December 21, 2006

Divine Intervention

posted by Kitty O'Keefe at 7:55 AM

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Using the psuedonymn Horace Cope, I wrote a column for The Venango
Lubricant which became so popular it syndicated.
I called it LIVE WELL BY
THE STARS. Astrology is much the same for mice as
for humans. I got alot of fan mail and once, early in the game, I allowed
myself to answer the siren call of a lady reader who
desired that we dine intime
and "see what happens".
I don't know what I could have been thinking.
Though all us adults know
that cross-species recreational sex is, if not common, at least heard of, what..after all..could
a four-inch mouse do with
or for a, say, 60-inch
hot patootie?
To return to astrology for just a moment, I'm
quite sure that I wouldn't have done this if I weren't
what me and Horace call a
"double Scorpio"..someone
born on Halloween, like
John Candy and the poet Keats, Dan Rather, Jane Pauley and other drooling
leering closet pornstars.
When I arrived at her cabana apartment in an
exclusive suburb of Meadville, she lept upon
a chair, shreiking. I calmly put down the bouquet of violets and
wrapped Whitman sampler and, taking a devil-may-
care-pose with arms akimbo
I yelled up, "DO YOU MIND,
OLD GOIL? I'D LIKE AT LEAST
A CHANCE TO EXSCHPLAIN..". She did stop schreiking but kept her crepe-du-chine violet dinner skirt gathered up above where her garter belt snaps fastened to the tops of her hose. I blushed at the view though it is hard to
tell with us mice..the little pink nose just gets kind of ruddy for a moment.
"How sweet!" she said,
"you sound just like Humphrey Bogart, are you
doing an imitation?" "No,
schweetheart, as uh hahd-
berled newspaperm'n on th'
make, so t'schpeak, I just
sound like this!"
She must have made the
Manhattans extra strong. In short order I was stiff
and later I thought I saw
two patooties getting rid
of two violet dinner skirts and somehow I was
in this hot redolent grotto hidden in the bushes with glistening walls and I kept rushing in and rushing out, rushing in and rushing out
and then everything closed in on me and the chanteusy
on the victrola (I think)
was trying to sound like
Yma Sumak.
I reached the editorial
offices of the Lubricant
next morning just in time
for my editor to leer
below his flaring nostrils
and say, "Where have YOU
been all night..that whore
house in Little Cooley?"
With the arch indignance of the blatant liar I said, "Not at all! The pipes are broke at the
hotel!" He sniggered.
"First edition copy call in ten minutes, Squeako..I hope you got something advance-canned in the drawer...".

10:29 AM  

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