Half of them mutter “ingrate” under their breaths, and the others cluck knowingly and whisper, “This time the hero lives, but the writer is about to perish by her own hand.”
“I can hear you, you know!” Buncha know-it-all buttinskis. (I’m not above an occasional under-the-breath mutter myself.)
Perhaps insanity is a virtue after all. A rubber room is looking more appealing all the time........
“Uh… well, yeah,” he’ll answer, shuffling his dusty cowboy boots. “But…well, to tell you the truth, ma’am, they’re about to bore me to death over there. And it’s confusing—very confusing.”
“Incompetents and amateurs!” I explode. “Who’s in charge on Stage 4? I want him nuked!”
“Nuked?” (Misplaced Cowboy Guy only thought he was confused before.)
“Oh fer cryin’ out loud…. Ask one of the Rigelians to explain it to you.”
About the time I begin chastising the hero from Chaste Through the Snow because he won’t stop pressing the heroine’s heaving bosom to his manly chest while for the umpteenth time uttering “Your eyes are like limpid sapphire pools” as she faints at the prospect of consummating their forbidden lust, I find myself consumed by heaving sobs of despair. It’s precisely at that moment the gaggle of slightly flighty but endearing, hard-as-nails southern belles escapes the pages of The Bougainvillea Ladies’ Luncheon Club and rushes to console me.
“Get away from me! I don’t want chocolate! Well, I do, but not right now.”
“Hon, what you need is a good roll in the sack with that hunk from Chaste.”
“You know, my deah mama always told me—”
“Augh! Just gimme the damn chocolate and go back to fanning yourselves on the verandah, will ya? WHY CAN’T ANY OF YOU BEHAVE?!”
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