Disappointment Wears a Llama Mask

(possibly my new favourite. watch out for the crudeness and the crudite)

Disappointment Wears a Llama Mask

Despite all the bittersweet memories, that soft touch on Bonjovia's shoulder was the highlight of her night at the governor’s masked ball. It was the slender hand of Ted Theodorus, a man she had been in love with since her early childhood. Ted’s fingers were like ice picks, and that drove her wild. Picky picky picky. He sent shivers into her cerebellum. She turned at the touch and gasped, “Why, what is that mask you’re wearing ?” she was bewildered, both at the mask-wearer and the mask itself: “It looks like a New Zealand ibex!” But Ted had already disappeared into the crowd. And Bonjovia was mad with rage. “You lied to me about your mask,” she screamed at his vanishing aura. “You lied to me about everything, you fart-hating hypocrite!” He’s probably already tapping some other Mona on the shoulder, she thought. And she swooned.

Ted Theodorus was gone--again--but nonetheless the music told Bonjovia it was time to dance. And so, having swooned over her ibex-faced mystery beau, she plucked up her determination, she clapped her hands together over her head, and as the music swirled she performed her most passionate, bow-legged chicken strut—all by herself she did. And everyone stared at her, and Bonjovia knew that she was finally a ballerina.

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Flashback 15 years previous...

Bonjovia della Clarita was a compulsive frequenter of masked balls; ever since she was a little girl she had been in love with Ted Theodorus. He was only 11 and already quite the heart-rending swordsman when he said to Bonjovia one day outside school, “Oh Bonjovia, wait till you see my llama face, at the masked ball. You must be my date!” And he winked and clucked his tongue. “We shall etch that in stone, shall we,” he truly charmed her; “It’s an agreed-upon engagement, then?”

Well Bonjovia was flummoxed and flabberghasted; she was agape and ever so slightly agog: this was Ted Theodorus, a catch beyond all catching, a beast beyond all taming, and now he was asking her to go the masked ball! How nervous it made her. But still, she knew how to reply:

“How can we properly enjoy the enchanted mystique of a masked ball,” she said, “if I already know that you’re going to wear a llama mask? I will know it’s you at once, and then it’s all for naught!” She was only 8 years old and knew nothing at all, but still Bonjovia’s logic was deft; “Must I explain the masked-ball etiquette to you, my dear Ted?” and she spoke like an adult. “Let’s adjourn to the gazebo and I will show you a few pie-charts.” But Ted demurred. He was like an untameable, 11-year-old gazelle.

Suddenly, a fart rang out. It was popcorn snappiness, with a bit of egg stench.

“You’re disgusting,” said Ted, inhaling against his will—but everyone knew Bonjovia was a bit gaseous when excited, and keep in mind she was only 8. For a moment it looked as though Ted would ‘cup one’ himself and throw it in her face for revenge, but instead he just sneezed. He turned to her softly, wiped his nose on an oak leaf, saying, “Whatever, gas-queen--I’ll see you at the masked ball.” Bonjovia’s bowels couldn’t contain the excitement. Pfft, Pt, pt. This time it was popcorn-y, yes, but with a sharp cheese zest. And she inhaled and inhaled, and it was a guilty sensation, but oh, it was alright. And Ted got the hell out of there.

But the night of the Ball, Ted did not show up. Bonjovia was shattered. No trace of Ted’s famous ‘llama mask'. She was only 8, but Bonjovia knew what disappointment meant. So she looked at those faces all night in the ballroom, hoping to catch sight of him, but it was one grotesque visage after another, and nary a spittling llama.

In the corner of the ballroom was a large table covered with freshly chopped carrot sticks. Bonjovia picked up one of the snacks and took a bite; she immediately let go the carrot stick and shrieked, fainting to the floor. Somebody shouted “Doctor!” and the music stopped.

After the commotion had settled and Bonjovia regained consciousness, she sipped a glass of water, and the doctor asked “What gave you such fright, my child?”

She was only 8 years old, but Bonjovia stared at the air, and whispering like a mystic: “That carrot stick, doctor. It tasted...” but she broke off sobbing. There was a renewed general commotion. The doctor pleaded with Bonjovia to snap the hell out of it. “Snap the hell out of it,” he thundered.

And she looked up at him and grimaced, “That carrot stick, doctor--it tasted just like llama meat.”

And she wailed. Everyone dropped their glasses, which shattered on the floor. The music had stopped for good; the band were huddled off in the corner, farting into a tuba.

And Bonjovia couldn’t help but laugh.

That carrot stick, doctor—it tasted just like llama meat.

“Sure, it smells funny,” she cried, as the band broke wind, “but it’s a sweet sweet sound,” she said. “Such sweet and disappointing sound!” And Bonjovia swooned.

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