The Book of Wrevelations

The Wroast

Herewith are provided the texts, verbatim, of the Wroasts offered to our One True Queen, her Smugness, Chris-dot-tine. Feel free to guess who wrote what. I've left in most hints, but stripped out the headers. That's about my speed, for contest difficulty. Also, please forgive the cheesy formatting, which would no doubt be easy for a four-year-old with a crayon to improve upon. HTML isn't my first language.

Wroast the First

Queen Chris.tine, what can I say about her that she hasn't already said about herself? She has an ego as big as the grand canyon and buzzooms as big as twin Astro Domes. But does she flaunt them? Well, of course she does. And why not? Not another woman in all of m.w is as raw, as incredibly hilarious, nor as gifted with balls, the size of those sported by Babe the Blue Ox. Who else but Chris.tine would dare to suggest that the sainted Mother Teresa should sell her urine to feed the hungry?

And just where would we be without her? The Viragoes would have no Retribution, there would be no Editor, and please don't forget our Prom! Yes, Chris.tine has given us a new appreciation for Birkenstocks, a craving for lutefisk and above all, noses filled with the fuzz of angora sweaters. Who deserves more applause? More admiration? Well, I do, of course. But that's another story. So, it's three cheers for Chris.tine. All of us in misc.writing owe her a wealth of gratitude. She has made our motley multitude of uncontrollable writers wildly apathetic.

Wroast the Second

To Chris.tine: Always witty, sometimes passionate, her writing so worth reading that I'd pay money for the privilege (but don't tell her that.).

Wroast the Third

Ode to Chris.tine

unmetered verse, to be sung in the key of F# Minor

C is for the Clique of which she is Queen

H is for the Help she gives to us who have silly-assed questions

R is for the Rides she takes as Retribution

I is for the Ire with which she rants, sometimes

S is for the Shoes she writes about

. is for her Posts 'bout Penises and Pudenda

T is for the Time she spends with us

I is for her Iridescent Prose

N is for her Nonchalance with all our Fools

E is for the Elegance of her Expression

Put them all together you have Queen Chris.tine, she who rules the Clique in our small 'ville.

Wroast the Fourth

I'm one of those sad, broken & restless souls destined to remain faceless in misc.writing, even after the Wrevel. In other words, I am unable to attend, as there is an ocean and a largish travel expense between me and Wendy's house. Breaks my heart, frankly.

Therefore, note that this is the only reason to why I didn't enter the competition, and roast you some. Plus maybe that the mere thought of a wake-up call from Jack Mingo makes me fear for my sanity. I have a lousy morning temper.

But, dear Queen Chris.tine, to show you my true appreciation, let it be known that I'm already talking to a Big Name about the Chris.tine part in MW - The Movie. I've given this lots of thought, see. The casting will make or break this picture.

So, Chris, babe, you're gonna love this. Hell, the merchandise people are gonna love it.

Think Ophrah.

/George (Love your outfit, babe. Tres chic.)

Wroast the Fifth

Chris *who*?

Chris _McLaughlin_? Yes, I seem to vaguely recall someone by that name ... you say she (it *is* a she, isn't it? Yes, you definitely said she ... something about a "queen", but I suppose that doesn't really mean female anymore) you say she posts to misc.writing?

Wait, wait, I remember! Wasn't she the one who posted a fairly menstrual reply to one of Paul's witticisms? Something about him being inferior, or having something that was inferior ... I can't really remember what.

What was it you wanted me to do for Chris?

Oh, yes, you wanted me to "write some sort of greeting for her."

Very well. I feel rather sorry for her. Chris seems to be a nice enough person, although a bit on the militant feminist side, if you must know.

Ah, but Chris does seem to have her soft, gentle side, inbetween bouts of virago-ish displays of feminine pique. What I am trying to say is that I feel that beneath the black leather dominatrix outfit with the studded collar, fish-net stockings and thigh-high patent-leather boots lurks a little girl in a baby-doll nighty, clutching a stuffed kitty to her tiny tildes, with eyes as big as saucers. She is searching for a penis, most assuredly.

