I skipped the life fandango substituting cartwheels with serious sexy summersaults aimed at impressing sixteen vestal virgins plus one. They laughed ghostly giggle dribbles. I stood up, readjusted my boxer-briefs before briefly backtracking to where I was before the Buffalo wings buffet went all bugaboo. A serious something inside me said it was Friday evening on a Sunday afternoon and I had nothing left to the lose but the answer I got from the chestnut brown canary cavorting with the ruby throated sparrow. Spirituous spiritual rapture rappelled my unabashed umbrage as I bowed in prayer breaking the unbreakable chain of chambermaids eyeing Chamaeleon through the widow’s walk Tiffany stained-glass— deep purples, cyan pepper blues, assorted magentas marbled magnificently in indigo.

My curiosity coaxed me outside into the dark of night. Silly shadows shadoobied a whopper of tale in Tanzanian- Taobaodao with a hint of Tabasco-Taoseño. But I was in Connecticut, not New Mexico. So, I shadowboxed said shadows into submission submitting to subrogation subreption intent on listening to the somber tale of the seventeenth vestal virgin before she shipped her virginity to West Virginia with Virgil, Lucius Varius Rufus and Plotius Tucca. “There’s perplexing political politickling, perhaps a politidouche about to create a politigasm of epic Euripides Sophoclean-cyclopian cyclophosphamide— or so they say,” she said.

“Who said that?” I asked.

“Hush,” she said pointing her imaginary finger towards Stamford and all points west of tangency.

Autumn angst amidst annoying alliterations revealed reverberatory nonsense meant to mute and confuse Confucius masquerading as Rufus-The Naked Mole Rat— me too.  I needed to know the answer before the one after 909 left the station. “Knick knack paddy wack, they say you'll hear your own bones crack when they bend you back to bible black,” I said.

“No, that’s not the way to Ralitsa Vassilieva.”

“I’m so lost.”

“So is she.”

“She?”

“The one who seeks the seat of the one who refuses to stand on the banker’s greedy hand.”

Broken faces with melted eyes looked at me, realizing redemption redistributes disputed disputatious disproportion. I figured as much when the wrestling promoter preempted my confusion with the illusion that democracy isn’t a democratic dictatorship sailing all points south; it’s a republican hippie hugging republican socialism in a cashmere sweater dipped in a fallacious fallacy ignoring the fellatio alarm clock’s wakeup call. Sadly, the seventeenth vestal virgin understood this all too well; she walked away with her hymen insurance paid in full as Turkish drummers reminded me of the proprietor of a Vietnamese restaurant in Quebec who used to be head of the secret police in Da Nang— and it occurred to me I was thinking about all this stuff to keep from thinking about something else.

 Linda McMahon 

Chris Dodd