Tagged: tune in next time

“Don’t Forget What a Beautiful Dance”

  • by Kentwhat a beautiful dance
  • “And you treat me like this?”
  • pretty like his mommy
  • a completely sweet guy
  • hate him more than I can even explain

Tune in next time part 550     Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t forget what a beautiful dance the real estate agents choreographed to celebrate your crowning,” I said.

A spark shot out of the Tessabot’s left ear, followed by a whisp of smoke. She didn’t seem to have noticed it, but her mood changed very suddenly.

“We’re on our way to be married,” she growled. “And you treat me like this?”

“Darling,” I crooned, “maybe you should sit down for a moment.”

She threw her arms wide in a contemptuous gesture. “Oh, he’s great, they all tried to tell me. He’s pretty like his mommy and a completely sweet guy to boot. Pffft!” Her eyes locked onto mine. She took a menacing step in my direction. “I hate him more than I can even explain.”

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“It’s Ceremony Time!”

  • by jensibilance stretching the second word
  • can’t spell his own name
  • part of a movement referred to as “goth”
  • engraved THIS MAN IS A PRICK
  • label was in his handwriting

Tune in next time part 551     Click Here for Earlier Installments

“It’s ceremony time!” announced the officiant, an odd sibilance stretching the second word.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to marry a man who can’t spell his own name,” the Tessabot raged.

The officiant looked at me askance. He wore as much eyeliner as those teens who are part of a movement referred to as “goth” by the press.

“I can spell my name,” I assured. “My betrothed is merely experiencing cold feet.”

“Cold feet!” Tessa barked. “Cold feet! I should have known what a dick you are the first time I saw the medallion you always wear upon which is engraved THIS MAN IS A PRICK.”

As I suspected, her short circuit had her confusing me with the real Viscount Arlo.

She whispered conspiratorially to the officiant, “To make it all just too perfect, the label was in his handwriting.” She shook her head. “His OWN handwriting!”

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All I Wanted To Do

  • by Kentundercover as a vagrant
  • singing the national anthem of an imaginary country
  • “I would say I was decapitated,”
  • doing it very nicely, thank you
  • might as well quit bellyaching

Tune in next time part 552     Click Here for Earlier Installments

All I wanted to do was reassure the Tessabot about my real identity, but unfortunately I had to remain in character as the very viscount whom she had mistaken me for. I hadn’t experienced so much stress over being found out since I went undercover as a vagrant and to keep up the act ended up singing the national anthem of an imaginary country very loudly in a dumpster. The officiant said, “Perhaps we should take a minute so you two can talk through…” He drew vague circles in the air, vaguely in the region of my face. “Whatever this is.” He spun away and disappeared into the trees, leaving me alone with Tessa.

I yanked off the red wig. “It’s me! Look! Remember our plan?”

She took the wig out of my hand. She stared at it for a long time, then said, “I would say I was decapitated,” and gave it back.

“Great,” I muttered as I put the soggy thing back on my head. “Apparently at least one of us needs to be a gibbering moron at all times. Is it your logic module? Or your speech processor?”

“My logic module is logicking,” she said, “and doing it very nicely, thank you. And it’s not my speech center either. The short circuit is much deeper than that, and you won’t be able to fix it, so we might as well quite bellyaching and get married.

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We Rejoined the Officiant

  • by jena number of uninvited guests
  • her attempt at a music career
  • and the tackle box she’d filled with
  • utter his fearful guttural warnings
  • My tradition isn’t weird

Tune in next time part 553     Click Here for Earlier Installments

We rejoined the officiant and finished the walk to the temple where the ceremony was to take place. In accordance with Svenborgian tradition, a number of uninvited guests were chained to seats along the aisle. That kept the invited guests, the ones who actually knew what the Viscount whom I was impersonating looked like, further from me. I might actually be able to pull this off.

We looked quite astonishing. Tessa wore only a clunky gold Rolex, and black lingerie, barely concealed by the flimsy scarf she’d wrapped around herself. It reminded me of the stagewear from her attempt at a music career, back during college. I also looked something like a musician in my mountaineering pants, boots, and vest with no shirt. My chest was much more impressive than the real Arlo’s but there was nothing to be done about that. I adjusted the curly red wig to obscure as much of my face as possible.

The officiant placed tiaras on both of our heads, then led us to the altar upon which was arrayed a collection of stamps, ink pads, Arlo’s passport as well as Tessa’s, and the tackle box she’d filled with rubber worms for the guests to pelt us with as we exited the temple, as they do in Svenborgia.

We stood side by side, our backs to the audience, and listened to the officiant utter his fearful guttural warnings. This is what passes for a wedding ceremony in Svenborgia. I know that every culture thinks “My tradition isn’t weird,” but Svenborgians are wrong. Their traditions are very, very weird.

