…from a family “Mad Libs” evening; specifically, one entitled “My Dream Man.” Make of it what you will:
My “Dream Man” should, first of all be very Fallow and Turgid. He should have a physique like Janet Reno, a profile like Shaggy, and the intelligence of a Banana Slug. He must be polite and must always remember to Flop my Crankshaft, to tip his Flipper and to take my Liver when crossing the street. He should move Energetically, have a Crusty voice, and should always dress Forgetfully. I would also like him to be an Insipid dancer, and when we are alone he should whisper Mild nothings into my Chin and hold my Flashy Toad. I know an Aspirin is hard to find. In fact the only one I can think of is Lars.
My name is mentioned in the last line because that space called for “name of man in room,” and because no one else qualified – Jack not being quite a man yet. In other words, for better or worse, I was the only choice. I know there will be those among you who will read the fictitious narrator’s description of her perfect man as being “fallow” and “turgid” and possessing the intelligence of “a banana slug,” and think “unintentional (but very likely fully justified) karmic justice.” Me, I consider it “proof positive that the universe is bereft of benevolent higher power.”
I do NOT dress “forgetfully.”