Posted on September 1st, 2007 by Scraps.
Categories: Words, Comedy.
(archiving another old piece.)
Personal to roadnotes: You were in my dream last night, telling me about how you could predict the future by the patterns you saw in the stubble in your hair as it grew back between shaves. Is this true? --Misia
(Scene: Casa deSelby Bowen. Velma standing, head up, eyes closed, back straight, razor held aloft. Scraps as supplicant, bearing can of shaving cream.)
Acolyte: What news, Lady?
Seeress: I see.... righteousness and recrimination.... petulance.... a stagnant pool of blather.... a sea of ellipses.... drama.... drama.... (clutching head) Oh! the spelling.... my eyes....
Acolyte: Lady, do not go there.
Seeress: You overstep, impertinent one. We cannot deny that which is velcroed to our very souls. Bring me the leering drunken stoat.
Acolyte: (troubled) Lady....
Seeress: The stoat!
Acolyte: As you will. (proffers stoat)
Seeress: (rubbing stoat vigorously upon scalp) Ach! It is worse than I feared. Asshats are on the march, partying unashamedly in the sacred soup of the discourse. Fenderheads menace all that is barely tolerable. Infelicity abounds. Correction must be dispensed.
Acolyte: (gazing in wonder) Are the Cranky Times upon us, Lady?
Seeress: Yea, it is so. But heads will adorn pikes ere morning. Come. (sweeps imperiously from room. muttering:) "Just your opinion" my fuzzy brown butt.
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