Romance Novel Excerpt #2 - Introducing Dexter McChest

I've decided to write a romance novel on my blog.  To read the glorious first chapter, the link is below.

Romance Novel Excerpt #1 - Introducing Vanessa Lonelyheart

I hope you are feeling whatever feelings you are supposed to feel as you read a romance novel.  If I read them, I imagine I would feel patriotic and fevery.

THE HEART IS THE LONELIEST DUDE RANCH

Excerpt from Chapter 2

Dexter McChest was a man with a purpose.  When he walked, he only walked in straight lines. Purpose lines.  When he talked, his words came out of his mouth like bullets aimed at your brain.  And purportedly, when he made love, he did it with purpose. Just not the purpose of procreation.

And now he ran to Vanessa. Ran to her like a shirtless lion ready to pounce on her and ravage her with his beautifully whitened fangs.  Her whole body felt like a meal. She was so breathless at him running. Running forever. The world slowed down to just heartbeats and boot beats. Just her meal body and his purposeful gallop. What kind of world was this that brought them back together? When would he get to her? Why was this taking so long?  It's literally barely a 100 feet from the Jeep.  Why did he park so far away?  Why did time feel like molasses? And then it struck her mind.

"When you're in love, Einstein's theory of relativity is definitely correct," she thought.

And just as she thought it, there he was. All 6'4" of him next to her like a flesh statue.  How did he smell like that? Like leather and vanilla all mixed up with a hint of bbq sauce.  And when would he speak?  What would they say?  They hadn't spoken in 7 years.  She was eye level with his nipples which were like two copper pennies burned into a muscular suede couch.  And then he reached down and put his hand underneath her chin.  He lifted her beautiful face which had been on the cover of Vanity Fair a couple of times as favors to a friend and said the four most beautiful words ever spoken.

"Come to my Jeep."

Then he grabbed her hand and led her down the stairs like to a metal bridal bed.  She watched the muscles play under his back.  Like two sea otters swimming under a skin sea.  Where were they going?  Was he still mad at her?  Why did his hand feel so amazing? Does he have a girlfriend?  Should I wear a coat?

When they got to the Jeep, he turned to Vanessa.  His eyes were grave and he put his beautiful hands on her shoulders.

"Vanessa, there's a mama cow having a baby up on Lovers Ridge," he said with a scottish brogue flavored with a Texas drawl because he was an exiled Scottish Prince before he became the head ranch hand. "I can do most things in this life alone.  God gave me the tools.  But today I need some help.  Can you be my partner, Vanessa?"

When he said partner, her heart became a Chinese New Year's.  And just like China, it sent troops to other countries like Logic and Reason to oppress them and keep them under the law of the heart.  The Heart was the only thing listening as they drove towards destiny.

COMING SOON: Chapter 3 "Lovers Ridge"

Romance Novel Excerpts #1 - Introducing Vanessa Lonelyheart

I've decided to write a romance novel.  Bit by bit on my blog.  It's probably going to be the greatest romance novel of all time. Next to Die Hard, the novelization.


THE HEART IS THE LONELIEST DUDE RANCH

Excerpt from Chapter 1

The night was cold and sexy. Vanessa Lonelyheart was sad/hopeful/mysterious to be back on the ranch. She had to get away from her super busy life as the most wanted fashion journalist in the whole world excluding Guam.  She grew up on this ranch.  Cows were in her blood.  So were horses.  So were fenceposts.  She would also say that four wheelers and roping lessons and beef jerky and turkey jerky and boots with fancy patterns and daylight savings were also in her blood.  It was good to be home.   No, scratch that. It was good sexy to be home.
 
Because Vanessa had just gotten out of a seven year relationship with a media mogul.  Their passion was as hot as the volcanic island he owned. And then it waned. Like the other cooling volcanic island he owned. She could blame a lot of things.  Maybe it was the changing world of newsprint that cooled off their libido.  Maybe it was the 10th anniversary of 9/11.  Maybe they had just grown apart like two twins separated at a sexy birth. Maybe they were Pangaea splitting up into two separate countries called Friendship and Go Ahead, Vanessa, Keep the Penthouse Overlooking Central Park.

Vanessa's mother, Meryl Streep, brought out two steaming cups of macchiato.

"Honey, I wish I could stay and help you through your crisis but my new movie is opening up," said Meryl Streep, the best mother on all of Gaia.  "You know how it is.  Do you want to come to my premiere? I'll set you up with Viggo Mortenson. His real name is Howard."

