Hello, this is Rose here. Actually, it’s Dewy. 😉 Let me explain. When I started blogging it was as Dewy Knickers. She’s a sexy, sassy, fun loving girly-girl with world famous rounded assets. Her job is as a reporter for HBNN, (Hysterical Blogger News Network). She travels the world and posts reports that are newsworthy but with a tongue-in-cheek approach. After I came forward publicly, I took the name Rose at first and then Rose Dewy Knickers. Rose, that’s me, writes all the poetry and short stories. Dewy is a character I play at times. She is a facet or aspect of my personality as a multiple. If there is any confusion still, just ask me in a comment or email.
Sunday Scribblings is a favorite writing site of mine. They offer widely varied prompts weekly and it’s a lot of fun posting responses. I want to have Dewy take a crack at this week’s prompt with a new feature show called, “The Voice Of Reason”.
“Hello world! This is Dewy Knickers from the Tour de France cycling race. This week, Sunday Scribblings has the prompt, Phenomenon. I thought, what better place than the Tour to discuss the phenomenon of fans. As you know, fans is the shortened form of fanatics and fanatics have been cheering their athletes from the days of the original Greek Olympics. You know the ones, with toned and muscled men. Running and throwing and leaping and… all their parts exposed… oiled and glistening… in the nude.”
“Sorry, lost in a fantasy there. Today, instead of nude specimens of nature’s finest, we have specimens like Gunther.”
“AHHHHHH! Hello, I am Gunther Drinkenslobber. I am rooting for the racers, ya? It is so good to sit here on the mountainside for hours. You know why?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Because we drink vast quantities of beer and yell! Girls! Girls! Girls!”
“Charming Gunther, you are without a doubt, a fine figure of a man and I am sure the girls love you. Do you actually watch the race at all?”
“Of course Dewy! That’s why we are here! When the climbers come by, I leap onto the roadway and run beside my favorite riders. I wear my good luck thong so all my buddies back in Germany can recognize my buttocks! Then they all yell. Gunther! Gunther! Gunther!”
“I can’t wait to see you in action Gunther!”
“Why don’t you come back to my caravan then? You can pass the time by getting to know Gunther’s fine physique and stamina!”
“I’m sorry Gunther, perhaps another time. Unfortunately, duty calls and I must continue my research into the phenomenon.”
As Gunther and his pals blew me kisses and whistled at my rounded assets, I continued in my quest to identify the fanatic. They are easy to spot wearing the team colors. Waving signs and banners. Covered in paint. But why? Why this phenomenon of fanatic loyalty? I asked Monique LaChanel.
“Monique. You are a refined woman, intelligent and educated. Why this costume? Why parade around in this garish attire?”
“Ah Dewy. You of all people should know better. Last year’s reporting was magnifique! You are the reason I am attending this year. And do you know why Dewy?”
“You were right! All this bulging lycra and meaty thighs! Oh, how I dream of riding and riding and riding! I am all dewy with anticipation! Merci mon ami, merci.”
It seems even the fairer sex is not immune to the lure of the games. The sheer excitement of competition. The breathless anticipation that this time, maybe this time, we will witness extraordinary feats of dazzling brilliance. True, the bare limbs, the chiseled features and tight buns could have something to do with it. I’m still doing research on that end.
I find myself at the finish line now, watching as the frenzied crowd pounds on the metal barriers. The rolling noise of thunder is matched by the vocal shouts from ten thousand throats as in the far distance the peleton appears. Riders weave in and out, a confused mass of colors, so I turn to my companion, Marcello Bumpinchii.
“Si, my tender morsel?”
“Why is the mob so excited?”
“La mia ragazza da sogno! Can you not see! They are gladiators on wheels!”
“Well, they are moving pretty fast.”
“Fast? They can go fifty miles per one of you hours as they fight for the finish line! They are warriors these sprinters and the best are the Italians! Bravo!”
“Si, la mia bella fiore. He is fine, what is some blood for a warrior? He bleeds azzurro for his country as I do when I gaze into your eyes.”
Needless to say, I missed the finish. The bicycles whizzing by at forty-five miles per hour were merely a blurred rainbow out of the corner of my eye as Marcello showed me how much his tender lips bled for me.
“It is true of course, that all manners of sports create passions of the flesh in us mere mortals. We may tell ourselves we watch for the glory of pure sport, but deep inside our reptilian brain, we lust for our colors. Our team, our side, our strong warriors. Victory or Death!”
“This has been Dewy Knickers reporting from somewhere in France. Bon soir mes amis.”
By Rose Dewy Knickers, July 26th, 2007