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Tuesday, January 29, 2008

The Big O

I sat cross-legged and naked on the floor at the foot of the bed, staring silently into the darkness. From the bed I could hear Oprah, or "The Big O," as I now called her, snoring softly. The quiet purr of her slumberous breathing evoked an image of a sinewy black panther dining on a troupe of camping cub scouts in the Everglades, a mental picture that brought about an incredible hunger to my loins. I felt a sudden urge for a baloney sandwich. Careful not to make the slightest noise, I rose to find the kitchen. As I made my way toward the bedroom door I remembered that I was still naked, so I found the straw cowboy hat that I had worn earlier during our role-playing and donned it, then quietly exited the bedroom.

As I made my way through the vast labyrinth of corridors that is The Big O's mansion, I found myself feeling like a cowboy hero in a great western adventure. In my fantasy I was on a mission to find a young pioneer girl who'd been stolen by the ruthless Apaches. The baloney sandwich was the girl. I was trying to decide why I would eat the girl when I found her when I rounded a corner and nearly walked into Maria, The Big O's maid. Upon seeing me wearing nothing but my cowboy hat, Maria nearly spun around and ran, but couldn't seem to avert her eyes from my perfect form.

"Goodness, Senor," Maria gushed, "Do you have a conjoined twin?"

"No ma'am," I said, "That's just Moby. You can probably guess why I named him Moby."

"After the guy who plays the techno music?" she asked.

"No ma'am," I corrected, "after the whale."

Maria stared a moment longer as I stood awkwardly before her. Finally I asked if she could show me to the kitchen, and she readily agreed. I quickly integrated Maria into my mind's fantasy by deciding that she would be an Apache maiden that I had charmed into being my ally. In a few moments we were in the kitchen and Maria offered to prepare a snack for me.

"I just wanted a baloney sandwich," I told her. She immediately shook her head.

"No, Senor, you don't want the baloney!" she advised, rather vehemently.

"Ma'am," I replied, "I sure had a hankerin' for some baloney. So did Moby." We both looked down at Moby, who seemed to agree.

"But it is made from the dogs!" she cried. Upon this revelation, she gasped and thrust both her hands over her mouth to quiet herself.

"What do you mean, little lady," I demanded.

"No, I've said to much already!" she pleaded.

"Lady," I said, "You need to tell me exactly what you're talking about." My voice had turned threatening. She looked at me with wide eyes then looked down at Moby. He was pointed right at her.

"Okay, okay," she cried, "I'll tell you, just don't shoot! Miss Oprah, she forces me to make homemade baloney from the dogs she adopts from the shelter. She hates the dogs, but loves the baloney."

I was flabbergasted. The Big O hated dogs? Why did this newfound information seem so vital? The wheels of the superhumanly powerful machine that is my thought process began to turn, slowly at first, searching for the connection. I looked at Maria, but she was staring past me, her eyes filled with terror. I spun quickly to look behind me. There, naked and filling the doorway, stood The Big O.


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