Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

[Muppetfan44]

Hope you post more soon! Can't imagine what Piggy will do when she sees Scribbler awful story!

 

[Ruahnna]

Chapter 143: Kermit and Piggy and the Big Wide World

Rory went up to Piggy and grabbed her, his grip on her arms so tight she squeaked a little in surprise.
“Rory! Ouch! What?!”
Rory let up the pressure of his grip, but did not let go. Piggy couldn’t have wriggled free if she’d wanted to, but she was mesmerized by the look of angry urgency in Rory’s eyes and didn’t try. He took a deep breath and did what had to be done.
“You’re back in the news. There’s some…hateful media at the Oscars,” he said bluntly.
But Piggy smiled—a secret, satisfied smile. “Moi knows about the hateful media,” she almost growled, “but Mon Capitan and I dealt with that already. We did a preshow—“
“I know about the preshow, and I’m glad it went great, but there’s…there’s….”
In spite of herself, Piggy flinched. “Something else?” Her smugness melted away. Why did there always have to be something else?
“—something else,” they finished together. Darcy had come up beside Rory and was looking at Piggy unhappily.
Piggy swallowed, reassessing things. What could they have said about her now? “Is it…bad? Is—is Kermit okay?” she asked. “He’s not—?“ Could he be mad at her for her slip-up that morning? He had seemed so sweet and understanding that afternoon, but he had his jealous moods….
“He’s…okay. He’s fine—for now,” Rory said smoothly. “But there’s trouble brewing, and Piggy—Piggy, my one and only, most magnificent Rizzo I have ever known—we don’t…we can’t…not now.” He swallowed, his eyes beseeching her to understand.
“No—I…. It’s the middle of a show,” Piggy said reluctantly. “Whatever it is, it can wait—can’t it?” Please let it be something that can wait, she thought. Her eyes mirrored her hurt and worry, but she clamped down on everything and put it all somewhere else. Even Rory, who knew better than most what it was like to be one person on stage and quite another backstage, admired her grim control.
“Of course,” said Rory. “There’ll be plenty of time to deal with it when we finish the show.”
“Good answer,” said Trudy. “Whatever happens can happen after the show.”
“Right,” said Darcy. “And I’m sure it’s not Kermit’s fault. She probably came on to him.”
Piggy's hard-won calm took a hit like a battering ram was at the door, but although she couldn’t stop her reaction, she did manage to slow it down.
“She who? What isn’t his fault?” she asked. Her teeth were gritted tightly, and her eyes were bulging just a little, but she fought to make her expression calm.
“Nothing you need to be worried about and nothing we can do anything about now,” Rory said. His own teeth were gritted, and he felt like snapping at Darcy, but it wouldn’t do any good now that the…frog was out of the bag—and the starlet was out of most of her dress.
“Did someone make a move on my frog?” Piggy demanded.
“No, he—” Rory said, “I mean, it wasn’t….”
Her eyes were fastened on his face, daring him to lie to her.
“We don’t know all the details,” Rory mumbled. Inspiration hit and he looked up. “But you know your frog, don’t you? He wouldn’t—”
“Of course Moi knows him,” said Piggy, grasping at the calm that was trying to get away. “How silly of me. Kermie would never….” She caught up short, her eyes full of tears. Her friends stared at her miserably, but even as they watched, Piggy rallied like the diva that she was. She straightened her shoulders and put her delectable snout into the air, clothing herself in an almost palpable dignity. “I mean, whatever it is, it will all seem silly once we know what happened, right?”
“Positive!”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Of course,” Harrison said. “He couldn’t be that big a fool to, um…er, you know.” Piggy’s eyes were narrowed on his face and he could not look away. The expression “deer in the headlights” took on new meaning for all of them.
“What do I know, Harrison?” Piggy demanded silkily. “Tell me—“
“Piggy, please, we cannot do this now!” Rory said desperately. “There’s nothing to be gained by getting all discombobulated now!”
“Nothing at all,” Darcy soothed, looking back and forth between Harrison and Piggy anxiously. Harrison might be a rascal, but he was also a real softie, a pushover for a pretty face, and he genuinely liked Piggy.
Bravely, Trudy interposed herself between Piggy and Harrison before he cracked under the force of those electric blue eyes. “Piggy, the show.”
Reluctantly, Piggy stood down and the red haze began to recede. “Yes, yes, of course,” said Piggy with finality, shaking herself a little. “Moi will deal with…whatever it is after the show.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Darcy, choosing her words carefully. “Plenty of time to deal with it when you’re not about to go onstage.”
