“Aloha, my wife! What do ya think about James Emery for President?” James asked after a few too many coronas. He tripped over a lawn gnome and a ceramic turtle in a less than agile manner.
“Egads!” I rolled my eyes. “What kind of pungent crock-of-shit are you talking about?”
“Just think, you can be my FLOTUS, my callipygian cupcake!”
“What did you just call me?”
“FLOTUS! First Lady of the United States.” He pulled me to him and attempted an exuberant tango.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Let’s go inside before the summer thunderstorms hit.”
“Just think of the splendor, Cupcake! If I beat that bombastic, feckless, pernicious, omnivorous Republican, I could create an incomparable, groundbreaking, communist utopia!”
“Omnivorous?” I looked at him sideways. “I’m reluctant to agree with a communist utopia.”
“Don’t be judgmental. You know his hubris and chicanery will turn this country into a pseudomonas cesspool.”
“You sound determined,” I said as I scraped some tittynope from the microwave.
“I am,” James slurred. “I could found a plebe memorial!” He tripped again over our woolly dog, blood running down his leg. His enthusiasm gave him certain resplendence, so I cleaned him up and put him to bed.