The 40-Something Word Challenge
It's A Slow Day At Work...
I haven't been able to hit Sheila O'Malley's blog for about a week. Still can't on my home machine, which is odd, since were both using Macs, and presumably the Safari browser.
I finally got her blog to load yesterday at work, and found this challenge waiting for me!
OK, I'm game! The result:
A goddamn Alexander Hamilton just to buy a slightly melted Milky Way candy bar?? What bullshit! Somehow a fifty cent candy bar in the States accrues some magical value by virtue of traveling in a shipping container to a snooty Paris food shop.
Fuckin' France. I hate this goddamned place. Part of me wanted to yank the shopgirl's panties up into the crack of her ass, just to wipe the sneer off of her snooty Parisian face. The other part of me said "Get the hell out of this glorified patisserie before you spend any more money".
I was on my bimonthly trip to escape the mud and entropy of Narragansett Beach society. Meh. As if. The last time Rhode Island had any society worthy of the name (other than Doris Duke, of course), Klaus von Bülow froze her on a marble bathroom floor.
I've had some minor success peddling books, and even sold an epistolary novel about the Sun King's pastime of collecting young noblewomen's virtue at Versailles, but I make nowhere near the scratch to gad about the globe willy-nilly. My true pastime is being a go-fer to the social elite.
See, Dad's family ran to old depleted money, and Mom's side dabbled in music and theatre and sharking rich people at mah-jong. The two halves met at a beach party in The Hamptons, and I was the slightly disreputable result. I do have the gift of gab, inherited from Irish antecedents from Glenlough. That makes me a welcome houseguest amongst the hoi polloi. What makes me even more welcome is an iron-clad reputation for being discreet. Need a mistress escorted from Biarritz to Gstaad? Archie's your man! Need an unwelcome suitor shanghai'ed to Turkmenistan! Give Archie a call!
I currently reside in Bristol, and to be official I guess you have to add "TWP", the preferred abbreviation for township. I never liked the term. Reminds me of some Welsh phrase, where no vowels are required to get your point across. To be "twp" in Wales is to be ignorant and slow. Missing on half your cylinders. Kind of like most of Bristol's residents, if truth be told. It's the kind of medieval place that teenage residents threaten to commit suicide if they can't leave, and the drug stores have razor blades on sale 24/7. You might see why I don't mind travel...
So, here I am in France. The trip started as a lark. The Dowager Empress of Newport needed some blueberry scones fetched from her favorite restaurant in Inverness, then wanted me pop down to Paris to lay some flowers on Oscar Wilde's grave at Pere Lachaise cemetery. Yeah, she's a crazy old bat, but a crazy old bat with a Gulfstream V jet on permanent standby...
Most people would find a trip to the cemetery gloomy and enervating. I saw it as an opportunity to use some of the Empress's money on several truly impressive spheres of Moroccan hash from the nearest banlieue, and then spend the twilight hours parked on Jim Morrison's grave, inhaling the elixir of fumes from the heated knife blade, and making up some nonsense evensong about James Joyce in the relative peace and quiet amongst the dead.
Naturally, I got the munchies. Had to be a Milky Way. Had to. Just too many damn peanuts in a Snickers bar. I pried it loose from the clerk after offering the aforementioned ten-spot in trade, and as I weaved my way back towards the Metro stop, I offered up a frequent and fervent halleluia and hat-tip to the chocolate gods.
I managed to bump into Orion while waiting for the G5 to be refueled for the trip back across the pond. She used to teach calculus at a Long Island community college, but got spotted by a Wilhelmina agent, and now her mug's plastered over creation, hawking MAC cosmetics and who knows what. She got her moniker from a conveniently placed scatter of moles across her back, which nearly match the Hunter constellation perfectly. I played my best Mr.Darcy act, offering a lift back to the states. With any luck and some flutes of Bollinger, I could be peeling her out of her pleather jumpsuit and panties around 40,000 feet.
It's a hard life, I tell you!
I haven't been able to hit Sheila O'Malley's blog for about a week. Still can't on my home machine, which is odd, since were both using Macs, and presumably the Safari browser.
I finally got her blog to load yesterday at work, and found this challenge waiting for me!