“Speaking of onstage…,” said Harrison, feeling nervous about the time. Onstage time was different from off-stage time. He didn’t know how much time they’d lost here but Cordell and Stacey were bound to be done with his song, “Mooning”. It was time to get everyone out into the wings before they missed their cues.
“We’re going now,” said Rory. “C’mon, Piggy—time to break some hearts.”
“Why should today be any different than any other day?” Piggy quipped. Most any onlooker would have seen her shaking off her nervousness, but in truth, Piggy was only masking it. Still, she was glad to hear a grim chuckle from Harrison on her right.
He was relieved to be out of her crosshairs and back into the familiar world of their evening drama. “Yeah, every day and every show,” he teased. “Another day, another hopeless suitor.”
“Yeah,” said Darcy. “You’re a class act, too, Doll. Not like that hussy—“
“Oh, for the love of Broadway, shut up!” Rory hissed, but Piggy had turned on a dime and was glaring at the lot of them.
“What hussy?” she said, and they could hear her quickened breathing in the silence of the backstage.
“Um…,” said Darcy, backing up.
“It doesn’t—“
“Just some bim—“
“—don’t have time for—“
“Show me,” said Piggy. “If some half-dressed starlet has dared make a move on mon frog, Moi will—“
“It’s just a picture, for goodness sake, and it doesn’t prove—“
“—notorious for this sort of thing. I’m sure Kermit—“
“—looked like. I’m sure it was just a publicity stunt to—“
“—taken out of context—“
Piggy reached out and grasped Harrison’s wrist hard enough to leave a mark. “Somebody show me or tell me or I am going to pitch such a fit that there won’t be two bricks left standing when—“
A shadow loomed over them, and they all flinched, expecting Mr. Lowry or one of his minions. Later, Rory would wish it had been Lowry, who at least had the sense to use some tact, but it was someone much further down on the food chain. “Um, hey there Miss Piggy,” said Bobo. “Mr. Lowry wanted me to make sure you were okay back here.”
“Moi is fine,” said Piggy, her baby blues boring into Harrison like a drill. “I’m just waiting to find out—“
“Hoo boy,” said Bobo, blowing out a big puff of air. “That sure was some picture of Kermit,” the bear said. “Who knew that Kardashian chick had a thing for frogs, huh?”
There was no going back after that. Rory grabbed Piggy’s arm, and Harrison’s other wrist, practically dragging them toward their marks, Rory’s voice a grim undertone as he explained—in the sparsest terms possible—that Kermit had apparently been photographed making up to one of the Kardashian sisters backstage, that there had apparently been some sort of fight between them, and that she had flounced off in fewer flounces than she’d arrived in.
After her earlier reaction, Rory’s biggest worry was that Piggy would go ballistic. He had worried about sending her into overdrive, not overload, but after he finished, she shook her head stubbornly, her mouth pouty and quizzical. They were standing in the wings, waiting for the music to cue up.
“That can’t be what happened,” she said. “Kermit…he wouldn’t.”
In spite of himself, Rory was both moved and worried by this show of absolute faith in her frog. He did not know Piggy’s Kermit, but he hoped he was worthy of that degree of trust.
“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” he soothed. “You know how the media like to distort things. Maybe they were making small talk and it got misconstrued.” Although he was desperate to comfort Piggy, he did not want to mislead her. For reasons he could not quite explain, he was worried that there was more to the story than the picture implied.
“No,” she said more than once. “No. Not Kermit. He—he wouldn’t. Kermit hates Hollywood small talk. There must be some misunderstanding,” Piggy insisted. Her voice, while intense, was quiet, for only the curtain separated them from the audience. “If they were arguing, it’s because she said something or did something she shouldn’t have.”
Or he did, Rory thought but did not say. “Probably,” said Rory, taking his mark.
“That has to be it,” said Piggy, shaking her head stubbornly. He thought he saw the sheen of angry tears in her eyes, but he couldn’t tell in the dimness, and when the stage lights came up at last, her expression was so fixed and neutral that he couldn’t be sure.
The music was coming up, the curtain moving, and all talk ceased as suddenly as if a switch had been thrown. The curtain came up and the unreal took on substance and became real. Danny was there to woo Sandy, and Jan was there to be comic relief and Frenchy was there to be a lovable screw-up. And Rizzo was there, in all her acid-tongued, tough-chick glory.
But of Piggy herself, there was nothing either seen or heard for the entire rest of the show.

