I’m the Owner of an Orphanage With 24 Lovable Urchins. I’m Suffering Too, and No One is Helping
By Miss Hannigan
I’m Miss Agatha Hannigan, a tough-as-nails bachelorette who runs the Hudson Street Orphanage for Girls in New York City. The girls were abandoned by their parents during the Depression, which has been hard on them. Many of my orphans feel that instead of being treated, they get tricked; that instead of kisses, they get kicked.
Unfortunately, it’s a hard knock life for me as well.
Everyone feels bad for these girls, who have definitely fallen on hard times- but no one talks about how hard it is for the booze loving, spinster vamps who have to take care of them. It’s easy to villainize us; but no one’s there if my dreams at night get creepy, either. No one cares if I grow or if I shrink.
Least of all the US government.
People think the girls I house are adorable li’l scamps, but really, they’re fright-wigged nightmares. I’m only given a small stipend to take care of them, so they earn their keep by keeping the house clean. This simple job is never done quickly or quietly. In fact, they’re usually sweeping while doing an elaborate musical number, swirling their rags and pirouetting on their metal buckets (which were not cheap!!!) The chandelier has had to be replaced several times due to aerial gymnastic incidents… and I won’t apologize for having a chandelier in an orphanage cafeteria, there’s no reason I still can’t enjoy nice things!
Let’s just say that despite my slurred pleas, this dump has never shined like the top of the Chrysler building.
I’m not living the high life here! It’s hard for me to even afford cigarettes to keep at the end of my opera length cigarette holder. I can barely afford the good rouge anymore, I’m down to my last 4 lavender negligees (my work uniform!), and I have had to sell some of my extensive collection of maribou-lined chemises.
The point is, while some women are dripping in diamonds, and some women are dripping in pearls, look at what I’m dripping in: these bitches.
These cold, hungry orphans simply do not need all the help and sympathy they are getting. Just the other day, one of the most snub-nosed rapscallions was taken in by a billionaire trying to soften his public image. A billionaire! Waltzed away by him and his pretty little secretary to his mansion to futz around with two magical dancing bodyguards. But where were Punjab and Asp on the night when a child threatened in song to make me drink a mickey finn? Well, they were escorting the poor little rich girl in a car (!!!) to Radio City Music Hall to watch a movie. Sadly, I have no magical dancing bodyguards.
(Although full disclosure, I did end up drinking a mickey finn that night just for the hell of it.)
There are many ways the US Government could alleviate this situation for us sultry crones. Apparently, the billionaire who scooped up the ginger orphan made a plan with ol’ president FDR and Eleanor to help impoverished children, with no added relief for the hard-living hags who are paid to board them. No one even thought of adding an addendum that would give us a few extra bathtubs of gin each year? No sir; and when that war-mongering rich hottie knocked at my door trying to adopt the kid, did he pay me so much as a finder’s fee? Back rent? A little tongue action? Big fat no. The least they could do is send a bald daddy to each of us spinster’s houses to feel us up a little to make us feel better.
Now that would be my kinda New Deal!
I’m not even asking for myself. As an enterprising American, I’ve taken matters into my own bony hands. I’ve created a foolproof plan to claim what’s mine with my equally assertive brother, Rooster, and his idiot girlfriend Lily St. Regis (who I understand to be from a family of successful hotel-owners). But think of all the other mean, tarted-up boarding house owners who are not as clever as me. We need help just as much as those snub-nosed screeching moppets we are paid to provide a roof for, and we need it soon. Like really soon. Because the sun will come out tomorrow.
And that’s gonna stink, because I plan on being pretty hungover.