An Apocalypse of Poking (‘Oy, Rodney’)

a gripping page-turner headed for the top of the NY Times bestseller list | Romance novels, Funny romance, Book parody

Introducing Chapter DCXLVIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular, “the Queen of Suspense,” gets what she describes as “a shirty letter” from a reader in “that notorious pest-hole,” Bazooka Hills, New Jersey.

“If you stopped with those stupid introductions already, the book’d be only half as long as it is,” writes Bella Oxmix.

“If you stopped breathing you’d be a better person!” snaps Ms. Crepuscular.

Meanwhile poor Constable Chumley, trying to get the goods on the ritualized poking ring supposedly meeting in the back room of The Lying Tart, has caught sight of a picture of himself in his disguise as a ghost; and having forgotten it is only himself with a blanket over him, has had to be hospitalized for a massive panic attack. (Go ahead, I dare you to diagram that sentence!)

This has not comforted the author.

“I’ll fix that Bella Whatsit!” Ms Crepuscular vows. “Wait’ll I bring that rhino out of hibernation! Guess who’ll be the first ne’er-do-well to be impaled on its horn!”

I heard about a movie once, I think the title was Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. It is said Ms. Crepuscular has memorized the entire screenplay.

Volcano REALLY Threatens Scurveyshire, No Kidding Around! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

a gripping page-turner headed for the top of the NY Times bestseller list | Romance novels, Funny romance, Book parody

We have come to a pivotal chapter in Violent Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. We have also come to Chapter DXL (pronounced “Dix’ll”).

Smoke or something is coming out of a crack in the ground, just where Scurveyshire Common abuts on Nose And Throat Street. Introducing the chapter, Ms. Crepuscular writes, “It’s a very bad business! The volcano could blow any minute, and Britain would have its own Pompeii. No wonder they’re frantically searching for Constable Chumley!”

Chumley is investigating goings-on at The Lying Tart, where a back room is said to be set aside, once a week, for a deadly game of ritualized poking. As the constable puts it, “‘Er mouzeful doggonit, by yon priggle!”

To prove his courage, Johnno the Merry Minstrel stands almost on top of the volcano and peers down into the crack.

“Do you see anything?” cries Lord Jeremy Coldsore, as he recovers from a brush with a Ginsu knife.

“You mean, ‘In the future’?”

That is not what Jeremy means, and he is rapidly losing his patience.

“Ah, dear reader!” flosticates Ms. Crepuscular. “What indeed is in the crack? What does Johnno see? I could tell you now, but that would ruin it for the next weekend. For the time being, here is my recipe for toothpaste and breadfruit a la mode…”

[Editor disclaims all responsibility for this. It is regrettable.]