Today I thought about calling in my personal SWAT guys to pry Mr. Ineffable Baritone out of my closet. It's not working. They all took one look at him, decided they were homosexuals, and then left without evening producing a warrant. Unfair. Maybe Tony will help me out. Tony is all man - and he's married so that helps a little. He would never be swayed by the Ineffable Baritone.
I listened to Mr. IB read Sonnet 130 last night, and I tell you, I think someday he's going to get gang-raped by a group of insane forty-year-old women who want to cheat on their husbands. With the same man? Well, yeah. Because that's just how it works.
Mr. IB refuses to get out of my closet. I tried tempting him with some two-day-old peach cobbler from my kitchen, because he hasn't eaten in days (no food in the closet). I did not succeed. He's more determined than I thought.
I refuse to do anything indecent, though, because then he'd get arrested and his wife would probably kick my ass. Mrs. Rickman must be made of iron, or something. It would take a lot to deal with all the rabid forty-somethings clawing at her husband. I am never going to marry a famous English sex god, because I'd probably be assassinated.
You can't question ineffability, though, that's what Aziraphale always says.
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