He stared at the picture on his phone, uncomprehending. It…it couldn’t be. That stupid frog wouldn’t dare—would he? But he apparently had, and there was the proof in living color. He looked at the byline and made a small sound of surprise. Of course…of course! That stupid reporter—the one who had been hanging around the casino and the theater—was apparently in Hollywood now. Good grief—was the man twins? Well—no matter. Twins or triplets or simply an overachiever, the eager-beaver journalist had wasted no time documenting the peccadillos of one very unlucky frog. Poor little Piggy, all alone—abandoned by her philandering hubby. Who’d have ever thought? Seymour read the article, went back and looked at the picture, and then did it all again as an oily smile spread across his face. Well, well, well…. Who said journalism was dead?

When the school of hard knocks has just knocked you on your backside, it is hard to overestimate the joy you might feel at seeing a genuinely friendly face. Kermit heard his name, looking up and up and up, and then his face broke into a smile as he made his way through the crowd. The green room had been pulsing with nervous energy, as well as all the things that celebrities did to deal with that nervous energy, and after he had made a quick survey, he couldn’t get out fast enough. Having accomplished all that was absolutely necessary for the time being, Kermit was in no hurry to return to the theater, where the camera might catch you at any moment with the wrong expression on your face or the wrong woman—arghh! Now he was doing it to himself! Enough of that! He felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders as he put out both of his hands in greeting. She took them eagerly, kissed him on both cheeks (really kissed him, not this stupid air-kiss-kiss that everyone else did) and smiled.
“Well, hello there, short, green and in-the-news,” she teased, her dark eyes alive with mischief.
Kermit smiled—or tried to, although it came out more like a grimace—and flashed his pollywog eyes. They had worked before when they were working together, and he hoped they might get him a little sympathy now.
“Please don’t remind me,” he said. “I can’t seem to get on the good side of anyone today.”
“You didn’t like the side of Miss Kardashian you were on?” she asked, and this time, in spite of himself, Kermit almost laughed. It was halfway groaning, but his old friend reached out and patted him on the back, all teasing set aside.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I saw your thing with Piggy afterward. It was wonderful.”
“Wasn’t she?” asked Kermit. “She’s doing great, and she looked fantastic, didn’t she?”
“She looked amazing.“ His companion looked at her own shapely calves. “I could never get the same results from karate that she does,” she said, her voice wistful.
“I think she’s dancing a lot nowadays,” Kermit said. He heard the wistfulness in his own voice, and it made him smile.
“So I hear. And you’re knee-deep in post-production.”
“Yep. Knee-deep, knee-deep,” he teased, mimicking his country cousins. “Slogging away.”
“But getting it done?”
“Yes,” said Kermit firmly, then made a determined effort to stop being morose. “Speaking of production—I heard something about your show being nominated for an Emmy?”
Her whole face lit up with pleasure and she made a comical face. “It’s true!” she said. “Have you seen any of the new episodes?”
“Not yet, but they’re on my list when I have a life again.” They found themselves in a quiet corner, with two chairs recently vacated by ushers, and sat down.
“Tell me,” Kermit said. “I want to hear all about it.”

