Flo Schmo, the SMO Pro

Location: Moe’s Diner, Podunksville, USA
Characters: Moe, the owner of the diner, and Flo, waitress and SMO pro
Scene: Moe, the older, balding man who owns the place, walks into his diner. As the chief cook and bottle washer in addition to the CEO for this greasy spoon, he wears a skull cap across his sweating brow and an apron which seems to be perpetually stained with hamburger grease and the occasional stray tomato seed.

Moe: “Flo! Where are ya? I’m needing to have a chat with ya.”

Flo (approaching the counter after taking the corner table’s order): “Coming, coming, Moe. For goodness sake, pipe down. What’s your all-fired hurry?”

Moe (wiping his brow with a rag retrieved from the pocket of his checkered pants, bagging around slim hips beneath a protruding belly): “It’s the business, Flo. I reckon I don’t know where to go from here.”

Flo (using a bleach-infused rag to wipe the countertop of apple pie crumbs as she listened to her boss and his woes): “That new website ain’t doing for you what you expected?” Flo cracks her gum while she listens to Moe’s sheepish reply.

“Naw…Used one of them places plastered all over Yahoo to get me a site on the world wide web set up. Can’t see as how it’s doing me anything for me other than costing a whole passel of dough for a big fat nothin’.”

Flo snaps her wash cloth one last time across the counter top and leans back against the grill.

Mistake.

Flo sniffs the air and catches a whiff of something which reminds her of burning plastic. She quickly feels a searing heat in a horizontal line across her fanny. She yelps and jumps forward, rubbing her bottom as she regards Moe’s amused grin. She finally recognizes the smell – a hot iron hitting polyester uniform material.
“Moe – ” she sputters. “You…you can just kiss my grits!”

“Now hold on just a goldurned minute there, Flo. Wasn’t my fault.” Moe gets up and goes around the counter to assess Flo’s backside. He swats at the lingering embers surrounding two big holes in her pink polyester uniform with one beefy hand.

Flo swatts back, using her open palm against Moe’s cheek. “Moe Bailey, you keep those meat hooks off’n my behind now, you hear?”

Moe backs away sheepishly, taking a last, lingering look at Flo’s bottom and the shapely legs revealed by the short skirt of her waitress uniform. He shakes his head.

Flo adjusts her skirt and pats the bottom of her beehive hairdo with one hand as she asks, “Now, Moe we was talking about your website. How you just put it up there on the web and nothing else has happened. Whadya expect to happen? That people was just going to flock on in here?”

Moe straightens his skull cap and wipes a palm across his brow again. “Well…yeah.”

Flo takes her wash rag and flicks Moe’s beefy forearm with its tip. “Well, duh! ‘Just cuz you build it they will come’? Sheesh, Moe, if it was that easy, everyone on the internet would be rich right now.”