I stamped the Tessabot’s passport and prepared to be pelted with rubber worms.

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After Scampering Back Up the Aisle

  • by Kentspend most weekends making genitalia-shaped cakes
  • psychedelic funk band frontman
  • conventional menswear expectations
  • “I shall blackball the notion if it ever comes up.
  • as strobe lights flash and Metallica plays

Tune in next time part 554     Click Here for Earlier Installments

After scampering back up the aisle amid a fusilade of fishing lures (thankfully sans hooks) we were detained in the foyer to take part in a sort of receiving line. I started sweating. The uninvited rattled their chains as the other guests filed out of their rows via the opposite ends and converged on us.

The first man to step up grabbed my hand and pumped it vigorously, yelling, “Congratulations!” He was shouldered aside by his wife, who also shook my hand while saying, “I imagine your first year will fly by like all newleweds’, and you’ll spend most weekends making genitalia-shaped cakes and weeknights sleeping with each other’s shoes on.”

It seemed these people didn’t actually know Arlo all that well. They flashed us big smiles, but their opinions of the ceremony and us as a couple weren’t all raves. I heard one lady muttering about how even a viscount shouldn’t be allowed to dress like a psychedelic funk band frontman during his wedding. A moment later, a lanky man in a periwinkle three-piece suit voiced this sentiment directly, albeit more diplomatically.

“You’ve successfully thwarted conventional menswear expectations,” he said in tone of faux mockery. Or was it so faux? “Will such attire become de rigueur for grooms henceforth?” he went on.

With a chuckle, I said, “I shall blackball the notion if it ever comes up.”

Even once the temple held only the uninvited guests howling for release, I and the Tessabot were not yet free either. We couldn’t duck away, and found ourselves stuffed into the limo bound for the reception. She filled me in on what to expect. “This is an older crowd, so it’ll be a sedate affair by Svenborgian standards. We will dance as strobe lights flash and Metallica plays ‘One’ on a loop.”

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With Both Jason and the Pumpkin Spice Latte M&Ms

by jenHappy Solstice! During the holiday season we like to choose our stichomancy prompts from festively themed sources. This year we’ve opted for Dickens’s classic A Christmas Carol. We wanted to avoid as many humbugs as possible, so these lines might not be instantly recognizable. But for us that’s part of the fun.

  • Clash, clang, hammer; ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash!
  • “What, the one as big as me?”
  • pointed from the grave to him, and back again
  • had smelt the goose
  • They were not a handsome family

Tune in next time part 555     Click Here for Earlier Installments

With both Jason and the Pumpkin Spice Latte M&Ms on hand for entertainment, I assumed that Tessa meant we would be dancing to a recording of Metallica. I was wrong. We entered the reception tent to a raucous live metal band. Clash, clang, hammer; ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash!

“We have to dance over beside that amplifier,” Tessa shouted.

“What, the one as big as me?” I shouted back. “Or the one twice as big?”

The band was incredibly loud. On our way past the buffet table I snagged some marshmallows to use as ear plugs. The strobe light began pulsing as we reached our designated dance floor, and Tessa led me to dance the Robot for what seemed like hours.

Finally, the band waved goodnight and sauntered offstage. While the roadies scurried around, packing up the instruments and readying things for the PSLM², dinner service began. As is Svenborgian tradition, a ceremonial grave had been dug beside the buffet table as incentive for the chef to do a good job. As groom it was my job to threaten the poor man with death should the feast be unsatisfactory. He stood there in his toque and apron, holding a platter of roasted fowl, while I pointed from the grave to him, and back again, reciting the ancient verse.

Our ravenous guests had smelt the goose, and gathered around, impatient for me to finish the rite. They were not a handsome family, largely being Arlo’s relatives, and hunger did not do them any favors. I hurried to complete my speech before things got ugly. Or rather, uglier.

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I Delivered the Traditional Malediction

by KentDuring the holiday season we like to choose our stichomancy prompts from festively themed sources. This year we’ve opted for Dickens’s classic A Christmas Carol. We wanted to avoid as many humbugs as possible, so these lines might not be instantly recognizable. But for us that’s part of the fun.

  • a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner
  • died seven years ago, this very night
  • so he said “Pooh, pooh!” and closed it with a bang
  • The bell struck twelve
  • went to fetch the goose

Tune in next time part 556     Click Here for Earlier Installments

I delivered the traditional malediction upon the chef, remembering to imitate Arlo’s sniveling accent. “Give to us a suitable feast, though you be a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner. It will probably taste like the corpse of your predecessor, who died seven years ago, this very night, but pray that these fine guests will overlook its horrid stench and gritty texture.” While memorizing these lines, I learned that this chef was, indeed, coming up on his seventh anniversary of employment. I tried to avoid the man’s sorrowful eyes, pushed the distressing tale from my mind.

