As a bi-weekly and bi-sexual food columnist, I typically use my allotted space to dish out mouth-watering recipes that are yummy with a capital Y, or to give the skinny on which local restaurants are worthy of a college student's much-needed - or should I say kneaded - dough.
This week, however, I want you to be the first to taste the sweet and sour words of my upcoming novel, tentatively titled Ronald's Choice: The Salacious Sojourns of a Clown."" The following is an excerpt from chapter three: ""I saw the best paddies of my generation searing on the wrong grill.""
It was a bright blue day. The trees were showered with sunshine and the squirrels seemed to be slathered in joy. The world would have sung had it not been getting over a case of laryngitis.
This was not the case in the Ronald McDonald House. Shades were drawn, lips were tight with tension and dull gray hues dampened the bright red and yellow interior. It was into this irredeemable gloom that Birdie was about to enter when her yellow feathers rapped cheerfully on the door.
""Ronald!"" she squeaked. It was the kind of sound that comes from a man-sized bird who has human hair inexplicably grafted onto yellow feathers. ""Come out and play!""
Sluggishly, the front door gasped open. It was as if the Ronald McDonald House had been holding its breath, waiting for a moment to wheeze out the air of pervading doom that clung to its inner walls.
The door cracked open by mere inches. After smiling broadly and scratching her head, Birdie moved so that she could fully open the door. As she grasped the handle, a yellow gloved hand shot out from the house and pinched down hard on her wing.
Ronald's head peeked out from behind the door.
""I wouldn't do that if I were you,"" he growled.
Something was off, Birdie mused to herself. Ronald's hair was as frizzy as it had always been. His shoes were still comically large, and just as always, his face was deathly white, except for the bright red smile plastered over his twitching, quivering lips. Everything appeared to be normal, but something was off.
""Hi Ronald! You look different!"" she squealed.
And indeed he did. There were red splotches on his face where there had never been red before.
""Hmm... let's play a game,"" Ronald spat at Birdie, his teeth grinding as he squeezed tighter on her wing. ""If you run away as fast as you can, I won't give your wing a break today.""
Birdie struggled to process two clauses at once. Eventually she realized that Ronald was being a Grumpy Gus and probably needed some sunshine.
""Let's go play - hey, you have extra red on your face! Are you playing make-up?"" she inquired.
A deep, hollow voice rang out from inside the house.
""Ronald, you forgot to clean the blood off your face.""
Widening his eyes to the size of breakfast hotcakes, Ronald pushed the door open and glared back at Grimace.
Obese, purple and mentally deficient, Grimace bounced up and down inside the house, grinning incessantly.
""Now you've gone and done it, you fat waste of space."" Ronald grabbed Birdie's arm and flung her indoors.
""You might as well see what we're up to,"" he said through a clenched jaw.
Birdie was understandably puzzled by what she saw. Inside was a small girl in a blue jumper tied to a rickety wooden chair and with a clown-sized sock stuffed in her mouth. Her freckled, fear-stricken face was given a pleasing sense of symmetry by the bright red pigtails that sprouted out from both sides.
""This is Wendy,"" Ronald said, slurring the name. ""She's the fast food competition. At least... she used to be.""
To see what happens to Wendy, Birdie and Ronald, purchase this book when Bantam releases it in December - can anyone say ""stocking stuffer""?!
Ask Joe for a sneak preview of the book. E-mail him at jblynch@wisc.edu.