Please take a look at all of the words below - and work them into some kind of paragraph that makes sense. It could be a narrative. An epic poem. A screenplay. But please somehow work them all in.
cemetery
restaurant
pastime
twilight
evensong
bullshit
Turkmenistan
nonsense
epistolary
spheres
panties
TWP (as in: Township)
Glendalough
Narragansett Beach
Alexander Hamilton
Orion
Mr. Darcy
James Joyce
Milky Way
Mac Cosmetics
music
theatre
family
books
beach
peace
Versailles
medieval
bimonthly
entropy
sneer
mud
gloomy
enervating
mahjong
elixir
halleluia
blueberry
calculus
Scone
pleather
hat-tip
"Meh."
panties
OK, I'm game! The result:
A goddamn Alexander Hamilton just to buy a slightly melted Milky Way candy bar?? What bullshit! Somehow a fifty cent candy bar in the States accrues some magical value by virtue of traveling in a shipping container to a snooty Paris food shop.
Fuckin' France. I hate this goddamned place. Part of me wanted to yank the shopgirl's panties up into the crack of her ass, just to wipe the sneer off of her snooty Parisian face. The other part of me said "Get the hell out of this glorified patisserie before you spend any more money".
I was on my bimonthly trip to escape the mud and entropy of Narragansett Beach society. Meh. As if. The last time Rhode Island had any society worthy of the name (other than Doris Duke, of course), Klaus von Bülow froze her on a marble bathroom floor.
I've had some minor success peddling books, and even sold an epistolary novel about the Sun King's pastime of collecting young noblewomen's virtue at Versailles, but I make nowhere near the scratch to gad about the globe willy-nilly. My true pastime is being a go-fer to the social elite.
See, Dad's family ran to old depleted money, and Mom's side dabbled in music and theatre and sharking rich people at mah-jong. The two halves met at a beach party in The Hamptons, and I was the slightly disreputable result. I do have the gift of gab, inherited from Irish antecedents from Glenlough. That makes me a welcome houseguest amongst the hoi polloi. What makes me even more welcome is an iron-clad reputation for being discreet. Need a mistress escorted from Biarritz to Gstaad? Archie's your man! Need an unwelcome suitor shanghai'ed to Turkmenistan! Give Archie a call!
I currently reside in Bristol, and to be official I guess you have to add "TWP", the preferred abbreviation for township. I never liked the term. Reminds me of some Welsh phrase, where no vowels are required to get your point across. To be "twp" in Wales is to be ignorant and slow. Missing on half your cylinders. Kind of like most of Bristol's residents, if truth be told. It's the kind of medieval place that teenage residents threaten to commit suicide if they can't leave, and the drug stores have razor blades on sale 24/7. You might see why I don't mind travel...
So, here I am in France. The trip started as a lark. The Dowager Empress of Newport needed some blueberry scones fetched from her favorite restaurant in Inverness, then wanted me pop down to Paris to lay some flowers on Oscar Wilde's grave at Pere Lachaise cemetery. Yeah, she's a crazy old bat, but a crazy old bat with a Gulfstream V jet on permanent standby...
Most people would find a trip to the cemetery gloomy and enervating. I saw it as an opportunity to use some of the Empress's money on several truly impressive spheres of Moroccan hash from the nearest banlieue, and then spend the twilight hours parked on Jim Morrison's grave, inhaling the elixir of fumes from the heated knife blade, and making up some nonsense evensong about James Joyce in the relative peace and quiet amongst the dead.
Naturally, I got the munchies. Had to be a Milky Way. Had to. Just too many damn peanuts in a Snickers bar. I pried it loose from the clerk after offering the aforementioned ten-spot in trade, and as I weaved my way back towards the Metro stop, I offered up a frequent and fervent halleluia and hat-tip to the chocolate gods.
I managed to bump into Orion while waiting for the G5 to be refueled for the trip back across the pond. She used to teach calculus at a Long Island community college, but got spotted by a Wilhelmina agent, and now her mug's plastered over creation, hawking MAC cosmetics and who knows what. She got her moniker from a conveniently placed scatter of moles across her back, which nearly match the Hunter constellation perfectly. I played my best Mr.Darcy act, offering a lift back to the states. With any luck and some flutes of Bollinger, I could be peeling her out of her pleather jumpsuit and panties around 40,000 feet.
It's a hard life, I tell you!
posted by El Capitan | 12:19 PM
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