CUCKOO NOIR
by Michael Brockley
This time I suspect my darling is cheating on me with Dilbert. The cubicle nerd with his necktie
curved in defiance of gravity. Potent as primary colors. She enamors herself with these comic
strip Lotharios. Their sangfroid in the face of public debasement. Their deadpan expressions. For
weeks, she met Dagwood at Starbucks in prelude to their trysts. Opus left cryptic messages on
our answering machine. Plus offhand remarks about whipped cream massages. The handcuffs of
love. Bill the Cat's interest in three-ways. I've traced the origins of her infidelity to one-night
stands with characters from the Far Side. The hunter with the bull's eye on his back. The fat boy
who pushed the pull door at the genius school. Her affairs never last more than a few months.
She grew bored with Hagar's berserker tales and detested Beetle Bailey for his snoozathon
habits. When my honey confessed her fling with Hobbes, she complained the beast had fleas. If I
wanted to, I could Dick Tracy the hideaway she's bunkered in with Dilbert. Instead, I'll ring
Blondie from my little black book. FedEx just delivered our Archie and Veronica costumes.
Gyroscope Review - page 48
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