While I'm on vacation, Charlie's Scribes,* busy as they are, have very enthusiastically and for little or no money (it would be the latter) stepped to center stage with a sweet, witty dose of chocolate craze blended with Oirish accents, self imposed chocibacy, and a reference to Mini-Alex.
* Elizabeth Seckman
, Tammy Thieralt
, and Mark Koopmans
Mark is sexy in a coconut bra and grass skirt, right? He's also a great sport and had no idea I'd post this photo. Love you, MK! Wink.
Thank you, Scribes. You're more than awesome.
Thank you, my loyal and silly readers. I adore you too!
Enjoy this post. It brings so many cleverly disguised forms of chocolate goodness.
I'll be back in circuit sometime next week (3/26 or so).
It was a dark and velvety stormy
night. I heard the cries and knew Chocó Man had expired.
“Tammy, stop the screaming. What’s
de matter?” I said, from my Hershey Street office (where I’d passed the bar.) “How are ye, Robyn. Listen, you know
I’m like your Batman as Chocó Man is – was – to his SugarDaddy… but now he’s
Tammy wailed again like a banshee
who’d stubbed her toe. “Sweet Jaysus, I already talked to Ferrero and Rocher. What
are we gonna do?”
“We need to figure why we’re talkin’
in Oirish accents,” I said, sipping a hot chocolate while “Everyone’s
A Winner” played on the “grandma-phone.” (I’d
owned the ancient Motorola since Easter Eggs were hip, and loved to flip the
phone open like I was cool like an After Eight mint.)
“Ah go on, don’ be messin’ wit’ me. Oi’m
not talkin’ with a bleedin’ Oirish accent. Wait a mo…. Liz just waltzed in.”
“Not a bother.” I tuned into Chox News. Bill
O’Cadburys had finished a dark segment, so I grabbed the remote to catch the
latest from The Factory.
“…Witnesses report Chocó Man was the
victim of a senseless beating that involved three large eggs of the
underworld,” O’Cadbury said, wearing his usual dark, Swiss suit. “Police don’t
know what to bake of the situation, but ask citizens to assist with individual
pieces (not meant for resale) of information.”
I sighed. How O’Cadbury never melted
under pressure was a mystery to me.
A screech from the phone broke my
reverie. Liz had talked this whole time.“Look, Robyn, I’ve made this voodoo
doll for Mark,” said the wee wan. “I’ll Sweet you a picture, ‘cos I stuck a pin
near his vocal chords. Perhaps that’s why yez are all talkin’ with mad Dublin
I reSweeted the pic to my indulgent
followers. Would they Sees how the miniature doll could strike fear and
heartburn into the likes of Mini-Alex.
“Whadareyetalkin’about,” said Tammy,
leaving me to ponder a new, dark roll. Was Charlie’s Scribes using me as a
Tootsie to pin the entire meltdown on me?
“Tammy, it’s Saint Paddy’s Week,”
said Liz, “Robyn can pick any day to post. We’ll be fresh, delicious and within
our expiration date.”
“I thought it was St. Patty’s Day,” said Tammy, as she waited
for her sandwich in Ghirar’ Deli’s.
“Here, Robyn… where’s Mark with his
Chocolate Bra and Drizzle Skirt?”
“Oh no,” I said, breaking my
self-imposed vow of Chocibacy. “It was him
all along! I should have known. I’ll text him. It’s not as if he’s on Mars or
playing with the Skittles.”
Aloha, Tolberone0420. Mark, did u know Chocó
Man is dead?
As the realization set in, the tooth
hurt. I Nestléd my head on an arm and brushed Lindt from my sweeter.
It was a
dark day, to be shure, to be shure.
If you know someone who needs
literary assistance from Charlie’s Scribes, please shoot Bosley an email at