Who’s Been Spying on Violet? (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Chapter CDLXXXXI of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, crashed to a suspenseful end with the sudden arrival of Thir Lanthelot the lisping knight from King Arthurth Thecret Cathtle. She introduces Chapter CDLXXXXII with an unexpected gambit from Lord Jeremy Coldsore.

“How do we know you’re really Thir Lanthelot?” he demandth. (Stop that, Lee!) “You’re in full armor, with your visor down. You could be anybody, in there!”

“Tho itth like that, ith it?” parries the knight. “Very well! Hold thith lanthe while I take off my helmet.”

Off comes the helmet. Underneath it is a woman. Constable Chumley’s mother, in fact.

That anguished scream you just heard is Ms. Crepuscular, who has just discovered a comment made by a reader last week suggesting that the lisping knight will turn out to be somebody’s mother. We can allow publication of only a small part of Ms. Crepuscular’s lament.

“How dare you spill my plot? I’ll murder you, whoever you are! Everyone who read your ham-faced comment last week knew exactly what was going to happen! How did you gain access to my notes? Eeeeeyaaaah!” And so on.

(“Mum?” says Constable Chumley. He is still hanging on by his fingertips to the edge of the cliff. We don’t call these stories cliffhangers for nothing.)

In any event, Violet is too upset to continue. “It’s times like this when nothing but a floating ball of toothpaste in a tall glass of Jack Daniels can get you back to normal!” she obstreporates.

Tune in next week to see if she’s back to normal.

Saving Constable Chumley (‘Oy, Rodney’)

silly romance novels – Lee Duigon

Violet Crepuscular, the Queen of Suspense, ended Chapter CDLXXXX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, with a cliffhanger: in fact, with Constable Chumley hanging from the brim of a cliff. Scurveyshire is famous for incredibly high, sharp cliffs with no geological reason for them.

In Chapter CDLXXXXI, with most of Scurveyshire focused on the annual fox hunt, now a nude fox hunt, Lord Jeremy Coldsore repairs to The Cliffs of Doom for some peace and quiet. There he finds Chumley hanging on by his fingertips, 100 yards above the jagged rocks below. If you can think of any cliches Violet left out here, please let us know.

“What are you doing there, man?”

“M’lord, vor’ mickle gascon divy,” the constable explains–and soon has Jeremy transfixed in disbelief.

“What do you mean, you were searching for King Arthur’s Castle?” Jeremy snaps. “Don’t you know that’s just a fairy tale? Ods bodikins, Chumley! A man of your age and experience! I suppose–”

But he is interrupted by a very heavy and not at all pleasant tap on the shoulder. He wheels around to find himself confronted by– [Pause for suspense, like in the movies]

A knight in full armor, on an armored steed, with a vorpal lance pointed straight at Jeremy’s duodenum. “What the–!” he cries.

And the knight answers, “Thir Lanthelot at your thervithe; and you’d betht have a good excuthe for being here!”

Here Violet breaks the chapter, to generate suspense. We are promised a recipe for toothpaste bon-bons, to shut us up.

Back to the Fox Hunt (‘Oy, Rodney’)

silly romance novels – Lee Duigon

[The management wishes to thank readers who objected to the omission of a chapter about the Scurveyshire Fox Hunt. Violet Crepuscular has finally given in to popular demand.]

“I’ll do practically anything to please my loyal readers,” writes Ms. Crepuscular, introducing “a pivotal chapter,” Chapter CDLXXXX, of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. “Yes, I’ll even lacerate my authorial instincts, totally ignore my own literary judgment, and give the wretched peasants their stupid idiot fox hunt! But only because I esteem them so highly.”

So we’re back to the fox hunt. An unexpected economic downturn earlier this season forced the members of the Scurveyshire Hunt to sell their hounds, horses, saddles, stables, homes, and those smurfy red jackets, funny hats, funny boots, and tight pants. They even had to sell those goofy little horns they blow.

