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August 03, 2005

It's That Time Of Year....

It's summertime, and the results are in:

As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.

I must confess I rather prefer this:

Patricia wrote out the phrase 'It was a dark and stormy night' exactly seventy-two times, which was the same number of times she stabbed her now quickly-rotting husband, and the same number of pages she ripped out of 'He's Just Not That Into You' by Greg Behrendt to scatter around the room -- not because she was obsessive compulsive, or had any sentimental attachment to the number seventy-two, but because she'd always wanted to give those quacks at CSI a hard time.

Or this:

Wet leaves stuck to the spinning wagon wheels like feathers to a freshly tarred heretic, reminding those who watched them of the endless movement of the leafy earth-or so they would have, if only those fifteenth-century onlookers had believed that the earth actually rotated, which they didn't, which is why it was heretical to say that it did-and which is the reason why the wagon held a freshly tarred heretic in the first place."

Oh my God...

After she realized the man she had fallen in love with was her long lost twin brother and they must break up immediately, they shared one last kiss that left a bitter yet sweet taste in her mouth--kind of like throwing up after eating a junior mint.

Are we on for a little contest of our own? Worst opening for a torrid novel? A little something like this, for example?

It was a dark and stormy night, jet black as the plush leather seats of the Mazda RX8 that gripped Delilah's trembling thighs like an overzealous car salesman on a slow afternoon, the inky void relieved only by the eerily grinning face of the Bose radio dial... as her sandaled toe caressed the clutch gently to the floor and she experienced what she could only describe thereinafter as a low polar moment of yaw inertia, she was confidently aware that the pre-loaded multilink design in back would minimize any lag in rear suspension response as she headed into a steep curve and she suddenly knew she would never go back to Brett...it was over.

Posted by Cassandra at August 3, 2005 07:44 AM

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Brett stared at his keyboard for a moment that seemed to last an eternity, maybe even longer than that, as he struggled to find the proper words to begin his last long missive to Delilah, the love of his painfully short love life, a love life that now appeared even more painfully over thanks to her wonton behavior involving car salesmen and his own fecklessness at adjusting her carburators, and then he began typing slowly, pecking each letter on the keyboard as if it was ripped from his very soul, watching as the pain of his broken heart flickered to life across the monitor: "Dear Bunny..." it began.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 10:05 AM

I'm just biding my time until a real crime is committed.

Posted by: CSI Blogosphere at August 3, 2005 10:12 AM

As the words "Dear Bunny..." slowly scrolled onto the tiny window of her Blackberry in the waiting room of the ALASE clinic, Delilah felt her heart slamming into gear and reflexively she double-clutched as her heart flew over the speedbump...but Brett was dead...this couldn't be... dear God she was afraid to believe the whole mad, beautiful, tragic dream could come to life again - could two star-crossed lovers find each other again after being drenched in flour and passion and honey and bleeding their lives away on the floor of Farouk's Souk and Pastry Nook in Barboursville?

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 10:43 AM

"I am in Mexico, darling, suffering from the wounds that you and your Egyption baker inflicted upon both my body and my heart that day long ago on Barboursville Street, a day that now seems an enternity ago, maybe even longer, and I am missing you as I sweat the blood of the unjustly wronged, the blood of an innocent man who only wanted to lift to the highest of heights and even higher but instead found himself battered in love and broken in spirit and now struck down with the most intense case of Mantazuma's revenge you ever heard of, and mayebe even worse than that if you can believe it, but not so bad as to keep from writing to you, you cheating harlot" Brett typed breathlessly, the laptop perched upon his knees flickering dimly in the dark dank loo of the seedy flophouse located just outside Rancho Malario, two miles from the nearest Taco Bell and eight million light years from his past, maybe even further.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 11:33 AM

My God, spd. That was truly... indescribable.

You haven't lost your touch. I don't think anyone can make me laugh the way you can, you fool :)

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 11:42 AM

Delilah began to sob as she read those words text messaged across the micrscreen of her cell phone.

Yes, she would speed to his side. Caressing the pulsing shaft of the shift lever with a long remembered familiarity of such delights, she began the long drive to rendezvous with destiny, no matter how many cops and road blocks there were...Brett was hers again!

Posted by: Cricket at August 3, 2005 12:12 PM

On second thought, scratch that last because this sounds so personal, that maybe Brett and Delilah sould write their own torrid reunion tale.

I am just along for the ride and observing Delilah's delight.

Posted by: Cricket at August 3, 2005 12:15 PM

No, that's OK Cricket.

As she drove, Delilah remembered how she'd lain on the table at the clinic, unsure whether the tears that streamed from her tightly shut eyes were caused by the laser skimming over her delicate bikini area or Brett's remembered, "...you cheating harlot..." on her Blackberry, and she'd snidely mused that this was just like a man, because if he had just bought her that Lady Schick then none of this would ever have happened, would it? ... but now she would have to go to Rancho Malerio, and as the laser continued to torment her like a bad case of prickly heat a final incongruous thought popped into her mind as if to add insult to injury: "Yo quiero Taco Bell."

