[From 2009 to 2012, I had a blog called A Hungry Artist. It mainly functioned as a creative outlet for exploring abstract topics as it related to food. The following post was selected from that archive. Some copy has been edited for clarity.]
The Queen Mum was unintelligibly British in speech. We may have been speaking the same language, but we certainly were not communicating. From what I grasped of our conversation, she recently returned from her most recent trip to the sun, where she was developing British goodwill and tanning. Ha, did I just say the sun? I meant the moon. The Brits don’t tan.
The last I read, they were making strides in procuring dominance over the moonites (the moon’s own people). I, then, spoke to the Prince after Mum was retrieved by her guard detail and was retired for the eve.
D. or Prince Oedipus, as I like to call him, is by any definition a weird bird. I asked him what kind of music he enjoys and he said he was too busy since moving to the US to follow music. He only works 3 to 4 days a week. I found him in his usual corner drinking a Stella Artois from the appointed Chalis, the only way to drink a Stella Artois. You see the prince has a dilemma that is obvious to most everyone but him. He is like a Shakespearean tragedy, tangled in a web of 2 lovers, his girlfriend, a rather attractive and tall, limber brunette from Jersey that he picked up on the second leg of his flight back from the mother country and, of course, the queen mum herself. He drifts while in conversation, to other places. Indecent spaces and places where crown jewels, dentures, flesh swords, and DeLoreans mingle in the same sentence.
A ping, a ding, a shout. The brunette’s won a round of video blackjack. I’m out of the indecent space and place.
To be continued…