But the hunt must go on! Only now the hunters wear grass skirts (kind of chilly for that), chase the fox on foot without any hounds to catch the scent, and scarf down anything edible that they might lay their hands on. It’s what comes of the entire upper class investing in a scheme to boil potatoes without using any pots or pans. They were all supposed to get rich, but they lost their shirts–literally.

“I would not be the Queen of Suspense,” she concludes, “if I didn’t end this chapter with a cliffhanger!” So we have Constable Chumley hanging from a cliff. We are not told what he’s doing there, but it sure is suspenseful.


Shakespeare in Scurveyshire (‘Oy, Rodney’)

silly romance novels – Lee Duigon

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.

A Party for Violet?

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Not long ago, Phoebe suggested we throw a party for Violet Crepuscular to celebrate 500 chapters of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. It’s as good an excuse as any to have a party. Hey, how many writers manage a book with 500 chapters in it? (“But look at all the chapters she skipped, to get there!” Killjoy.)

We could have the party right here on this blog, a space equally convenient to all. We’ll need a menu of snacks and foodstuffs, a roster of fun activities (Anybody got one of those forbidden “Jarts” games?), party favors and decorations, and music. A wading pool is optional. We might also vie with one another in composing laudatory poems to the guest of honor. Like, “No matter how you dial it, the Queen Of Suspense is Violet.” Ooh! I’d better disqualify myself.

Okay! Now I’m waiting for the suggestions to come rolling in.

P.S.–Imagine what a big party it’ll be if everybody reblogs this post somewhere! I’d love to see what would happen.

Ye Olde Fox Hunt (‘Oy, Rodney’)

silly romance novels – Lee Duigon

A letter from reader Ambrose Twidgeon in Babbo Township, Pellucidar, has served as a timely reminder to the Queen of Suspense, Violet Crepuscular.

“Dear Ms. Crepuscular,” the letter reads, “what ever happened to the traditional olde English fox hunt in Scurveyshire? How can you write about English country life without the fox hunt? I am so upset with you, I had to break my model airplanes!”

Ms. Crepuscular’s reply is found in her introduction to Chapter CDLXXXVIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

“As a matter of fact,” she trombolizes, “I was just about to write about the fox hunt when Mr. Twidgeon’s letter arrived. Really, I do not need any guidance in writing romance novels! Let me offer this friendly reminder to Mr. Twidgeon: Get lost!”

The hereditary master of the Scurveyshire Hunt is Lady Margo Cargo, who inherited it from her father along with a persistent halitosis. She can’t ride a horse, so she leads the hunt in a golf cart driven by a condemned prisoner. No fox has been caught since Lady Margo took over.

(What about the Scurveyshire Fair, Violet? And the vicar’s backyard wading pool?)

“If I get any more friendly reminders from ignoramuses who think they know how I should write my novels, I am very much afraid that I shall lose my temper,” Ms. Crepuscular writes. So vanishes all hope of finding out about the fair and the wading pool. She’s in one of her moods.

The chapter ends without the fox hunt actually starting.

The Useless Sheriff of Scurveyshire (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Introducing Chapter CDLXXXII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular (“the Queen of Suspense”) writes, “I find it necessary to introduce a character whom I had hoped to do without. I give you, dear reader, fair warning: this here is a very scary person!”

This would be none other than The Useless Sheriff of Scurveyshire, appointed to his position by the queen herself, in a bout of uncontrolled giddiness. Descended from Saxon nobles who never amounted to anything, the Sheriff is Useless because of his habit of colliding with stationary objects in plain sight. He walks face-first into trees, trips over horse-troughs, stumbles into ponds, and abuses his authority.

And he has learned that Constable Chumley, whom he hates maniacally for no reason, has had a life-altering experience that has rendered him inarticulate.

“Although I never editorialize about the characters in my book,” Ms. Crepuscular says, with a reckless disregard for truth, “I have to say that the Sheriff is a real stinker. The fact that he has an extra nose on the side of his head does not make him any more appealing! Yech! He looks like some kind of Cubist portrait!”

Meanwhile, the constable tries to tell Lord Jeremy about his life-altering experience as an undercover investigator. But the only bit that Jeremy understands is “Miphlum hite yon braithy callapop, m’Lord.” It is not very illuminating.

