Disclaimer: Nothing in this story should be construed as financial advice. Rather, the tinkering with ticker symbols is for amusement only.
Gwenllian Tudor politely declines ABIT of the Butler’s Lady Baltimore Cake — one of the few cakes she doesn’t love madly.
“Is it not sponge-cake worthy enough for my Lady Baltimore?” the Butler chuckles, forgetting that he told that joke too many times before. “Are you not a fan of the meringue, raisins or figs?”
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She is not a fan of anyone or anything, Colonel Mustard says, convinced that he knows all great matters of consequence.
She is over the moon for SPCE cake with rum buttercream. She is a fan of the big love. And strange conversations.
“The concept of big love or the HBO series?” Professor Plum asks after reading her mind. He emerges from his study with plans to monetize her analysis of the polygamist character from a show she never watched.
“Are you trying to ruin any romantic sentiments I felt about the song by what’s his name? Adam something. Adam Duritz,” Lady Tudor asks, somewhat irritated. She mentally blocks the very bad professor, but mind messages her Butler for a SLV-er of Jewish Apple cake — the kind with cinnamon and no frosting.
“Do I look like a cake vending machine here for your every whim?” the Butler man-machine asks, feeling as though he belongs in the service of the Queen but unable to be the Rain King she needs. “Who do you think you are dealing with?”
He ends his sentences with prepositions because he doesn’t care no more like lyrics of a certain Phil Collins song with a lot of double negatives.
The Butler offers her a raincoat for the melancholic Duritz song — because it’s raining in Baltimore, baby.
But everything else is the same. Everything else is the same. Everything else is the same.
If she wanted a sunburn, she’d head to Sandbridge Beach. Fifteen Miles South of Virginia Beach to be exact. Far enough away from the big city, big city lights to see the full Mourning Moon with its reddish, coppery hue. A lunar eclipse.
Do you miss the Atlantic ocean, Aquarian man? Getting stung by jelly fish. Crabs peppered with Old Bay and strewn across trash-worthy newspapers. The sand. Plastic rafts for riding the waves to shore?
Mr. Green, the original, makes a phantom-like appearance through the red Jatropha bush on the perimeter of the Tudor Mansion grounds. But Lady Tudor is thinking about the DOGE-Y Mr. Green, II. And how his media circus is falling down on its knees. Must be the un-magic of a lunar eclipse in Taurus.
You get what you pay for
But I just had no intention of living this way… ‘Raining in Baltimore,’ Counting Crows
She contemplates how the world would be different if everyone planted a Holly tree and then cancelled 98 percent of Hollywood. What a RIOT it would be.
Oh, but you are part of the 2 percent. The big tarot Star card. Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la.
She writes a book in her mind — giving it a super long title because it’s always better to go long. Her Maryland newspaper publisher ancestor turns in his grave because he is no PHUN.
His judgement can’t be as bad as the shaming from her Mennonite and Quaker ancestors.
Then she thinks about the Aquarian spy who lassoed the blood moon for the lady in honor of her favorite holiday movie.
She suspects they have harmonious curiosities but that he would grow tired of her cold, silent and distant ways.
He is a faithful pupil of the eye in the sky.
Lady Tudor wishes she could feel sad today, but it’s hard to cry when everything is perfect.
You don’t need a phone call on the retro party line, trust me. Besides, I don’t eat oysters and I don’t wear pearls. I hate the smell of hospitals.
Lady Tudor as the Frost Moon feels covered by the Earth’s shadow. She wishes the rain in Baltimore would turn to SNOW because it’s going to be the longest December. So many phone calls. And all that big un-love.