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 12:18 PM

I don't know...

I'm thinking KKKarl Rove or Scooter Libby (I think Rove is more fun) on the lam from the Special Prosecutor in the Plame investigation? Hitchhiking down to Old Mejico City?

Ideas?

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 12:48 PM

Brett shook with a fever born of a hundred nights of sleepy dread spent waiting and watching for the minions of his adversaries to come slinking silently into his room garotes at the ready and stinking of gutter gin and red pepper and garlic hummus as he glimsped the stacatto of words marching across his monitor of his I-Book, the same I-Book that he had purchased the day that he discovered Joe Wilson's wife was really KGB and made the mistake of getting drunk on Red Bull and vodka, a frozen concoction that helped him hang on, hang on long enough at least to blurt out her name to the leering knot of plutocrats before collapsing on to the hard tiled floor on the undisclosed location in a puddle of poor judgement and regret, and as he did he could see Delilah in his mind, raven hair streaming behind her a she tore furiously across the blacktoped distance between them waxing her moustache and frantically keying her message to him on her blackberry as she shifted and drove with her kness; " hoild on i'k cumnbbin" it read.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 01:25 PM

Waxing her mustache????

YUCK!

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 01:35 PM

Should it be "mustaches?" I always get confused.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 01:38 PM

You are in SO much trouble...

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 01:44 PM

mr rdr!

Step to the front of the classroom, RIGHT THIS INSTANT!

Now hold out your hand, young man... and just be glad I'm not giving you a spanking this time...

[WHACK WHACK WHACK!!!!]

Posted by: Sister Mary Ita at August 3, 2005 01:46 PM

What now?

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 02:31 PM

Sorry, I got busy. Give me a moment - I need to finish something I'm working on.

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 02:35 PM

Here - something for you to think about:

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/050801/140/foly8.html

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 02:38 PM

Disturbing news.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 02:51 PM

Yes, but take heart. Some things still remain constant in a changing world:

http://www.wfmynews2.com/watercooler/watercooler_article.aspx?storyid=46210

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 03:00 PM

Ah yes... where were we???

Caressing the pulsing shaft of the shift lever with a long remembered familiarity of such delights....

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 03:01 PM

Caressing the pulsing shaft of the shift lever with a long remembered familiarity of such delights Delilah sped down the shimmering desert blacktop of desire toward her distant love in far-off Rancho Malario, her french-manicured fingernails expertly grasping the gearshift firmly with just the right amount of pressure; that is, somewhere in between the way a woman firmly grips a pair of tweezers when plucking her eyebrows but not as tightly as a man grasps the handle of a sledgehammer to smash rocks (but certainly harder than that creepy new minister who shakes your hand in the receiving line after Sunday services, leaving your outstretched hand feeling somewhat like a half-chewed gefiltefish), her lovely honey-brown eyes narrowed speculatively as she spied a pudgy, balding figure in the distance, thumb outstretched, and she throttled the big engine back, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust as she recognized, startled, the President's chief advisor, oddly tarted up and looking for all the world like he was being followed and pushed open the passenger door, motioning for him to join her...

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 03:26 PM

Cricket, you really ought to be ashamed of yourself :)

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 03:28 PM

The voice seemed far off and removed as Brett stared dreamily at the screen of his I-Pod while before him unfolded the rolicking adventure and steamy familiarity of "Women in Chains," the 25th anniversary edition with extended scenes, lots of outakes and even an interview with Suzette Sangalo Bond that he had swiped off the internet before they shut down the site do to piracy concerns,when suddenly the antics of luscious trio disolved into a single bespectacled eye, blinking at him with knowing glee, and he knew, despite all of his cunning, all of his precautions, that somehow Rove had tracked him down through the millions and millions of messages, spam, emails, chat lines, blogs trackbacks and other assorted things flying over the internet, and that his evil eye had located him at last, which snapped Brett back to reality where the voice became clear, strident almost " How long you gonna be in there gringo? Some of us have to go bad.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 04:27 PM

Some of you are bad, you mean.

[tapping the ruler this time...]

That's it... bend over.

Posted by: Sister Mary Ita at August 3, 2005 04:38 PM

Brett bent over waiting expectantly for the celestial tap of the divine ruler, when he was suddenly roused from his reverie by the sound of tires screeching in the courtyard below his delapidated room with the most god-awful wallpaper even hung which in the dim light of the single bulb dangling like a porcine hanged man created the sense of paisley doom, and he knew that Dear Bunny had arrived.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 05:37 PM

**************
Well clearly I have some catching up to do, if certain people will *behave* themselves...
**************

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 06:25 PM

As Karl Rove oozed into the plush black seats of the RX8, Delilah couldn't quite repress a little shudder, knowing he'd probably leak sweat all over the upholstery because he had a reputation for being a leaky vessel: not so much in the traditional loose-lips-sink-ships sort of way, but more in the sleazy, "Pssst...hey meester, jou wanna buy my seester" kind of way you saw in those cheesy little border towns down near Rancho Malario, which was where they were headed right now, her and him, in the speeding red roadster on a hot desert night; and as she shifted into fifth gear and smoothly accelerated into the horizon she wondered when he'd make his move, because a man like that always made a move - it was only a matter of time and opportunity, and that sad thing was that with all her pent-up longing for Brett she was on fire - like Caged Heat - and she had the desperate feeling that she was walking Brett into some sort of trap...