"No, Mother Streep.  I just want to be on the ranch. Soak the earth into my marrows. I need to recenter.  Maybe I'll write an Eat, Pray, Love."

"I would totally star in it. Alright, too-da-loo.  Say hi to your father, Sam Elliot for me."

And Meryl Streep leaped into the air and method acted herself into a bird that flew to LA.

Vanessa thought about trying to find another perfect man and she felt sadful again. And then she felt angriable.  She wasn't defined by men! She didn't need to be with some rich handsome powerful man with pecs like two New York strip steaks.  She could be herself, Vanessa Lonelyheart, former Ms. Texas, MIT graduate in chaos mathematics, winner of the Lubbock Short Ribs Eating Contest for eight years.  She had a lot going for her.  She needed a man like a fish needed a bicycle. U2 said that and she believed it because Bono is the world's greatest poet.

And just as she said that, the head ranch hand drove up in his Jeep.  He jumped out of his ride like a gazelle wearing boots.  His legs were pistons dipped in denim batter.  His butt could deflect bullets. And his torso was a flesh revelation.  If he'd ever worn a shirt, it would have been like putting a bag over the sun.  His ribs were a staircase.  His neck was a pedestal for the most beautifully rugged face not carved into marble.  It was him, the love of her life.  The man she'd run away from to New York City.  The man she'd rather been killed by a mountain cat than face here and now.

Dexter McChest.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

We All Eat Alone

Yeah, that's right, Olive Garden.  I'm alone tonight. No, no. Don't even think that maybe someone's in the bathroom.  Because it's not true.  But wait a minute, Puffy Eyed Stranger, there's a woman's coat on the chair across from you. Yes, there is. In desperation to cover up the yawning chasm of my pathetic loneliness, I went next door and bought a fashionable lady's jacket at the TJ Maxx.  This was my ruse for hour six.

Hour 5, I pretended to call my fake girlfriend 17 times to give her driving directions to the restaurant.

Hour 4, I acted like I was a food critic for mediocre chain restaurants.  Even though they're no longer here, I would like to thank the couple next to me who nodded as I described Applebee's honey teriyaki ham steak as capricious whimsy and a Vesuvius of taste.

Hour 3, when I was actually crying, I made it clear that my wife had just been here and had told me she was having an affair.  I was sent some free appletinis from surrounding patrons.  They were almost delicious.

Hour 2, I spent my time texting every woman I know to please show up and get me out of this embarrassing situation.

Hour 1, I waited for my actual girlfriend to show up, and when I say actual girlfriend, I mean Tabitha Runyan, who I work with and made out with at the holiday office party two years in a row and who I invited out to dinner tonight because she said her boyfriend died in Iraq to which I was like, 'About time!'.

Yes, I see you, Manager Fred Asperson.  I know I'm making people uncomfortable.  And I bet you're wishing right now that your servers weren't hot teenage girls without enough arm strength to wrestle a crazy out of your crapsteraunt.  I'm not the worst one here.  You are.  With your faux italian nonsense, engineered to be bland enough that octogenarians can gum it.  Real italians should burn this place down and make a marinara from your blood.

I do want to thank Cindy the Waitress for letting me take up her table for her whole shift.  I'm serious, Cindy. You can have my Vespa as a tip. I only bought it to look cool to Tabitha Runyan.  Who is like this bottomless bowl of soup.  She can fill you up but she only comes in a few boring flavors. Holiday Party Skank Broth.  Lead Me On Chowder. And Every Nice Word That Comes From Her Mouth Is Bologna Minestrone.

Why did I order so much food? Because somewhere around Hour 3 I decided to eat myself to death.  That was before I googled it during Hour 5 and found out that's a long process.  Why did I stay?  Because I have nothing out there.  At least in here, I have people that care enough to come up to me and say, "Another refill?" and "Sir, you've been here a very long time."  and "Yes, the cook does think the Seafood Alfredo Pasta tastes better with your tears on it."

One day, you'll be here.  Because in the end WE ALL EAT ALONE.  That's right.  No matter how many dinners you share with how many people, nobody eats that food but you.  No one's teeth but yours will chew it.  No one's esophagus but yours will shoot it into your digestion bag.  And no one's enzymes but yours will break it down into the ingredients we need to stay sadly clinging to life.

I'm leaving, Manager Fred Asperson.  But not before I get all this mediocrity packed in to go boxes. Waitress Cindy, I love you. I think you're wearing the wrong shade of foundation though. Waiter Matthew, you're a douche for telling table 6 that my wife really wasn't here.  I might come back and hit you with my Elantra.  That fashionable lady's jacket is up for grabs.