No-one knows why she is searching for Mr. Penis. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that her idea of high fashion is a good pair of Birkenstocks, which she will plonk upon the cocktail table as she hikes her denim skirt up to her thighs, plant her elbows on her knees and loudly proclaim "Yo! Does the concept of episiotomy mean NOTHING around here?"

Our timid Chris.tine.

Perhaps I should be more charitable in my characterization of our Queen. After all, it wouldn't do to get her riled. This flippant female is more than likely to flip me over a table. I can only say that, if I ever knew Chris.tine, I'd certainly be proud to know her.

But, really, I have *no* idea who it is we're talking about.

Pass the scrapple, please. I'm feeling peckish.

Wroast the Sixth

Dearist Sister Chris,

The Good Fairy truly regrets I cannot be here to personally answer your burning love questions. Seeing that I might find some difficulty rising to the occasion...Which is all for the best considering a girls propensity to swoon when confronted with greater truths. I would certainly not wish to step on the toes of those who feel they have more authority from higher sources than I to administer mouth to mouth resuscitation. Although...I highly suggest if he is wearing hip boots to be fully prepared. There are many fine lubricants on the market.

I'm so sorry to hear about all the sleepless nights you've spent tossing in bed, agonizing over whether to have Grey or Anthony father your love child.... Girl, unfortunately the Good Fairy cannot choose for you.

Honey child, goodness knows the Good Fairy knows what it is like to have to choose between two men...Although I have heard you are very adaptable and quite capable of handling large numbers, choose you must. You may do it twice, but this ain't no game of Russian roulette or who fired the biggest bullet. Some day the baby might want to know who daddy was.

But Sugar, advice I have Ab-bon-DON-te-MEN-te...Although, I have been know to go for the biggest...I say when confronted with equal attitudes... go for the Italian, cause Honey their minds turn off when they turn on...blast you right out of your Birkenstocks, and ....sure is getting hot in here...Ditch him as soon as you feel those little buggers swimming up the channel, before his attitude rises it's ugly head again...I know you'll do the right thing...Heaven knows, you've had enough experience.

Chris... baby, you are some smart cookie. I read your post awhile back where you gave all that advice about would and have and making it strong.

I quote here your advice: "So even though "read" is past tense, it feels less past, more solid...All those encircling words envelop and muffle the hard verb."

Girl! You sure know how to talk dirty! Verb?... You call it what you like, the Good Fairy got's another name for it. You've certainly used it enough to know it's real name. Verb?...You just crack me up Chris, telling me you don't know!... Don't go asking Paul, Woman...if it doesn't go baaaah he don't know what it's for.

Now you be careful down there Sis Chris. Don't do anyone...uh...thing I wouldn't do and don't you be chasing after none of those slack butt red necks. It's bubble butts for us toots!

...Now tell me about that coconut problem you've been having. Flopping about a bit you say? Any lower girl and you're going to be making canals in the ground when you walk. You better chuck those Birkenstocks for some high heels, baby... real high heels.

Ciao

Wroast the Seventh

Christine: lovely, candid, bold, well proportioned, a woman who is an open book, it seems. A woman with no skeletons. No closets. No hidden passages. A woman who, to the untrained eye, seems to have no secrets. None at all.

Well...

Things I know about Chris.tine That Nobody Else Knows and Things I Probably Shouldn't Tell You:

Volume One.

Chris.tine was born feet first in Vestfyorden off the coast of Norway, on a fishing boat at three-thirty-eight in the morning during a wild winter storm.

No kidding. Feet first. She emerged, a lovely and articulate child, and already standing up.

She spent her early years helping her mother knit huge nets and caring for her first pet, a courageous dog named Steve. Steve is an old Mclaughlin family pet name.

Her sister had a dog, also named Steve.

When she moved to Wisconson, Chris.tine had to leave her family and two Steves behind (but they joined her later) and start her new life in Wisconson.

Let's see. What else.

