I had just finished firing off a few parting shots at another ewww liberal * on a Liberal newsblog when I noticed her sitting on the desk lamp yoga style. She was wearing her usual ratty tweed skirt that usually covered the knees, but when she sat in the lotus position, her chubby and dimpled knees greeted you like a boxer’s handshake at the beginning of the bout. Especially when those fish-belly white, nylon covered globules were at eye-level.
“It’s been a long time, champ, since you even tried to write a coherent sentence. Giving up?” She asked while oozing serenity.
“No. I keep thinking about it, but I just can’t seem to write when my soul is unquiet.”
“If your soul gets any more unquiet, the backhoe will be pushing dirt over your casket.” She twerped.
“You haven’t been Ms. Gregarious yourself.” I snarled back.
“You might try romancing me once in a while, Señior Neruda.” She said, placing her hand behind her head and thrusting out her bosom while puckering her red painted lips.
I quickly averted my eyes from the straining gaps between the buttons of her pink rayon blouse and replied, “I started a few times, but you weren’t much help.”
“No, you didn’t start anything. You made a few bad attempts at creating a plausible old man’s sexual fantasy, and it fell flat because it wasn’t very plausible.”
“I didn’t either! I was just trying to do some flashbacks on Shaman in the Sagebrush from the standpoint of an old man.”
“It was a chopped up bio and you know it. You will never finish the tale because you don’t want people to know the scary parts, and are afraid that people will accuse you of plagiarizing Carlos Castenada.”
“Well, there is that. It does come a little too close to his tales of Don Juan, the Yaqui medicine man.”
“You are going to have to resolve it somehow. And you know what that entails.” She stated self-righteously
“Yeah, yeah. Write it. Waste two or three thousand words on something that will never see the light of day.”
“So how many words are you saving by not writing?” She asked pointedly.
She had me.
“I did do some rethinking on Akashaic, the saga. It had grown from a simple idea into a full blown saga, more vast than Wagner’s The Ring Cycle.”
“You did let that one get away from you!” She said, condescendingly.
“It was your fault. I just sat down to write a story.”
“You sat down to impress people.” She cackled.
“Well, you certainly made sure that didn’t happen!” I impolitely shot back.
“You could have reined me in at any time, lover. I like it when you’re my boss!” she cooed.
“Bullpucky. You’d dominate me at any chance you got!”
“It would take more imagination than you possess, Hemmingway.”
“The thought of you in leather and fishnets takes more imagination than an army of men has!”
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror, lately, Adonis? A mottled pink blob of old flesh, with kinky gray hairs coming out of your huge pair of ears. Paint you gray and you’d look like a hairy elephant.”
And so the conversation wound down. But a new vision appeared. A magician, a young blond, two Semitic female slaves, and a tale of revenge works around the periphery of my mind. I was tired of that pink rayon blouse anyway. She would look good in a slave collar and leash.
* An Ewww Liberal is a left winger who runs out of debating material and resorts to trying to censor people with a “Ewww. You belong to the IN ARE AYE? Ewww!“