If you had asked Sara to enumerate the things that she loved about Scooter, somewhere on that list would be the fact that he was such an accomplished mother hen to his boss. She watched Scooter stew inwardly while trying heroically to project an inner calm he did not feel, and her expression grew soft.
“Think he’s lost?” she murmured, so quiet only Scooter could hear.
“I hope so,” he murmured. “If not, he’s probably been cornered by the paparazzi and is currently in a death-spiral.”
“Go on,” said Sara. “I don’t mind to sit by a stranger for a bit.”
At the Academy Awards, if you left your seat for any reason during the show, a beautiful face in formal wear would plop down into the vacuum so that the television audience saw nothing but row upon row of happy, smiling people. These beautiful Barbie-and-Ken-doll-impersonators were not allowed to speak unless spoken to, and they were generally very happy to simply see and be seen, so there was no social pressure to chat someone up or answer someone’s impertinent questions unless you felt so inclined. Kermit’s seat was currently occupied by a stunning young woman and, knowing she could not speak first, Fozzie had managed to speak enough to be polite despite his usual shyness with strange women. Still, when Scooter began to make covert “getting up” noises, Fozzie jumped at the chance to escape.
“I’ll go get him!” Fozzie murmured, and was out of his seat like a shot.
Scooter watched him go. “I hope that was the right thing to do,” he muttered to Sara. Within the minute, a gorgeous young man, dark-skinned and golden-eyed, slipped into Fozzie’s seat next to Sara. Sara smiled in a friendly manner, enjoying the view, and turned to find her fiancé giving her a rueful look.
“Glad Fozzie went instead of me,” he muttered, and Sara had the good grace to blush. “I’m going to stay right here and defend my territory.”
He was teasing, but Sara was surprised to see something like jealousy in his eyes. She reached over and clasped his hand, reminding him that she was here with him and glad of it, and he smiled and returned the pressure of her hand.
The last nominated soundtrack clip finished playing and they looked back toward the stage. The sound had been so overpowering that their chatter had not disturbed their neighbors, but they quieted down to listen.
“And the Award goes to—“

Someone was standing on Scribbler’s desk—Scribbler’s old desk, that is—and crowing like Peter Pan.
“He did it! The little cretin did it, oh oh OH! The frog is going to get it now—get it and suffer!” An expensive pair of shoes danced all over Scribbler’s desk, and Jonesy looked up in alarm.
“Um, Boss,” he gulped, his beak sack undulating nervously. “Um, don’t fall or nothin’ while you’re, um, standin’ up there. Okay?” His cup of coffee was sloshing all over his notes, and he danced in and snatched his tablet off the desk before it was smashed or drowned.
But the Boss didn’t hear him, partly because of shouting and partly because of the deep, baritone laughter that was filling the bullpen and giving him a headache.
“I reckon you scared him proper,” Fang said. “He really got the goods this time!”
“Wonder how he got her to do that?” Bruno asked. He was looking at the picture of Kermit with his arm around that big, round Kardashian backside and wondering if there was any way to get a look at the back of that view.
“I don’t care if he bribed her, threatened her or told her there would be food! When he gets here—oh! When he gets here I might knight that stupid little hack and—“
Despite the fact that Jonesy had dashed back in to rescue the coffee, he had not been fast enough. The expensive Italian shoes hit the rim and the cup—and the coffee—when up and up and splashed all over the dark suit. Jonesy had sworn off after-dark flying since his night vision had begun to go, but he was seriously considering making a mad dash into the street and launching himself into the air. It didn’t seem like a good idea, but it seemed like a better idea than ending up on a platter. But before the thought could make its laborious way from his brain to his feathers, Jonesy felt someone grip him beneath his fine-feathered arms and hoist him up into the air. He cringed, waiting for his neck to be snapped like a twig, but instead of being angry, the boss was laughing—laughing at the coffee stain on the dark suit and the mess and the minions and the frog—the poor, doomed frog who didn’t even know what was coming his way yet.

