarked, "it's unfortunate that you've traveled so far only to lose dear. Look on the bright side though, given your current state of dress it will be nice for you to have an opportunity to find some more stylish clothes and maybe even get a cute haircut. Oh, by the way, consider it a blessing that this Chinese girl doesn't beat your ass."

Standing before over one thousand guffawing people, wearing nothing but her tiny thong and her straw boater hat, Mrs. Danielle Parnell had been truly defeated and, with the humiliation welling up insider her, it appeared that the former alpha mom would soon topple from the stage. As she began to pass out, however, she was saved from a hard fall by the arms of her nephew, Owen, who as he gently eased her over his bony knee for a sound public spanking began to loudly repeat what to her was by now a familiar refrain, "lesson number one, 'part of being a winner is looking the part.'"

Whack . . .

"Lesson number two, 'intimidate your adversary -- remember that!'"

Whack, whack . . .

"Lesson number three, 'show no mercy.'"

Whack, whack, whack, whack . . .

"Lesson number four, 'winning isn't everything, it's the only thing' . . . lesson number five, 'never let them see you sweat.'"

As the fully erect teen rained smacks down on his humiliated aunt's fantastic ass, with her boater hat now firmly on his head, he thought he heard the broken diva utter one final thing before she passed out completely.

"Is this what you'd like to see Auntie D wearing . . . ," she asked longingly and sweetly.

"Indeed it is, you little tease," thought Owen, "indeed it is."