The Pink Tam
Dressed in my best Democratic clothes -- Birkenstocks and cargo pants -- I harnessed my turtle, an ancient terrapin named Tuttle and slipped the kite string through the ring affixed to the neck of my bat, Segundo and headed to the park to read a printout of the galleycat blog.
Sipping my double latte, I breathed in the heady scent of hyacinths, delighted to leave behind the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd. Tuttle paddled lazily around the pond, nipping at the heels of children's sailboats while Segundo soared like a kite, melding with the clouds.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a plethora of promenading poodles looking for trouble. My heart pounding, I scooped up my turtle and reeled in my bat, scurrying for the cover of a bramble thicket; no self-respecting poodle would risk snagging a bow, I reasoned. I stifled a yelp: in my haste I had bumped my bunion.
As I shielded the three of us with my 200,000-word manuscript, a furry white face snuffled into our hole. What the Fuck? I thought, my mind in a muddle. There's something pink stuck to its head.
Incensed, I crept from my hideout to confront the besmircher of all things poodle. What kind of nitwit goes out in public with a poodle, much less one wearing a pink tam? My eyes swept the park, settling on four-inch Manolos.
Could it be? Aye Carumba! It was. She of the spiked heels and pink-tammed poodle: her divineness, Miss Snark!
What to do in the presence of such greatness? Should I submit to the will of the Wisp? (the name I assigned the snark upon discovering her diminutive size.)
My unagented side suggested I grovel. Dropping to my knees and pressing my head to the earth, I extended a trembling hand clutching an SASE as proof I could follow directions.
She scoffed. (Yes, believe it or not, Miss Snark scoffed at my humble offering.) "Rise, oh lowly writer," she intoned. "Did you really believe you could buy my affections so easily?"
Slowly I rose, my heart beating in heady anticipation of an opportunity to query. I ripped the newspaper from my manuscript typed in a flowery font and printed on pink parchment, thrusting it toward her holiness.
Haughtily, she batted the manuscript aside, laughing as twenty years of my life scattered on an evil wind. Tears stained my cheeks (No, not those cheeks!) as I struggled to speak. "You seem so friendly on your blog. What happened?"
Her answer: a sneer.
"If you don't want my manuscript," I persisted, "perhaps you'd consider buying some raffle tickets so I can visit my mother in Iraq?"
"Your mother wears army boots?"Miss Snark asked in amazement. "Well of course I'll buy some. Drop everything and give me ten . . . books."
Despite the pink tam foisted upon his dogliness, Killer Yap beamed and we all lived happily ever unpublished.
Miss Snark senses not-so-latent hostility here!
Miss Snark never intones! She's also always off key, but hums in bars.
Scoring to come.