By FABIO LANZONI, MARGARINE SPOKESMUFFIN
I’m sorry, why are you yawning? Have you a sleeping illness? Myself, I was stricken not once, but twice during jungle shoots for my orangu-friendly line of…
Again! My dear lady, you have yawned once again! Speak, now, fair maiden, else the cruel winds of weariness tear us apart!
…I’m sorry, could you repeat that?
…not even a little?
My good lady, I am stunned. Stunned! That my entire cavalcade of appeal – my muscles, my hair, my accent, my de-buttoned blouse by Vincenzo of Mantua, my jaw – all of my seductioneering charm has failed to whip you into frenzied abandon…
No. Impossible, I’m afraid. You are mistaken. You are in a diabetic shock… well, perhaps in an amorous shock, whereby you have regressed to a stage of eroticism, and you taunt the one that causes your very soul to quiver, your bowels…
No, I am NOT crying. My stone-hewn cheekbones are but glistening with the oils of a thousand and one Arabian trysts, or the salty spray of loves left lying on Maltese beaches, or, or moisturizing patchoulis from my Arouse the World in 80 Lays balloon exodus! No, tears have no place in these, the eyes that have gazed upon the bosoms of princesses, and at a wink, catapulted the clothes from their sumptuous forms!
…oh, there have been princesses! There have been more princesses than non-princesses, I would imagine, if it were possible to keep count by this point.
No, no, a gentlesir never indulges in regiphilia and tells. …but, ah, yes! Perhaps, my graceful swan, you hint thusly to be made a royal in the ways of romance yourself!
…still no? Then pray, damsel, to lay upon one so humble the divine digits of your domicile, that when the great fortress walls built up around thine heart do crack and crumble under desire’s duress, your fair figure might find glorious release on the pillars of…
Fine. Fine. To err is human, after all, and we two are but humans, no? Take your leave, but do make mention to your sisters and chambermaids of my temporary residence at the Inn of Ramada.
Delay yourself, lass! Lass! Alas, the lass, she has forgotten her gloves. …ahh, I see. Coy girl, her game is intricate – like the bra hooks she intends me, and me alone, to tear asunder. Love’s light faintly glimmers on the horizon once again!
Barkeep! Hear my command – more “Maximum Ice!”