But that story was the only topic of conversation at the high table. The hapless previous chef’s offering had been rejected at a reception much like this, the groom taking his duties quite seriously and hurling the cook into the allegedly ceremonial grave. The grave in that case had been equipped with a lid, and the groom’s mouth was still full of the vile cuisine, so he said “Pooh, pooh!” and closed it with a bang. The narration always left off at this juncture, never revealing the poor man’s eventual fate. I had to assume they never let him out, and wonder if the food could possibly have been that bad.

Our fare did not resemble corpseflesh in any way that I noticed, which came as a huge relief for several reasons. Also, the PSLM² finally took the stage and drowned out the morbid gossiping at our table. Unfortuately, they also inspired numerous ungainly Svenborgians to get up and dance.

The bell struck twelve. That was Jason’s cue, but he didn’t appear. I leaned over to the Tessabot and asked if she knew the reason for the delay.

“He went to fetch the goose for the dessert.” She frowned thoughtfully. “He should be back by now.”

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While We Awaited the Arrival of the Dessert Goose

  • by jenlike a bar of soap full of dead ants
  • I’m not particular
  • However, a pirate named
  • but you have a job to do
  • Oh, fork your sister.

Tune in next time part 557     Click Here for Earlier Installments

While we awaited the arrival of the dessert goose and my twin, the pastry chef presented us with something she claimed was our wedding cake. It looked like a bar of soap full of dead ants. I’m not particularly picky when it comes to sweets, but this looked utterly vile.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered to Tessa, eyeing the disgusting trifle.

“Svenborgian tradition dictates a fruitcake be served at weddings,” she whispered back. “However, a pirate named Jorgensen raided the kitchen last week and stole all the raisins.”

“That doesn’t entirely answer my question.”

“It might look a little questionable, but you have a job to do. And that job is cutting this cake with me and eating a bite. You have to act the part of the Viscount so no one gets suspicious. My sister Titania will be on the warpath if she finds out this is all a ruse.”

“Oh, fork your sister.”

“I believe you already did.”

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“If You Have Nutella”

  • by Kenthas been immortalized
  • not in any way compromise your sister
  • my trembling subsided
  • Some say he’s dead, some say he never will be.
  • If you have Nutella

Tune in next time part 558     Click Here for Earlier Installments

“If you have Nutella, that’ll make my job much easier,” I said. The Tessabot elbowed me in the ribs. The sight of the cake was making me shake with revulsion.

I was granted a brief reprieve from putting any of the alleged cake into my mouth when one of the random Svenborgian nobles stood up and raised his glass. I surmised this was the best man about to deliver his speech.

“Is there anything left to say about marriage?” he declaimed airily. “The bride is lovely, and so let us say nothing further about her, because it would all have to be nice and where’s the fun in that? Now, the groom is a different story. This groom in particular, but by Svenborgian tradition all men pass, in marriage, into a realm of mystery as they become, evermore, ‘The husband.’ Some say he’s dead, some say he never will be. I say he’ll be fine as long as his lovely bride never finds out about last October!”

Was it also Svenborgian tradition to do a roast rather than a toast? Regardless, my trembling subsided as I mentally rehearsed the sleight of hand I would employ to avoid tasting that foul confection. I leaned to Tessa and whispered, “You know I would not in any way compromise your sister.”

She laughed, plausibly at something the best man had just said. She looked into my eyes, hers twinkling with merriment. “That’s not how she tells it. Her taste in ‘compromise’ with you has been immortalized in a limerick. Now cut the fucking cake before I recite it.”

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All This Talk of Limericks

  • by jentantamount to intellectual masturbation
  • big buttery buns
  • it would be embarrassing
  • you experience rapid hair growth
  • in a tartan frock

Tune in next time part 559     Click Here for Earlier Installments

All this talk of limericks reminded me that the woman beside me was not the real Tessa, but merely a robot duplicate. The real Tessa hates limericks. She considers reciting them tantamount to intellectual masturbation. No matter how much the Tessabot looked like the woman I loved, I couldn’t forget the truth. The big buttery buns beneath this wedding costume were not the big buttery buns I pined for, and it would be embarrassing to be so caught up in surface appearances that I forgot that.

I squared my shoulders and cut the “cake.” I closed my eyes and opened my mouth so the Tessabot could feed me a bite. I shuddered. The cake tasted like some foul concoction that would make you experience rapid hair growth in places where you don’t want hair. I was able to spit it into a napkin unchewed, but my tongue was now numb. The Tessabot happily chewed and swallowed her mouthful, more evidence that she was not the woman I loved.

At that moment Jason arrived in a tartan frock, carrying a platter upon which rested a goose, also in a tartan frock.

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