`phfina Sjöjungfru, private eye

Ooh! I'm in such an excited tizzy I think I have to change my panties!

... oh ... um ... TMI?

So, okay, like, I was in this Swiss bakery, and they had this clever review on yelp written in a film noir parody style with a bombshell (is it the law that all bombshells have to be blond?) by this Dirk Gently type? And the 1940's film noir répartée was all about what flavor of home-made ice cream he should buy? And he throws three bills on the countertop and says to her, "Angel, if you were ice cream, what flavor would you be?"

And she, cool as a cucumber, and hot as a supernova, answers: "I can be the sweetest spicy cinnamon or I can be the milk in your chocolate."

And he goes for the chocolate. She says: "That'll be $2.99."

He looks down at the three bills on the countertop and tosses off a "Keep the change, babe" as he saunters off into the sunset.

Cheapskate!

But OOH!

I saw myself, see? NOT like that d00d, but ...

But what if I were this private eye, ... I'd have to wear a fedora, and get this really long beige trench-coat, and carry a lady's magnum and have this dank, dark office, next to a train station that only has the occasional derelict or lost soul amble across the street.

But then ... well, aren't the girl private eyes all blond bombshells?

I SO TOTALLY don't look the part. I mean, I have the blue eyes, but ... the hair. What do I do about my jet black hair?

And then! I mean "bombshell" means "curvaceous" ... and there's no wonder under my wonderbra ...

... you know?

But I can do intense and, so ... well, maybe this wee Irish lass can be exotic and mysterious.

So here's the start of my novel!

"It was a dark and stormy night!"

[of course!]

... ""I was sitting at my desk in the only chair the repo men hadn't yet taken from my office with my feet up and a shot of whiskey down ... my throat when in walks 'Trouble' with a capital 'T' and tear-stained eyes and a killer body (probably literally) and legs that went all the way to Heaven and came right back down to Earth like a ton of bricks on me, and she sez to me, she sez, '`phfina, I need your help!' ... they all do, those super hot babes, and I'm the one to give it to them ... help, that is ..."

Yeah! And this damsel in distress will come into my office, with more money than sense, and lay out her tragic sob story about how her husband is such a jerk, and maybe he's having an affair, and ...

And I'll be all sympathetic, you know? Like, really callous as I'm handing her the tissue box, saying: "Honey, your husband's a guy, what did you expect?"

And she'll be all righteously furious, which makes this older bombshell all the more super fine to the panther she's talking to, and she's fume for a second and exclaim "Men!" as she stamps her foot.

And I'll have to work really hard not to stair down at that perfectly pedicured stamping foot fitted into hand-tailored heels by the super-exclusive Salvatore Ferragamo Spring 2009 collection.

And ... but I'll forcefully guide myself back to the business at hand, ... especially as she throws down a business-sized envelop on my super messy desk, and it's so heavy with bills that the very heavy-sounding Thump! of it hitting my desk echoes through my (so tiny as to be claustrophobic) office, that does have a couch and oh! the tales that couch could tell ... and has been made on it ...

... you know?

Uh-huh! But I digress ...

And the case, that I gladly accept (hey, I need the money to buy ramen noodles!), leads to intrigue and double crossing and double crossing of the double crossing, and I'm in WAY over my head, and I can't even find a way to shoot my way out of Trouble (with a capital 'T') because the police are involved and the mayor and the crime syndicate, so there's be too many bodies strewn about for me to hide in too many closets once the shooting starts.

And the bombshell offers me herself, "Oh, `phfina, my hero! Take me now!"

And I'd be all like *SLOBBER!* but I'd be like: "No."

And she'd be shocked and offended and demand an explanation, and I'd be like: "First of all, sweet cheeks, it's 'heroine' not 'hero.' And secondly, I like the long, leggy blonds like you to be with brains in their heads and a few less hidden agendas and a few less skeletons in the closet."

And she said, "Oh, I didn't know you found that closet."

Me: *facepalm.*

And she'd be like ...


... Like that! See! Isn't that so neat? I mean, film noir had it all: grainy black and white stills (so you know you were in for something classy ... or at least classic!

[ed: old black-n-white films noir, classic, if not classy, get it?]

... *sigh!*