In medias res

This just in: The dance party held monthly for older lesbians called Hot Flash is changing its name to Vaginal Dryness. (I couldn’t believe it either.)

This just in: A new study came out in L.A. where 14% of white people polled claimed to be Crips and only 8% claimed to be Bloods. The other 88% preferred earth tones.

This just in: Audiences walked out during the premiere of Gorillas in the Mist 2, agreeing that it is definitely not as good as the original. (Don’t bother, you’ll be disappointed.)

This just in: Fat girls are hot! rad.

sounds like M

Ambassador Mullien washed his mullet most methodically this morning in preparation for the Monster Truck Rally. So much that it molded to his melon like ridges in a mountaintop. Hoping the moist climate of his hometown of Montevallo wouldn’t mar his handsome mane, he stepped out manoeuvering through the marigolds and primrose with certain ambition. His motive was unmistakable: to find a non-mormon little missy to marry who would love him despite his occasional misconduct, to mollify his severe monotheism and to share in his mortality—and more morosely, his mortgage.

Despite his manly exterior and title, the Ambassador was a man of modest means and more importantly, a learned if not sensible man. He enjoyed building models of miniature mining towns. He read Milton and enjoyed mythology occasionally, but thought Murakami was a bit too metaphysical for his tastes. His mood was never melancholy or glum, for he maintained that he got his disposition from his mother who was masterful at the art of mediation and whose mild-mannered ways meant she was of immeasurable merit, especially in the small town of Marion, where the young Mullien grew into manhood, and where the women were mostly mechanics or metal workers (few masons) and suffice it say, not at all mealy-mouthed.

Never a great marksman, Mullein scanned the crowd of manicured maidens—some timid, some demure, some misshapen, some managing to make-do with little make-up and more modesty. Some magnetic and some magnificently remote when encompassed by admirers…

And then he saw her: a woman so impressive, a maelstrom of emotion moved through him. She stood motionless, like a marbled fawn, holding a lemon-colored kerchief. And like the gray-eyed Minerva, her hands at once seemed delicate but indomitable. She stood there with mute determination and with a complexion like the glow of a new moon. He made note that in many ways she was the epitome of a greek drama: her beauty would endure through millennia and she’d somehow have a very lyrical death. At the same time, Mullein felt tragic and that tragedy reminded him of the fact that he was not at all immune to female beauty. He accepted this mystery most humbly. And like Samson, bemused and mystified, he knew his Delilah would be cause of his demise. Even so, he saw himself offering that emotion to the alter with little remorse. Before he knew it, he was succumbing…kissing her hand.

And so it happened that Mullein and Milly (that was her name) wed in Saint Mary’s in Marceline, Missouri under 38 lighted, plastic moravian stars. They danced the minuet and honeymooned in Burma in the middle of a muggy summer month—which just happened to be at the end of a mighty monsoon season. Then, with mother-in-law in tow, they moved to Mobile where Milly worked part-time in the only maritime museum in Alabama. They had numerous children—little Mildred, Manon, Mallory, Maebel, Marlon, Marisol, Max and Mullein’s favorite, little Millicent—all maintaining small mullets and immodest rambunctiousness.

The many years that followed brought immense joy to Mullein and Milly. Innumerable grandchildren were reared. At age 77, Milly died of a malignant tumor found on her pericardium. The memorial lasted only moments but remained in Mullein’s gray matter until his death at the age of 80. On his deathbed her image flooded his mind. He remembered her smell, her smile, the timbre of her voice. He was completely immersed in the memory of his Milly. And in the end, after all that time, he wondered why he felt nothing.