Queen Calafia

I sort of made an ass of myself at dinner. The sushi bar was loud and crowded when the author walked in, a noted feminist. I had talked to her about some artistic ideas I had for her new book cover. We had a table, her hubby was sitting at the bar.

My first cover idea was a woman with a hand mirror, looking over her left shoulder, espying her reflection, very stylized and graphic a la Ben Shahn. She was interested. I should have stopped there. In a loud voice I started ranting about my second idea, an amazon princess, breast bare, standing on her vanquished male foe, one foot firmly planted in his chest while she holds, with bloody hand aloft, his torn off testes, held up to the heavens as a sacrifice to the goddess of the hunt.

She looked at me in horror and I noticed, with spittle starting to pool at the side of my mouth, that you could now hear a pin drop in the sushi bar as all eyes and ears were now paralyzed in rapt amazement at my outburst. Her expression was a mixture of "what a frigging idiot" and pitiful forbearance. She said that she couldn't believe that I just said that in public and quickly rejoined her husband.

Might not get the job.