Rodney Can’t Dance Tonight

Rodney Can’t Dance Tonight


C.M. Marcum

“They got really good eats here,” Rochelle said and wrapped her jaw around a powdered donut.

“You ain’t kidding.  And everything is so conveniently located, too,” Rodney said.  He preferred the left-over goodies in the pizza box, but to each his own.

“Mmmm…,” Rochelle agreed.  A beam of moonlight turned the coffee stained dishwater into glittering cream.  The kitchen seemed so pleasant, warm, and romantic.  She dusted the sugar off her legs, primping for him, emitting a low coo, and hoping he would notice.

Rodney’s ears picked up the soft sexy screeching; he tilled his head to the side and studied her, studied the room, and then went back to the juicy ort of pepperoni that was too delicious to ignore.  Tomato sauce painted his mouth.  He ate, happy and mindless for a while, concentrating solely on the food, until he thought his sides would split wide open.  Only then did he look back up at the female.

“So, Rochelle, what kind of dudes do you like?”  Wistfully, he pulled his mind away from the spicy meat and looked at his co-diner.

“What’s it to you?” Rochelle asked and secretly hid a giggle.

“I was just wondering.”

“Oh Rodney,” Rochelle said.  “I like what most eligible females like.  A strong jaw, long legs, and big eyes, of course.  Someone who’s tough on the outside, but soft and squishy on the inside.”

“I got all that, babe.  Would you like to bop with me?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  Her tone was harsh, but she wiggled her backside coyly.  “My dance card is pretty full, if you know what I mean.”

“I ain’t talking about the official orgy, later.  I’m talking about right here, right now.  I’ll do you on the kitchen counter.”

“Well, I….”

Suddenly the kitchen flooded with artificial light.  Rochelle screamed and instinctively ran for cover.  Rodney froze, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed, and for a moment it seemed like his ploy would work.

Their host staggered back and forth across the room.  The refrigerator door opened, bring a whole new array of tempting odors.  The man bent over and farted.  There was a small implosion, followed by the sound of more escaping gas.  An aluminum tap slid across the floor toward the garbage can.

Rochelle watched from the relative safety of a dark corner, as Rodney eased off the pizza box, but he was making too much noise.  The man-monster swiveled, jerked the stained cardboard off the counter, and raised the box over its hairy head.

Rodney dashed right, left, changed his mind and went right again.  The dark shadow of the box tricked him into a misguided sense of shelter; Rodney stopped running all together.  Rochelle jiggled her head and released a green, oval turd.

Indecision and hesitation were nearly always fatal.  She calculated Rodney’s chances and realized that he was doomed.  The square weapon crashed down on Rodney, and Rochelle heard the crispy crackle of exoskeleton.

“Rodney,” she screamed and coward back.  “Poor, big…extra dumb Rodney.”

Her front legs reached up to scrape the white powder off her antennae.  Oh well, she thought, Rodney Roach wasn’t on her dance card, anyway.

This story got rejected by last year.  What can I tell ‘ya?  Not funny enough, I guess.


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