Felma Sashay moved about the plaza with her uncommon grace capturing every gaze she passed. He rich brown hair swept down from her smooth brown shoulders and barely whisked the tops of the milkshake cups strapped to her ample hips. The people she passed would smile knowingly and ask: “Vanilla? Chocolate? Pineapple?”
Felma would smile back. “Order one and find out,” she’d say in her husky contralto.
Invariably, they would march down to Ebig’s Cold and Frothy Stuff and order up a milkshake. Not just any milkshake, but one actually shaken with the motion of Felma’s famous hips as she pursued errands for Ebig and the folks at the shop. Regulars claimed that the shakes from Felma’s hips were frothier, thicker, and sweeter than those from the conventional machine.
Part of the deal, of course, was that you got to follow her around and watch your milkshake come to life. Sales to women were understandably slow, but Ebig didn’t care much about that. He was working on an idea that involved transducing the energy projected from a Giles Croonboom concert into the same shaking motion provided by Felma’s hips. He figured that would probably balance out his clientele.