Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Shall I Dim Sum More?

Poor Miles. My heart bleeds for the dear boy. I remember the first time we met like it was yesterday. We were in Katmandu, Walter and I and I'd double-vaulted over a concrete fence topped with broken Coca-Cola bottles. My hands were a bloody mess (and I say that with literatal meaning, not with a British bent). I'd dashed into a small tea shop and there, leaning against the counter smoking a cigarello was the most dashing, handsome man I'd seen in ages (Sorry, Walter, but the description cannot be avoided). Hair the color of Kansan straw, just baled after lunch on a June day, eyes like a Caribbean coral reef. "Either you've just come from an emergency interchestal heart massage, or you could use a slathering of merchurochrome on those mittens." I knew then that he was none other than Miles, aka "The Blue Dolphin". He commenced to wrapping my hands in moistened Franciscan gauze (made from Italian llama, no less) and whisked me to a waiting car, where we raced from the city, him shooting an Argentinian Ballesta Molina over his left shoulder, using only the side mirror for reference, while I hurled Molotov cocktails (made from the local distilled rum, a waste of perfectly good sprits I might say, but then I digress...).

I wouldn't gather his personal proclivities until later that night when I, and I'm embarrassed to admit this now, couldn't for the life of me figure out why the man hadn't made a pass at this smoldering dame. It was when he smiled and said simply, "I love your furs, but I'd prefer to feel the outside than venture inside." Ah, but of course. And it was, at the moment, a match made in heaven. We've been there through thick and thin, Miles and I, and now when I see those crystal blue eyes well with tears over the loss of his dearly beloved, my heart melts along with his.

The Dim Sum was divine; I only wish I could have partaken. The representative from Chile was immediately recognized in his sage green Farah suit and his moustache that was more "moose" than "Stache" if you know what I mean (and I know you do, my fair pussies). The cosmetics bag was just as lethal as I'd expected. How, you say? Well, sit back into your Davenports, my dears and read on:

The first layer from the tube number one must coat the lips entirely. Allow to air dry for no less than five minutes. Apply the cherry red #3 from case #2 (Do NOT mix these up. Case #3 applied in step 2 will melt your lips off like a crayon mashed into a dashboard cigarette lighter). Do not apply this more than one hour before the mission is to be carried out. Lure the target into the kitchen, ask him to breathe in the sumptous aroma of the potstickers. The canister, it steams well, does it not? Opens those pores nice and wide? Make a joke about the phallic shape of the potstickers, then laugh and kiss him with a peck on the cheek. Feign embarrassment over your lewd actions and blame the heat in the hellish kitchen. Wipe the lipsick from his face using a handkerchief, swirling in a clockwise fashion, ensuring that it grinds in to the skin nicely. Excuse yourself to the powder room, remove the protective underlayer of lip cover (using a tissue, dear, not your supple fingertips) and flush said lip prophylactic down the comode. Appear concerned as the gangly Chilean in the Farah suit clutches at his heart and falls to the floor in sudden death. "Oh dear!" you say. "I just spoke with him a moment ago and he appeared well. He said the most ribald of things to me, I shant repeat it even if you tie me to the radiator and pelt me with dried macaroni, but dear me the man didn't deserve to die, oh no he most certainly did not!"

I'm simmering chicken soup and chamomile tea for Miles. He is smiling now, bless his lovely soul.

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