So what about ye olde Fox Hunt? What about the Scurveyshire Fair, and all those people sucked under the vicar’s backyard wading pool?
Introducing Chapter CDLXXXIX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular, the Queen of Suspense, makes no mention of fox hunt or fair. Have they quite slipped her mind? Now she’s writing about the Royal Society of Shakespeare Stuff holding its annual meeting at Scurveyshire’s favorite pub, the Lying Tart. The RSSS is presided over by Queen Victoria’s third cousin thrice removed, the Duke of Bossa Nova. He has been removed as far as possible.
“First,” Violet writes, “I’d like to share with you this beautiful poetic verse composed and sent to me by a loyal reader, Mrs. Jody Bathtub of Inchworm, New Jersey.
“‘Dear Ms. Crepuscular'” (she reads), “I have composed a beautiful poetic verse just for you. It goes like this. ‘Nobody’s prose is half so muscular/ as anything written by Violet Crepuscular!’ P.S.–I have pictures of you all over my crying closet!'”
The topic of this year’s RSSS conference is, “Did Shakespeare ever wear shorts?” This will be the third go-round for this topic. The first two erupted into riots. Several of the ringleaders had to be hanged.
Lord Jeremy Coldsore, in his capacity as Justice of the Peace, fibrillates Constable Chumley. The constable is up to the challenge.
“Vye deagle, m’lord,” he says, “niffer tway the bealies!”
(I just know she’s going to break off the chapter right–)
End of chapter.