Stay tuned for more suspense! If we can find some.

Can We Please Get Back to the Story? (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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“Look at that cover!” fumes author Violet Crepuscular. “Is that a load of sappy sappiness, or what? I’m going back to my old cover–I don’t care what that witch Janet Kendell-Bendle says.”

We suddenly find ourselves in Chapter CDLXXX. I think three chapters are missing. So we have Constable Chumley trying to recover from a shattering experience that has not been described in the text. Ms. Crepuscular explains.

“As the Queen of Suspense, I try not to dwell on unpleasant scenes, to say nothing of shattering experiences. I find them shattering. So much better just to say Chumley had some really close calls, came within inches of losing his life in ways that were hardly imaginable before… this! Almost as bad as winding up on the cover of Master of the Marshlands. You could die from that much sappy…”

Meanwhile the epic romance of Oy, Rodney continues with Chapter CDLXXX but without an introduction by Ms. Crepuscular, who has gone forth in search of her old cover.

Pin by Ross Johnston on totally judging books by their covers | Book parody, Book humor, Funny romance (“Aha! Found it! That’s so much better!”)

We learn that the current Mrs. Bigcheeks was once eagerly wooed by Lord Jeremy Coldsore, who was insane at the time. Is this what Constable Chumley has gone under the covers to investigate? (Confound it! I mean “undercover.”) Does it have anything to do with the bizarre seismic readings that they would have seen at the British Seismological Institute, if seismographs and seismology had been invented at this juncture of the 19th century? Is something about to break loose from under the vicar’s backyard wading pool?

Stay tuned for suspense!

The ‘Oy, Rodney’ Lawsuit

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For years now, Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, and Janet Kendall’s costume-thing romance, Lord of the Tube Socks, have been virtually synonymous in the public eye. That’s because there is no Oy, Rodney book cover: the reader is expected to provide it herself.

Imagine the shock waves that bilboed the publishing world yesterday when Janet Kendell emerged from a meteor crater in Mongolia to sue Ms. Crepuscular for using the Lord of the Tube Socks cover without permission. Using it hundreds of times, in fact.

“I will not circumambulate to her level,” writes Violet. “I am the Queen of Suspense. She’d better watch out or I’ll suspend her! She ought to be doing cartwheels for joy, my using the cover of her crummy wretched book that no one ever read!

“Well, I can always use another cover. I thought I was doing her a favor!”

Meanwhile, back in Scurveyshire, Constable Chumley has gone under the covers–sorry, I meant “undercover”–to carry out an extremely hazardous investigation, the nature of which has not yet been divulged. Ms. Crepuscular is too distracted to write about it this week. Suffice it to say there is a scheme that puts at risk all of Scurveyshire, and England, and the future of dental hygiene itself.

Will Oy, Rodney make it to 500 chapters? There are only 24 to go.

Stay tuned! Or you can just watch TV nooze.



A Celebration of Violet Crepuscular

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Phoebe has suggested we have a nice party to celebrate that long-anticipated day when Violet Crepuscular publishes Chapter D (that’s 500!) of her epic and immortal romance, Oy, Rodney. I almost typed “immoral,” but it was just a close shave.

Certainly we would be thrilled and delighted if Ms. Crepuscular, the Queen of Suspense, were to honor us with a personal appearance. Problem is, no one seems to know where Violet lives or what she looks like. She could come to the party impersonating one of us, and we’d never know. Like, anybody could say, “I’m Thewhiterabbit”–and we wouldn’t suspect it wasn’t true.

Just as seven ancient Greek cities each claimed to be the birthplace of Homer, no town or city today claims Violet Crepuscular. The town of Forked River, New Jersey, refutes the story that she once spent two days there, waiting for her Pulitzer Prize.

Hey! Does anybody out there have a picture of the real Violet Crepuscular? Please share it here, if possible. We need to honor this woman as she deserves. I mean, who else would stretch out a romance to 500 chapters?

As Constable Chumley would say, “Aw’s begrythin’ yon basing-strock!”