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Euroglam II

“Die, insect! But look at me first.”

Every now and then as one strolls in Europe’s great cities, a certain kind of woman appears. She may not be beautiful or even very pretty, but she is always glamorous in that decadent, altered-state way so adored by advertising people there.

Window Dressing in a Very Upscale Milan Lengerie Shop

From her ugly, quirky, diamond-highlighted boots, up her bony Auschwitz-wanna-be legs, past the horridly expensive, and campily asymmetrical garb in the middle, to eyes and hair worthy of a Bela Lugosi classic, she drips ‘tude.

Her walk sings an atonal, kinetic harmony that amplifies the overwhelming power and depth of her ‘tudeitude. And the way one or two bags from trendy, upscale stores seem to float along beside her, as if she doesn’t know they are there, completes the look.

She walks, and stalks. Finally, the moment for which she exists arrives. A man notices that she stands out so much and in such an assertively distorted way. Fatally, he takes a split-second too long to break eye contact, foolishly trying to grok the fullness of her Transcendent ‘Tudeness in the same way that one finds it difficult to look away from a train wreck.

A Four Story High Poster

Now, the black op search and destroy mission for which she has so long prepared is about to be completed. She will take no prisoners, show no mercy, leave nothing but a swath of smoldering male ash to signify that she was there. Her ‘Target Acquired’ indicator lights up. She slews her eyeliner-guided, mascara-charged heavy laser weapons around, locking onto the Doomed One.

And, wordlessly, she fires.


Turning the corner into Piazza San Marco, I remarked to my wife, “Did you see her?”

“Her who?” she asks, looking up a bit distractedly from the lovely things in the corner shop’s window.

“Never mind,” I say. And, for the zillionth time, think, I’ve got to be the luckiest man on the planet!

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