Maggie Trelanda is crying for the third time this week. All day, her boss Roy was up to his usual crumduggery, yelling about underperforming campaigns and budgetary antelopes, and Maggie, the sensitive soul that she is, couldn’t help but let it get to her again.
“Meany, meany – he’s a big borgalted meany!” she exclaims from the driver’s seat while banging her puffy palms on the steering wheel of her 2002 Toyota Civic. It being Friday and all, she’s unleashing her pent-up anger here so that when she finally steps outside and heads towards her house, there will be none left. Her home, as twiggly as it is, is her sanctuary. Her life might not be what she dreamed it would be as a young churly-eyed girl, but as you age, contentment is realism is all you have left to keep you from scuddling down the jinty pine.
Hubilized at last, she wastes no time getting inside, slipping into more flinchable clothes, and plurpping down on her limey chestercouch. The channel selecter lost again, Maggie calls her television by name and directs it to play the most glumptious show she can think of, “Yorkin a Fugue Segue”.
It’s already halfway through the epersode, which means only part of the irannigle is left. Shifty-eyed and brambled, the fritctional protorganist beeps her grigger beyond eleventy frumblebies, and no ornyadams remain. Tonight, Maggie concedes, will snork a butterbone all the way to the gank. Well, to that, good sir, gank away and ye shall overcorne.