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anxietygrrlI wrote something! Something fanfictional! It's not, er, what you'd call 'good.' But it's words put together to make sentences, so on those grounds alone I'm proud.
So what do you call this? A ficlet? A drabble? A smidgen? A flooble?
"You make a very impassioned case, but I'm afraid the answer is no. 'Cheney vs. Blacula' will not be able to air in this week's show."
"Well, that's a shame," said Liz. "Tracy has been working really hard on his Dick Cheney." She flipped through the papers on her clipboard. "Now what about 'Blacula vs Mandy Patinkin', I know you had some notes on that and...What was that click?"
"There was no click." Donaghy stabbed the script on his desk with a pen. "It doesn't make any sense. This 'Mandy Patinkin', can that be a real person?"
"Yes. Yes he can."
"Hm. Fascinating."
click
"Are you pushing a button under your desk? What, will a trap door open up and drop me into the NBC crocodile pit?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Lemon. If I had a trapdoor in that spot it would drop you into Brian Williams' smoothie kitchen." The telephone rang, and he held up one finger in the universal sign for 'hold on a sec' as he answered it. "Jack Donaghy. Mm hmm. No, this isn't a bad time." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, "I'm sorry, Lemon, I have to take this. It's Jan der Hootervaald."
Liz's eyebrows displayed her skepticism. "Jan der-- Look, you can just ask me to leave. I would actually be thrilled to leave. You don't have to resort to imaginary Dutchmen."
Donaghy nodded enthusiastically, ignoring her. "Ja, ja, is dat een uitstekende kaas."
"Ask him if he can get me some wooden shoes. Size 38. Or hash. Or shoes made of hash."
He frowned at her. "May I put you on hold for a minute, Jan? Dank."
"You really expect me to believe you're talking to someone named Jan der Hootervaald?"
"I do, because I am."
"That's a made up name! Like...Van Hammersly."
"I'll have you know Jan and I sit on a board together."
"Of what? The Hanso foundation?"
"I don't know what that's a reference to. Look, don't get excited, Lemon. You're getting all splotchy."
She raised a hand to her face, alarmed.
"No, not there." He glanced downward, inclining his head briefly in the direction of her décolletage.
She tugged awkwardly at the neckline of her sweater. "I think this is Orlon..."
"Of course it is. I really should get back to my phone call. We're being very rude to Mr. Der Hootervaald."
"There it is again, there's the click!" She bent over and peered under his desk in time to see his right foot move to cover a certain spot in front of his chair. "A ha! Is that some sort of signal?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Lemon. Are you feeling faint? Having any olfactory hallucinations?"
"What? No, I'm--"
There was a quick knock on Donaghy's office door, and Jonathan poked his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have an urgent call on line two." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "It's Van Hammersly."
Two hours later, Liz had changed her sweater, but the blotchiness continued to creep up her neck. She wondered if she had developed some kind of food allergy. She'd had crab salad for lunch, only she thought it might have actually been 'Krab' salad. Worrisome.
On stage, the blocking rehearsal for the Blacula sketch was not going well.
"This is not realistic, Liz Lemon!" Tracy shouted. Except it came out more like, 'thizh izh not realizhtic.' Due to the fangs. She wasn't sure whether he was in costume, or if it was just coincidence.
"What izh he doing?" Tracy pointed at Josh, who was moving antically about the stage, singing "Putting It Together" in fluttery, fake Yiddish.
"That cannot be a real perzhon! MINDY PACHINKO IZH A MADE UP PERZHON!"
So what do you call this? A ficlet? A drabble? A smidgen? A flooble?
"You make a very impassioned case, but I'm afraid the answer is no. 'Cheney vs. Blacula' will not be able to air in this week's show."
"Well, that's a shame," said Liz. "Tracy has been working really hard on his Dick Cheney." She flipped through the papers on her clipboard. "Now what about 'Blacula vs Mandy Patinkin', I know you had some notes on that and...What was that click?"
"There was no click." Donaghy stabbed the script on his desk with a pen. "It doesn't make any sense. This 'Mandy Patinkin', can that be a real person?"
"Yes. Yes he can."
"Hm. Fascinating."
click
"Are you pushing a button under your desk? What, will a trap door open up and drop me into the NBC crocodile pit?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Lemon. If I had a trapdoor in that spot it would drop you into Brian Williams' smoothie kitchen." The telephone rang, and he held up one finger in the universal sign for 'hold on a sec' as he answered it. "Jack Donaghy. Mm hmm. No, this isn't a bad time." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, "I'm sorry, Lemon, I have to take this. It's Jan der Hootervaald."
Liz's eyebrows displayed her skepticism. "Jan der-- Look, you can just ask me to leave. I would actually be thrilled to leave. You don't have to resort to imaginary Dutchmen."
Donaghy nodded enthusiastically, ignoring her. "Ja, ja, is dat een uitstekende kaas."
"Ask him if he can get me some wooden shoes. Size 38. Or hash. Or shoes made of hash."
He frowned at her. "May I put you on hold for a minute, Jan? Dank."
"You really expect me to believe you're talking to someone named Jan der Hootervaald?"
"I do, because I am."
"That's a made up name! Like...Van Hammersly."
"I'll have you know Jan and I sit on a board together."
"Of what? The Hanso foundation?"
"I don't know what that's a reference to. Look, don't get excited, Lemon. You're getting all splotchy."
She raised a hand to her face, alarmed.
"No, not there." He glanced downward, inclining his head briefly in the direction of her décolletage.
She tugged awkwardly at the neckline of her sweater. "I think this is Orlon..."
"Of course it is. I really should get back to my phone call. We're being very rude to Mr. Der Hootervaald."
"There it is again, there's the click!" She bent over and peered under his desk in time to see his right foot move to cover a certain spot in front of his chair. "A ha! Is that some sort of signal?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Lemon. Are you feeling faint? Having any olfactory hallucinations?"
"What? No, I'm--"
There was a quick knock on Donaghy's office door, and Jonathan poked his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have an urgent call on line two." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "It's Van Hammersly."
Two hours later, Liz had changed her sweater, but the blotchiness continued to creep up her neck. She wondered if she had developed some kind of food allergy. She'd had crab salad for lunch, only she thought it might have actually been 'Krab' salad. Worrisome.
On stage, the blocking rehearsal for the Blacula sketch was not going well.
"This is not realistic, Liz Lemon!" Tracy shouted. Except it came out more like, 'thizh izh not realizhtic.' Due to the fangs. She wasn't sure whether he was in costume, or if it was just coincidence.
"What izh he doing?" Tracy pointed at Josh, who was moving antically about the stage, singing "Putting It Together" in fluttery, fake Yiddish.
"That cannot be a real perzhon! MINDY PACHINKO IZH A MADE UP PERZHON!"