While she was going to university, Chris.tine had affairs with with five young men. One of the young men was named Steve, and that made her laugh, sometimes, at certain things that Steve said and did. Though he was confused, he never asked why she was laughing because he was in awe of her quick mind and general babeness. He pretended to get the joke. Sometimes he giggled.

Later, Chris.tine left Steve because he reminded her too much of Vestfyorden. He pretended to understand that too. Actually, he was secretly relieved that he could stop being confused.

Speaking of secrets.

Chris.tine is a closet gymnast. It's true. And she's good at it, too. Even in the little closet in the bathroom.

Also, she sleepwalks. Every morning at three-thirty-eight, she gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen. She sways slightly. In the kitchen, she makes an imaginary chicken and noodle casserole and freezes it. Then she goes back to bed.

There's so much more I could tell you about Chris.tine, about her secret likes and dislikes, and about her fondness for sheets with little pumpkins on them, but... look at the time.

Besides, you've all probably learned most of what I was going to say. Chris has probably already told you about the time she caught her nextdoor neighbour weeding his petunias, wearing his wife's go-to-Sunday-service dress. And about what happened in the wading pool that lovely, sunny June afternoon. So I won't bore you by telling you again.

Hope you're all having a great time. Hi, Chris.

Wroast the Eighth

Announcing the Chris McLaughlin GERSHWIN SPECTACULAR!!!!

1. (Sung to the tune of "My One and Only"

Chris.tine McLaughlin,

What-are-you-gonna-do if we roast you bad?

You know we're crazy over you.

.

Those beers you're quaffin'

We-hope-they'll-get-you-drunk so you won't get mad

This song's a parody, so you can't sue.

.

I tell you, that clique of yours is really something--

They won't take me, they won't take me--

To keep me out takes only one thing:

The entrance fee, the entrance fee

.

So our caps we're doffin'

Yes-I-can-rhyme-it-again though this one is bad

Just one more line here, and I'm through.

.

2. (Sung to the tune of "'SWonderful")

Smuggiful!

Smarmilous!

You should make this clique!

.

Smirkathon!

Smoochable!

'Tis the group I seek!

.

My God, you creeps are so darned smug!

You rate more than just a coffee mug!

.

Smartasses!

Smutty-mouthed pseudo-intellectuals!

Wait, that's not you, that's me!

(UGH! Bad ending!!)

.

3. (Sung to the tune of "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off")

You reign victorious while I am defeated,

You rate a "Gosh Darn!" I'm "Expletive deleted"

Victorious! Defeated! Gosh Darn! Deleted!

Let's call the whole thing off!

.

You have a Mercedes while I've got my Fluffy,

I hang with Plain Jane while you shop with Muffy

Mercedes! Fluffy! Plain Jane! Muffy!

Let's call the whole thing off!

.

But ooohhh...if we call the whole thing off our war would end,

And though we're sworn enemies I'd have to call you "friend"

.

So if I say "bronze armor" and you say "cashmere"

Well, okay, I like cashmere, but it's awfully expensive...

So we know we hate each other so we

Think we both have had quite enough

Let's call the whole thing, uh, "uff"!

Wroast the Ninth

Greetings to a woman who has successfully managed to juggle scrapple, penises, jello salads, and those big clunky shoes whose name I can never remember, but which, like all the other things I mentioned, so scarred my childhood and adolescence, (which I have never left, I'm told).

But I'm sure, Queen Chris dot tine, that you would know all this already. And toes. Did I mention toes?

I hope you enjoy the wrevel in your best smug and self-satisfied manner, and we won't even think about that nasty cat who created your title.

Well, we wouldn't unless I mentioned him, but it's rather too late for that, wouldn't you say?

At any rate, Queenie Pooh, you make my day brighter. In fact, often just seeing your name on my screen is enough to cause phosphor burnout, but that is another story, and one between my monitor manufacturer and myself.

Consider this note flirtatious if you will, and kinky if you must, but I am glad to have made your acquaintace, Queen Chris.

Even if you do use words like "metonomy," and thus unsettle my own judicious complacency. Have a lovely wrevel, and avoid any brown, fried, meat-looking things.