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epitome of incomprehensibility
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(Setting: a door in a house)
SPEAKER FOR THE HOUSE (knocking and talking): The blue talent for forgetting opens a new vista of microscopic windows! Marketing copy indicates catachresis is an approved substitute for modular Christianity!
FIFTIES HOUSEWIFE (opens door cautiously): I'm sorry, but what exactly are you selling?
SPEAKER (excitedly): Elliptical handlebars provide more glide for your engine and more clang for your cluck!
FORTIES HAIRBAND (appearing beside FIFTIES HOUSEWIFE with an arm on her shoulder): I don't think my wife wants to talk about chickens.
SPEAKER: No doubt, no doubt. What's more, not talking about chickens allows us to say nicer things about plinth!
FIFTIES: I'm sorry, but I don't quite see how.
SPEAKER: My records indicate "how" is invisible.
FORTIES (removing arm): That's absurd. (Hotly) I've had no idea how for twenty years and I see it. I see it wiggle.
SPEAKER: Please re-install my arm. Thank you.
FIFTIES: Now if you'll excuse me, I have to bake a cake.
SPEAKER (freezes): Did you say CAKE?
FIFTIES (scratches her nose): No, I'm quite sure I said cake. CAKE must be something else, like COOKIES.
SPEAKER (self-importantly): Well, if you muddle a new browser window for irrigation software, the results will appear pretty much like time squared, I mean Times Square. That's where the riots were, weren't they?
FORTIES (impatiently): Mr. Speaker, you'd be hard-pressed to find any other kind of riot. Now look here, my wife is about to give birth to an egg. And it's not just an egg, but a dynasty. A sparkly one.
FIFTIES: Stonewall! I remember, I got that new dress.
FORTIES: You didn't just get a dress, dear. You also got a headband.
FIFTIES: Hairband.
FORTIES (chuckles): At least it's not a hair metal band! That would hurt.
SPEAKER (to FIFTIES): I told you, go with the chicken option. Your husband will thank you later.
FORTIES (sotto voce): In_bed.
FIFTIES (squeals): You're so romantic! Especially in Italian.
SPEAKER: Ahem. I could give you both a foot bill, but I'm above that kind of amateur consensus-tickling. I want you to percolate on what we, as world citizens, really believe. And for that, you need a pair of paradox pants.
FIFTIES (closing door): No thank you. I already have a paradox T-shirt.
(They embrace passionately.)
FORTIES (whispers in her ear): Darling, would you give me up for a catachresis seller?
FIFTIES (whispers back): Heteronormative synecdoche means never having to say you're sorry.
(The
End)
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130417
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