“Musings of an Affectionado”

Skip the BS.

By Skip Eisiminger

“Quilting is a useful hobby for the elderly, wherein the crap of a lifetime can be turned into a patchwork comforter.” —Anonymous

“A malapropism is a form of impropaganda.” —The Wordspinner

Clemson, SC—(Weekly Hubris)—8/16/10—With deciduous application, Ilse had kept the forceps of evil at bay during the Nazi error. However, weapons of mass production terrified her, so she placed all her eggs in one basket case, namely herself, dodged a fuselage of bullets crossing the Check border, and fled to Civil, Spain. But when she heard John Lenin on the radio, she tied up all her dead ends and fled once more. “Fortunately,” she was heard to say, “I am affluent in English, so New Pork is the obvious choice.” Before leaving Spain, however, she called a tax attorney to stuff her dog.

Arriving in New Pork, Ilse shouted, “Terra cotta at last!” but she had merely cracked pandemonium’s box. “Funny how the best intentions go a rye,” she later mused. Determined, nevertheless, to make a go of it, she towed the line and exorcised daily. Though she lived in a chantey by the tracks, she hired a tooter, who helped her to make steadfast progress toward her dream job: census taker for the Autobahn Society. “I’ve always been good at mounting,” she told the interviewer.

It was in this capacity that Ilse met Max, a circus-sized country pumpkin with a vast suppository of knowledge. Innocently, she had stopped her Honda Hunchback to ask directions when he appeared. She almost left when he admitted he was on the lamb, but when he promised her multiple organisms, she couldn’t resist. As for Max, he couldn’t take his eyes off Ilse’s decoupage and dairy air. Long a woman of mammary distinction, Ilse thought, “Now here’s a man I can neuter.” They started drinking hopscotch on the rocks at five, and by seven, they were in a state of Bolivia. Together, the two were arrow dynamic, so off to Lost Wages they flew to tie the not.

Later the bed-raggled bride said, “Moe’s art and the champagne caused me to let down my prohibitions,” because, no sooner had Ilse become an awfully wedded wife than Max contracted reptile dysfunction. Sadly, this led to the disillusion of the not, which was knot to be.

Eventually Ilse convinced herself that her relationship with Max, brief as it was, was a millstone. She vowed she would not bear falsies against another man, but the mesh is weak.

Once she regained cohesive speech, Ilse returned to the rot of the Autobahn Society, but the tacks of life seemed to exasperate her problems. “Perhaps it is my density,” she mused. Though there were no longer any stigmata associated with divorce, she found it difficult to get off the dreadmill and the biddy pot. At first she suspected PBS, but this bout lasted longer than the customary weak. “If only I had ESPN,” she mused. At her lowest point, she considered rush-in roulette but got a taboo on her butt instead. A torn chili’s tendon and a spinal-chord injury followed in quick secession. Eventually, she was diagnosed with bucolic plague, a rare form of the slime flu. Forced to take the anecdote, she checked herself into the Henry Ford Clinic, where people in her condition coagulate.

She was on tenderhooks for several weeks, but one of the duly constipated authorities gave her a Heimlich Remover, and that seemed to purge her system of everything but a migrating headache and the poultrygeist knocking around in her belfry.

Once free of the clinic, she ran off with a faith dealer on the sperm of the moment and threw off the yolk of her depression. “Yahweh!” she shouted, waving the New Testicle. “I feel like Jesus climbing Calgary!” In one fatal swoop, Ilse had found the Holy Host and was forever waived.