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 07:08 PM

Suddenly Brett responded to the calls of his own true love and departed the lonely room to go and eat his long-awaiting dinner, but he did so vaugely despondant over the lack of participation by by-standing blog-culture gnomes.

There would always be Des Moines.

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 08:39 PM

That's quite all right. Having fought off a 3-day migraine, Delilah wants nothing more right now than to lay her aching head on the nearest broad, male chest... ah. I see one passing by right now.

Excuse me. Perhaps we'll hear from Karl Rove or one of his minions in the meantime. Or maybe someone will step in for Brett or Delilah.

Posted by: Cassandra at August 3, 2005 09:33 PM

...despondant over the lack of participation by by-standing blog-culture gnomes.

Don't look at me! You two are on a role. There's no way I could even match the level you two are on writing from the perspective of that old balding fat guy.

Posted by: Masked Menace© at August 3, 2005 09:35 PM

In the last light of the flickering candles glowing cautiously in the gathering gloom of a new dark age, an age of unrepentant republican theocracy focused upon the undoing of a thousand years of accumulted knowledge, Brett summoned all of his strength and penned his last hope for mankind, which wasn't exactly "penned" because he typed it on his I-Book, but it nevertheless encompasssed all of his being, all of his thoughts, all of his ideas,and all of his sins, foremost amongst them the lifeless husk of the demon Rove lying in a a fine mist of Cheeto dust at his feet, a well honed stake of the finest Kentuck ash inbedded where a man's heart might be found, if he had one; "Trackback THIS, a$$hole" his final message read, addressed to Technocrati with a small smiley face appended, and then with a last spit towards the future Brett turned to greet his one true Delilah and her finely-tuned sports car and vowed on his life that such things as had happened between them should be as brake dust in the wind, forever, and not waiting for her reply jammed the gears southward towards a new border, a new identity, a new future, and Brittany Spears singing on the radio, badly.

Finis

Posted by: spd rdr at August 3, 2005 10:36 PM

Mr. rdr, you're nuts! And Cass, you ain't far behind!

Hahahahahahahaha! "....brake dust in the wind..."

This will, of course, go on your permanent record.

And I ain't talkin' about no spinnin' vinyl.

Posted by: David at August 4, 2005 01:09 AM

Delilah pouted. Nothing worse than a pop tart to harsh one's mellow. However, as she smiled to herself remembering how Karl wanted to improve relations with the media, she thought of the new tricks the old dog had taught her when she reviewed the interrogation tape.

Brett had no idea what was in store for him as he
fled his past. However, there was a new plastic surgeon in Tijuana who was discreet, inexpensive
and took American Express. That new identity was
just a scalpel and some bad makeup away.

Posted by: Cricket at August 4, 2005 07:15 AM

Karl Rove had always eschewed Cheetos, preferring instead Fritos, (and not the Fritos for dipping which he found too thick, but just the regular ones), and the reason for this preference was pushed quite literally in his face as he lay in that Cheeto dust, thinking back to Junior High when he made the decision to have his heart removed as soon as he reached the age of consent on the off chance that someday being literally heartless would prove lucky for him, so he lay still, and appeared dead enough to convince Brett of his lifelessness (and to be certain, Brett had some experience with lifelessness himself, so he should have known the difference, but Brett does not mean Bright, not in English, anyway), and so, summoning his much-touted self-discipline he held preternaturally still, and considered all the possible plot twists that had occurred thus far, the most singular of which was his “death” by Brett’s hand, while he was just paragraphs before in the RX8 with Delilah; but he knew one thing for certain: He longed to “interrogate” her again – even if it meant riding to Rancho Malario with the red-necked trucker pulling to the side of the road just now, whose portly shape resembled nothing so much as a popover (the ones he had eaten on the way to Bar Harbor, Maine, way back in 1985) due to the generous spillage of his belly and love handles over the top of his greasy WalMart Faded Glory jeans.

Posted by: MathMom at August 4, 2005 12:40 PM

MathMom, you are truly gifted. Where in the heck are we going with this???

Posted by: Cassandra at August 4, 2005 06:18 PM

Where in the heck are we going with this???

Well, if the trucker helps out, to Rancho Malario, of course!

But, I thought someone else was supposed to take it somewhere! I just felt bad that Karl Rove was killed so soon.

I have great faith in Cricket...

Posted by: MathMom at August 4, 2005 08:10 PM

OK. I have got to get some sleep. I am very tired - I only had about two or three hours' worth last night :)

As Scarlett once said, 'tomorrow is another day'.

Posted by: Cassandra at August 4, 2005 08:39 PM

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