Fozzie wandered nervously around the labyrinthine staging area, looking for a small patch of bright green above a beautifully-tailored tux, but the hallways were crowded and he didn’t much want to call attention to himself—or Kermit. The green room had been sans frog, and though the awards coordinator said that Kermit had checked in, he wasn’t due for quite a while so Fozzie was encouraged—politely but firmly—to move on and keep looking on his own. He went into the men’s bathroom, but didn’t see Kermit, and there were no flippered feet beneath the stalls. He went into the main hallway, and was on the verge of tugging on an usher’s coattails in desperation when he saw—through the crowd and behind a throng of glittering celebrities—a pair of flippers dangling a few inches from the ground. Determinedly, he pushed through the crowd, and ran up to Kermit almost panting with relief.
“Oh, there you are, Kermit! We were worried that something had happened to—aahhhh!” Fozzie yelled, cringing and covering his head with his furry hands. “Quick! Hide—Kermit! It’s---it’s—her!”
Kermit and his companion laughed, and Kermit reached out and snagged Fozzie’s elbow.
“Fozzie,” he admonished gently. “It’s okay. It’s just Joan.”
Joan Cusack tried not to make any sudden moves, but she waved at Fozzie, her fingertips fluttering in as non-threatening a manner as possible. “Hi Fozzie,” she said.
“But-but-she—she tried to—“ Fozzie sputtered, clearly panicked.
As was his wont, Kermit was patient with his friend. “Fozzie, this is not Ms. Bitterman. This is Joan. Joan—our friend, who worked with us on the Christmas movie. Remember?”
“—with the lasers! And she was going to—Joan?”
“Hi Fozzie,” Joan said again. “Remember me?”
Fozzie stood very still, hands clasped anxiously in front of him, and listened to Kermit’s voice near his furry, twitching ear.
“It was just a movie,” Kermit said firmly. “And they weren’t even real lasers.”
“Oh,” said Fozzie quietly. “Oh. I…I remember now.” As he often did, he tried to cover his embarrassment with bravado. “I mean—I knew that,” he said. He put out his hand for Joan to shake, trying to keep it from trembling, and let her take it between hers.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” said Joan graciously. “Kermit and I were just catching up.”
“About Joan’s children’s show,” Kermit added. “They’ve been nominated for an award.”
“Oh! Are you—are you up for an Oscar tonight?”
“I’m up for Oscar any night!” Joan quipped. “I love that grumpy ol’ grouch.”
They all laughed and Fozzie looked a little bit less like he was going to faint (again).
“But to answer your question—no. Not an Oscar. Peep and the Big Wide World's been nominated for a Daytime Emmy.”
“Oh! I love that show! I’ve learned all sorts of stuff watching the show,” Fozzie admitted.
“Ooh! A true fan!” Joan exclaimed. She made comical eyes at Kermit. “A true fan who can stay up later than eight!”
“I don’t have to go to bed at eight unless I have to be up early in the morning,” Fozzie boasted. He looked at Joan shyly. “I loved your ‘Stick With Me’ episode.”
Joan smiled, her generous mouth curving up appealingly. “I liked that one especially, too.”
Fozzie’s voice was earnest. “If I’m not home, I try to tape it so I can watch it later.”
“Good answer,” said Joan. “I mean, I’ve done the odd thing for Disney, and a couple of kid-friendly movies, but I had no idea children’s television was so rewarding.”
“Aw, you can’t do anything more important,” said Kermit. “I still miss my days on the Street.”
She nodded, then stopped and gave Kermit a look. “If Fozzie’s here, can Scooter be far behind? I think your handlers are looking for you.”
Kermit made a scrunchy face that expressed his mood at the moment, then he sighed and smiled, resigned. “I guess I should resent the implication that I can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes, but with the night I’ve had so far….”
Joan leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Go soothe your gofer and your bear,” she said solemnly. “And when time for the award presentation comes, knock the scoffers off their feet.”
There were several people Kermit wouldn’t have minded knocking for a loop, but he gritted his hard palate and gave the best smile he had. “I’ll sure try,” he promised.
“There is no try—“ Fozzie began, but stopped when Kermit groaned and rolled his bulbous eyes.
“Don’t worry—you’ll do fine,” Joan insisted. “I’ll be cheering for you—Peep peep hooray!”
Fozzie took Kermit’s shoulders and steered him back toward the theater seating, glad to have accomplished his task, but he stopped when he heard Joan’s voice behind them.
“Oh Kermit,” she said. “Call me anytime you want me to play that evil woman. I enjoyed it!”

