Ten years after this literary revolution had begun, the webmaster, seized by a fit of insomnia, went to a local all-night restaurant at 3 a.m. His pecan pie was served by tattooed hands attached to a particularly sassy woman. When the check arrived, the server's name was revealed: Wanda Sue.
A fevered telephone call awoke Helps with the news of the muse. One week later, he organized a late-night expedition to the restaurant with twelve of his dearest friends. To parry the appearance of a Last Supper, each person sported an item of Wanda Sue paraphernalia fabricated over the years: t-shirts, mugs, printed cards, etc.
At the end of the meal, the most professorial member of the group announced to the incredulous genius herself: “Wanda Sue, people all over the planet love your poem. At this very table, we are fans from Berlin, New York, Tel-Aviv, Boston, and San Francisco. Where is the basketball ?”
The Sappho of Thonotosassa nearly collapsed, muttered something one would say to a drug-induced hallucination, gathered her tip (which represented 500% of the bill) and disappeared from our lives. The sacred object (the basketball) has yet to be delivered to the faithful of the cult. The poem still casts its immortal rays to the four corners of the earth.
