On the night, McArdle arrived half an hour early, which would be unforgivable enough had she not come toting a bottle of Vin de Footsquasher 2007 and a bunch of half-dead gerberas. Van’s wonderful old butler, Thomas, stuck her in the waiting room for 45 minutes, so by the time he went and got her we were all already sitting down, onto our first glass and our second line, and hoeing into the sevruga.
Anyhow, when Thomas fetched Megan, she trundled after him, clutching her flowers and bottle. As they made their way along the corridor, she started to let out a little whine, which gradually got more high pitched and then burst out into a litany of complaints against poor Thomas. It was a little like this: “mmmmmmmmmmmoooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEE. Why? Why did you make me sit there all alone. Do you know who I am? I sat there without a drink for aaaaaaaages. Blah. Blah. Whinycakes.”
Read it all!
Also, I am relieved that I am not the only person writing McArdle fiction. Some hobbies are so misunderstood.
6 comments:
It's great and all, but I think more sex will be needed in order for McBargle-Fic to break through to a wider audience.
I realize the inherent difficulty of the task.
~
I'm willing to fight and suffer to win the class war, but that's too much to ask.
She looks positively demonic in that photo of her posing next to that Kara Walker piece.
McMegan/Sullivan slash fiction?
*shudder*
Some fine stuff there. You could get a McFiction support group going.
But I'm not sure everything Sarah, Plain & Tall is typing is fiction, either.
"We managed to get rid of Sullivan and McArdle fairly early, thank god. There was no way the wife-swapping section of the evening was going to work with those two in the room"
Jesus. Awesome.
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