Okay, then, I'll do yours and she can do mine.
WHY I JOINED THE BOOK FORUM AND ONLY POSTED 1700 TIMES
My classic navy blue Mercedes sedan broke down on the Infobahn in the wee hours of the night last year. The battery was dead. It's not true what they say about Mercedes. They actually do break down sometimes, especially in the middle of nowhere when you are down to your last pilsner and there is nothing but pretzel salt left in the bag.
The superhighway was deserted, and a cold wind howled through my ears as I stumbled blindly through the sauerkraut-smelling fog. It sounded like a seashell-ocean sound in the emptiness of my skullbone. I was somewhere like Eastern Europe except not. Perhaps it was the Ukraine. Or Poland even. I thought I could smell peirogies as well.
In the foggy darkness, my foot fell into a big damp hole. Most of the leg went in there actually. I still have the scars to prove it. The hole was large and warm, though a tad moist, with balls of hay and shredded newspapers in the corners and a kettle boiling on the hearth. I thought I saw a blue rabbit bouncing down one of the tunnels. So I stuck my head in, and then the rest of me fell in with a crash, landing face down on a very pointy bobbyburns. Ouch. I still have the scars to prove that too. Not something I will soon forget.
"Welcome to The Book Forum" it said. "What is your moniker?"
"I am Novella of the Black Socks" I replied, pulling my skirt back down to a decent position. "I, too, like to eat books, though I have found that hardcovers have a higher fiber content than paperbacks, and somewhat less sugar. But don't get me wrong. I'm no health nut."
"I am a Health Nut," said the bobbyburns. "I am on The DVD Diet, a strict regimen in which books are not allowed. Though I do have the occassional skin mag."
"Hmmm," says I. "What's that awful noise? I can't think myself hear." Indeed there was a high keening echoing through the chamber.
"Oh never mind that. It's just Martin. He nailed his head to a wall and is trying to reach the nail remover."
"Interesting . . . mind if I stay for breakfast," says I. "Those dumplings sure smell tasty."
"Those aren't dumplings, Miss Novella. That's Billy Oblivion boiling his trousers."
"Smells like chicken, though, doesn't it?" I made myself comfortable on a cushion of dry hay and gave myself a head massage.
The roar of motorcycles aroused me from my delerium. A gang of hellcats wheeled into the cubby, and bobbyburns scuttled out of sight behind the iron stove. It was The Wilde Bunch, a crew of rabble rousing romance novelists wearing Che Guevera masks. Their leader was smoking a spliff and had mascara running down her cheeks.
"Motokid, get me a tissue," she said. "Pronto."
"Here, use my hankie," he replied. "It's newly laundered."
They were one tough gang. I asked them if they had anything to eat.
"Thomas Pynchon" the leader replied.
Just the thought of a Pynchon at that hour made me queasy.
to be continued. (I'm only halfway done with the assignment, but I'm taking a tea break. Union regs.)
