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::ring ring::

"Hello. Gabriel Byrne speaking."

"Hey, Gabe, it's your agent. Look, I know this assistant casting director for some thing with FOX, I think it was 'Paradise Hotel', but maybe it was 'Married By A Midget' or 'Bowling for Coffee' or something..."

"I don't want to be on 'Married By A Midget.'"

"AH! Here's her number. Say the word, buddy, and I'll get you some quality reality show screen time."

"NO GOOD! I HATE MIDGETS! What else have you got for me?"

"A Stallone flick. About poker. It's bound to be good, Melanie Griffith is already on board as the love interest."

"Fine, whatever. No midgets."

Brrrrinnnng! Brrrrinnnng!

"Hello?"

"Good afternoon! Welcome to MovieCall!, where the movies come to you!"

"Uhm, what?"

"MovieCall! calls YOU to let YOU know about ALL the NEWEST MOVIES coming SOON to a theater near YOU!"

"Uh, okay. So, what's n---"

"MovieCall! is excited to let YOU know of the NEWEST ADVENTURE in historical literature!! The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen!!"

"Oh. That sounds neat. What's it a---"

"The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen! brings some of the MOST FAMOUS names in fiction together on ONE screen, for a rip-roaring, sword rattling, guns blazing, action-packed SEXTRAVAGANZA!"

"Famous names in fiction? Like Huckleberry Fi---"

"That's, right, THE LEAGUE is DR. JEKYLL! TOM SAWYER! THE INVISIBLE MAN! DRACULA'S BRIDE! DORIAN GRAY!"

"What? Who? Dracula's what? I don't understand how they all could be---"

"SIT at the EDGE of your seats as THE LEAGUE battles beasts of UNIMAGINEABLE HORROR, in daring fights of FURY and RAGE! Machine guns BLASTING, super race cars REVVING---"

"If Tom Sawyer is in it, how are there machine guns and super cars---"

"Then watch as SEAN CONNERY leads them all to VICTORY and SAVES THE WORL---"

Click.

"....Hello? Hello? MovieCall is insulted! Hello?..."

Ikor Strzvskülich suffered from a great many maladies, not least of which was the spelling of his name. It had an umlaut, and a few too many consonants, and the last bit was only properly pronounced by someone who was attempting to clear their throat. Ikor knew his assimilation into polite society -- that is to say, the class of people that have nice, simple names like "Smith" and "Jones" which did not necessitate a hankie after introductions -- would require the truncation of his name in some form. But this sort of thing would be considered a slight, especially (but really mostly) by his own family of hunchbacks. They were already embarrassed by his situation, seeing as the traditional spelling of "Igor" was already futzed by the woman preparing his birth certificate, who had sneezed at exactly the wrong time.

So Ikor decided the best way to buy a quiet house in the country (where nary a belltower was seen for miles), settle down, and raise a nice flock of sheep, would be to truncate something else of his. Perhaps his nose, or the little flabby bits under his biceps, or, more likely, the hunch on his back. Yes, something needed to be amended, or whittled away, or (in the really dodgy parts) completely removed. Usually informal surgery was something that Ikor excelled at, as did most of his kind, but this type of major transformation was best left to the professionals.

In short, Ikor needed help. San Diego plastic surgery, world renowned for their rhinoplasty, and their success among Diegos, was what came to the rescue. Ikor's hunchectomy went off without a hitch, (the flabbotomy, however, not as good, but still not noticeable under indirect lighting.)

He opened a successful brewery on the West Coast. "Strzvskülich's Berry Brew," or, as it's known more locally, "Sss...Uuuuullll...Whatever, Two Pints Of The Blue Stuff, If You Please," is a hit with polite society. And it's all thanks to San Diego plastic surgery.

I have decided that a totally good idea would be to challenge myself and the few friends I have to try to write the worst, most embarassingly cliched romantic fiction they possibly can.

I've already written a good opening line: "She told me she hated ice cream -- I knew I had to teach her how to love. One day, she'd have fun again. One day... we'd have Rocky Road." The book's called Scoops Of My Heart and the cover is a dude wearing nothing but one of those triangular hats like they have at In-N-Out burger.

"I'm sorry about that crazy voicemail he left you."

"Sorry? I could hear you giggling in the background, encouraging him."

"I wasn't encouraging him. I was just trying to appear complicit to prevent him from hurting me."

"That's how the Third Reich started, you know."

Remember that time we were on a field trip to a sheep shearing factory, and I told you that "Don't run with scissors" was a myth dreamt up by the Canadian National Curling Team in the hopes that the popularity of East Australia's Sword Jogging would eventually wane, and you believed me so you sprinted through the facility with a Bidgeman #9 Long-Blade, and then tripped, fell, and jabbed your eye out with it? And then later it was replaced -- in a precedent-setting 17 hour surgery -- with a donated sheep's eye? I forgot to tell you then, but that's ironic.

"What's your name? Corduroy?"

"Cordenay."

"Your parents call you that?"

"They call me Cord."

"So why not name you Cord? An arrangement of notes; a bundle of wires; firewood... these are things I understand."

"Can I go now?"

"No, let's talk about your little sister's name; the future stripper."

"Hey. Hey! Come play this game, it's fun!"

"What game?"

"This game where I click things!"

"You mean... rating movies on Netflix?"

"It's so fun!"