Introducing Chapter CDLXIV (pronounced “cuddle-xiv”) of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular soliloquizes, “There is no romance that does not contain a great big chunk of paranormal! I mean, look at me and Mr. Pitfall! It is the essence of romance to fluctuate, to burnish, to make impossible claims for Duracell batteries–”
Good grief, this goes on for 15 pages. I am the poorer for having read it.
Having discoursed on romance, Ms. Crepuscular transports us to the catuvellaunian depths of Scurvey Forest, where Willis Twombley and Lady Margo Cargo, having fled the nefandous specter of the Wee Plastic Pool Lady, now wander around, hopelessly lost.
“I think we’re hopelessly lost,” laments Lady Margo. She clings to the charred remains of her wig, not wanting to end her life bald.
“Guess there’s only one thing we can do,” says the American adventurer, who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. Slowly he draws his pistol.
“Oh, Charlie!” The sudden introduction of this hitherto unmentioned name momentarily stuns Twombley. “We’ll die together, here in this unmapped forest! How romantic!”
“Shut up, ye durned fool!” That “Charlie” is going to rankle for a while. He points the gun straight up and shoots–six shots, bang-bang-bang (no, I won’t sit here and type it out six times: there is a limit).
Within seconds, a familiar face emerges from a nearby thicket. It belongs to Mr. Bigcheeks, a fat man who lives in Scurveyshire Village, in a cottage made famous by Shakespeare.
“Do you mind!” he snaps at Twombley. “We’re trying to have a picnic here!” He pulls a bush aside to reveal his whole fat family gobbling toothpaste-and-beef pies. This distracts the author into writing up the recipe.
I think Ms. Crepuscular had bee overdosing on toothpaste rolls. 🙂
I knew that toothpaste would have to rear its head again. 🙂