Oh dear, oh dear, I think I bent the protractor of my good friend the very geometric/algebraic Rev. Barking Nonsequitor by blatting senselessly (but I hope not too stupidly) at his blog about the battle of the sexes, PLO versus Al Qaeda espionage, and being a spy in the house of love, and stuff – and then, at Breakerslion’s place, I bitched about married women bitching about their husbands, and complained that nobody does it the way Mary Shelley did it on the PBS Channel anymore, then stated that marriage was slavery and yet I’d throw my rose petals to the wind if someone played Chopin to my George Sand – and to top it off, Michael Korn, who is a creationist and a doorbell ring just short of a pizza delivery, is hurling invective at PZ Myers from an IP just a state away from Rev. Chimpy, and JanieBelle has a headache!
This crazy-ass world needs an infusion of my irreverent wit, to counteract the, er, recent infusion of my irrelevant wit.
To whit, here is a particle of my first novel
, which deals with sexual espionage long before there ever was a PLO or an Al Qaeda, but happening quite after the colorful break-up of Franz Chopin and George Sand. Enjoy, you guys, and sorry.
(But it's really not my fault. I share the body with Richard Hughes at AtBC.)
Labels: apologies that spark more apologies, fiction, frolic, humor, surrealism