Making lesbians happy – one book at a time

Tequila Mockingbird

I had insomnia last night, so I decided if I wasn’t going to sleep I may as well do something useful.  I got up and built a time machine.  First, I gathered all the necessary items:

* microwave

* cardboard box

* duct tape

* sharpie

* My dog Honey Bear (optional.  But she wanted to go)

* Peanut butter sandwich (I was hungry)

* Vaseline (it might get me out of a tight spot and you always get chapped lips in a foreign country)

* toilet paper  (just in case)

* rotary phone

* Moon boots (they made me feel in the spirit and you can also use them as a flotation device)

* My newest book manuscript

I put all the items inside the large cardboard box.  I used my sharpie to write “TIME MACHINE” on the outside of the box.  While I did all this Honey Bear ate my peanut butter sandwich.  So I duct taped Honey Bear’s mouth shut.  I put Vaseline on my lips, crawled inside the box and dialed “1959” into the rotary phone, stuck it inside the microwave, shut the door and turned the microwave on.

Nothing happened.

I put more Vaseline on my lips, took out the warm phone, and unscrewed the clock apparatus of the microwave. (remind me to add * screwdriver to the items list.)  I switched the wires around on the clock, re-dialed 1959 on the phone, stuck it back in the microwave, shut the door and pressed the start button. 

I waited.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

I crawled out of the box.  OMG!  It worked!  I was standing in somebody’s kitchen and the calendar on the wall said June of the year 1959.

I saw an old typewriter, the kind with a ribbon, sitting on the kitchen table.  A sheet of  paper was in the typewriter.  It was blank except for the following:  “A Novel by Harper Lee.  Page 1.”  There was a stack of blank paper sitting beside the typewriter.  Obviously Harper Lee was having writer’s block. 

I put my manuscript on the table and wound the last page into the typewriter.  I typed “The End” after the last sentence.

I crept down the dark hallway and peeked into a room.  There she was.  A young Harper Lee was lying across her bed, snoring.  I walked up to her and whispered into her ear, “It’s called Tequila Mockingbird. It will be the great American novel and you will be famous.”

Then I crawled back into my time machine next to Honey bear who was still asleep and poofed myself back to the present.

I woke up this morning and wondered briefly it was just a dream.  But it couldn’t be – I had Vaseline on my lips and Honey Bear’s breath smelled like peanut butter.

And that, Dear Readers, is why Harper Lee only wrote one novel.  (I still haven’t forgiven her for screwing up the title.)


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