Funny thing about my comment section. People give me advice. I know! They are selfless like that. Always willing to help out a gal named Val struggling with Karmatic payback. Who knew that Stephen was well-versed in the everyday uses of lamb's blood? Not this chick. And there's Sioux, who touts the power of a not-so-clandestine group called the WWWPs.
I don't mean to brush off their helpful hints. But it seems that finding a virgin here in Backroads, and a volcano to toss her into, would be more practical. Since I'm a logical kind of troubleshooter, I will consider the cons of each solution. What? What about the pros? I'm also a pessimistic kind of troubleshooter.
I think Stephen's antidote is the safer of these two divergent paths. C'mon! Who wouldn't rather slaughter a lamb (or wave about a frozen lamb chop) than face a group of not-quite-spring-chickens cackling over Big Os and tall tales? All you really need is a knife. And a lamb. Or maybe just the lamb. It could trip while frolicking, and skin its woolly knee, and VOILA! Lamb's blood! Free for the taking. Without the guilt. You might even be able to find the stuff on eBay. Left over from a Red Cross lamb's blood drive. If you're discreet, PETA might not get wind of it for a long time.
Sioux's proposition of a sortie to the BigCity to consort with WWWPs is more fraught with danger than the notion of walking into a classroom full of freshmen without a lesson plan. I quiver with fright from the contemplation alone.
First of all, there would be that issue of hiring excavators to remove a wall of my basement to free me for the trip. Then trying to keep the media away while I'm hoisted onto the flatbed truck borrowed from Sea World and driven cross country just for my benefit.
Say, hypothetically, that I arrive at the venue for the aforementioned book signing. What if everybody else is wearing pajama jeans? And Val has none? There they'd be, those WWWPs, lolling about, killing time between autographs by passing around bits of novel like tasty hors d'oeuvres upon a silver platter. And I'm not talkin' pizza snacks, those tiny slices of rye bread topped with a filling of sausage and melted mozzarella like my sister learned to make in junior high home ec. Nor a spritz of Cheez Whiz on a Ritz. There might even be poetry in that venue that didn't plagiarize The Raven.
Anything could happen at such a book signing. I might find myself dodging inopportune streams of impromptu lactation from one of the authors. It can recur, you know, years after the baby has gone off to college. It's true! I read it on the internet. And what if somebody pulled a chair out from under me? Or tried to jam my head up under the faucet in the bathroom sink, under the guise giving me a free shampoo, and then left me there, without even putting in a courtesy call to the local calendar-model firemen? Or I was asphyxiated by uncontrollable bursts of flatulence? What if I was used as the target for a newly-patented game of Purse Shoots the Girdle. Even worse, somebody could use me as the basis for a story!
Does anybody have Mary's cell phone number? I hear she has a little lamb.
Most women have great memories, especially when it comes to the mishaps men have had. But your memory is legendary, Val.
ReplyDeleteYou can't blame a gal for trying.
If you need a good recipe for leg of lamb, Mrs. Chatterbox might be able to help.
ReplyDeleteLordy, I cannot read your blog this early in the morning. Supressing a laugh so you-know-who doesn't awaken at 5 is as bad as snorting hot tea out my nose when I resemble your remarks. Girl, are you part elephant? And that comment has nothing to do with weight; it's the gravity of your memory. You don't miss a thing.
ReplyDeleteSioux,
ReplyDeleteSo close. But yet so far.
My memory is suitable for a rousing game of Concentration. But not quite up to par with those freaky people like Marilu Henner.
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Stephen,
That would be great. As soon as a little lamb stumbles and accidentally severs his leg, I will be in contact.
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Linda,
Hick once told me, "You're like an elephant." Yes. In those exact words. When I took offense, he, too, declared that he meant my memory. You'd think somebody would switch it up one of these days, and say, "Um...because you're afraid of mice! That's what I meant!"
Your memory is a bit scary. He who is lacking in verbal skills gives out strange "compliments" all the time. He onece told me I have sturdy legs, comparing them to bridge pilings. he always makes me feel so special. I am often heard saying, "close your mouth, honey, you look simple"......
ReplyDeleteKathy,
ReplyDeleteSome call it good memory, others call it a precursor to stalking.
Bridge pilings. Oh, dear.