The Bruni Digest

In which I sit on a dirt mound somewhere in Brooklyn with my ears pricked, waiting for New York Times head restaurant critic Frank Bruni, who I imagine to be a Venetian count in a huge ruffled collar, to dole out stars from the inside breast pocket of his brocaded chamber robe. This blog is predicated on the suggestion that every Wednesday, in the Times Dining Out section, Frank lays a huge faberge egg of hilarity.

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Location: New York, New York, U.S. Outlying Islands

I am fiscally irresponsible, which means I have weak bones and a dorsal fin. And a penchant for dining out, even though I am, in the words of many rich people, a "poor people". I make a different face when speaking each of the foreign languages in which I am shittily proficient.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

The Count Takes a Vacation

Frank Bruni sat by the fire in his stately chateau, absent-mindedly running his hands over the lace trim of his princess sleeves.


He felt he had lost his edge in recent weeks. Count Frank had found his marriage to Lady Wednesday Dining less and less interesting recently. Whereas he used to enter the bedchamber every week with rapacious gusto, he had recently been performing his sirely duties missionary with the lights off. Had the knights and ladies that populated the Watteaus and Bouchers which lined his crimson corridors come to life, they might have spied Count Frank’s wandering fingers diddling under the skirts of Madame Travel Section and the Duchess of Television.



This wasn’t the real Frank! No; he shook his head as best he could in his Shakespearean ruffled collar (it sounded like a deck of hotel sheets being shuffled casino-style). His two best friends—a Lalique crystal coq named Philibert and an old copy of Diderot’s Encyclopédie that he called Dennis—seemed to look up at him from their booster seats with accusatory glares. Although they were dead, and also objects, Frank knew that they were disappointed in his philandering. “I’m so sorry, Dennis,” he whispered aloud, tears plopping onto blank parchment.

And speaking of lesbians, there was one more person that Frank knew he had disappointed: The Count’s personal jester. She had falled off the ball in the past two weeks. His jester was a distant female idiot whom he had never met but whose weekly online epistles were the equivalent of a humpy dance performed in his honor by a fat girl in a Technicolor dream unitard with a potentially sterilizing camel toe.


Not everyone enjoyed the Count’s weekly proclamations; there was always someone grumbling about his qualifications, complaining about his stars. But when Frank saw his retarded little jester howling and dancing in her trash heap in Brooklyn, the dirtiest princess of a mentally compromised kingdom, it made him smile under his handlebar goatee.

That was it: He needed a vacation. He unrolled his thick woolen longjohns and threw them into the fire, creating an enormous puff of flames and a small mushroom cloud that smelled like broccoli and Beefeater. He coughed and apologized to Philibert and Dennis, not noticing the subtle thud of a chamber maid who had dropped dead in the corner. “To the Bahamas!” He bellowed. “Until October 26th, I bequeath my pen to Marian Burros!” he exclaimed, while somewhere in Brooklyn, his Jester, too, bequeefed, in the hopes that the Count would return with a renewed sense of Countliness; in return, she promised to get a third, even fourth, amateur lobotomy. No, their partnership was far from over...



Cue “Vacation” by the Bangles

8 Comments:

Anonymous dan said...

Clap clap clap clap clap!!!!

11:12 AM, October 13, 2005  
Blogger Mona said...

you are hilarious. love those pictures. that looks like a great wig, will you be using it for halloween?

12:04 PM, October 14, 2005  
Blogger Jules said...

Well, I'm going as Will Smith this year for Halloween, so no, I don't think so. But I will need to memorize the following:

Cause you gotta have cheese for the summerhouse piece on South Beach,

Water so clear you can see to the bottom,

Hundred thousand dollar cars, every body got em!

Ain't no surprise in the club to see Sly Stallone,

Miami my second home!!!!

[punctuation my own]

2:31 PM, October 14, 2005  
Blogger Michelle Collins said...

Is that David Byrne in the last picture?

9:49 AM, October 17, 2005  
Blogger Jules said...

I have no idea. But "wheelchair dancing" was among my top 10 most rewarding image searches, a staggering shortlist including such highlights as "toilet elf" and "sparkle panty."

4:04 PM, October 17, 2005  
Blogger mintnasty said...

Is "toilet elf" related to Toilet Golf?

12:31 AM, October 28, 2005  
Blogger A.H.! said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

11:40 AM, November 12, 2005  
Blogger SuperAmanda said...

Did notThe GoGo's do 'Vacation'?
Damn,this blog is a 'Real Age Exposure Device' too.

11:38 PM, November 23, 2005  

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