After the show, Piggy had grabbed Bobo by the collar—not gently—and hauled him outside so she could sign autographs. Anyone who asked impertinent questions was roundly ignored, but to everyone else she was poised, polite and fabulous. Bobo never even had to speak to those who were impolite or asked personal questions—the crowd seemed to be policing itself, and naysayers were pushed and prodded to the back of the line, or out of the line altogether. Those with something snarky to say soon realized which side of the bread was buttered—and which side of the playbill was likely to get signed—and became meek and abject. Piggy was in her full-on diva mode—regal, impenetrable and grand—but Rory and her other friends were not fooled. Still, when the crowd began to thin, Piggy lingered, making sure that every fan was tended to although her satin-ensconced wrist felt like it was going to fall off from signing things. Only when the theater-goers had been ministered to did Piggy look up—beyond them—to the outer ring of journalists who waited like a pack of hungry wolves.
Piggy stood, her eyes blazing, daring the first one to make a rude comment—or come within striking distance—but for all their eagerness as a mob, noone wanted to lob the first question and have it come smashing back at him. Finally, one young man—impeccably dressed and almost quaking in his wingtips—managed to stutter out a question.
“Martin Dinkley, from the Daily Gazetteer,” he stammered. “What did you think of the preshow behavior of Mr. The—er, Kermit?”
“Mon Capitan was tres lovely to Moi before the show,” said Miss Piggy, and though her long, dark lashes fluttered demurely, her gaze remained bold and wary. “Moi is so proud of him for presenting an award tonight without Moi’s help—you know how much he depends on Moi for things like that.”
“Um, yes,” said the young man. “I meant—“
“And he is such a lamb,” said Piggy, “friendly to everyone no matter how unimportant they might be.”
The crowd made a hushed sound of disbelief. She had gone there. She had really gone there. Reporters were texting and tweeting madly to their editors and the public.
“What did you think about the article that Fleet Scribbler posted about—“
It was not really a surprise, Piggy thought savagely. She should have known that, given the chance, he would paint Kermit in a bad light. But, her mind prompted, he had promised that he wouldn’t lie. What did that promise mean, in light of what little she knew now? She had not seen the article nor the picture—had only Rory’s description of both to go on—but from what Rory hadn’t said, she assumed it was bad—worse than bad—and that fallout was going to be toxic. She had thought that this morning had been a public relations disaster, but she saw now that she had simply not been using her imagination. Even Marty was going to have a hard time cleaning this one up. And she still didn’t know exactly what had happened because…because Kermit still hadn’t told her anything—anything at all.
“—offered to replace Miss Kardashian’s dress after he tore it—“
The red haze was back, but Piggy was answering. She had no idea what she was saying, but it was calm and collected and totally banal while inside she felt like a volcano was about to erupt. If Scribbler had been here—if Kermit had been here—or that woman then Piggy would probably have been able to show off much more than her shapely calves as she unleashed her inner warrior princess, but there was noone here to karate chop into next week, and no margin for error in what she said.
After what seemed like an eternity, with the press pressing and Piggy holding her ground with devastating sex appeal and an enviable talent for misunderstanding or misdirecting the questions fired at her, she felt a strong, furry paw beneath her elbow and looked up to find Bobo looking at her anxiously.
“C’mon, Miss Piggy,” he said gently. “This crowd is getting too rough for a lady like you.” He put his arm around her shoulders—not touching, but shielding her—and interposed his bulk between her and her accusers. He started her back toward the theater entrance, stopping only to call over his shoulder. “Show’s over,” he said shortly. “Get along with the lot of you.”
There were murmurs of complaint, but noone stepped forward. Greedily, they watched her walk into the theater, waiting until the door shut behind her to talk among themselves.
“I ain’t never seen Miss Piggy hold her calm like that when Kermit was chatting up some dame,” said one reporter, who then spat on the sidewalk in disgust.
“In The Muppet Show days, she’d have flattened him for so much as looking at another gal.”
“Yeah, well, there ain’t no other gal here, is there? She’s here, doing the play—“
“—working it here like she was born to it, while he—“
“You don’t know it was his fault,” one older gent protested. “A talented guy like that—there’s bound to be women just throwing—“
“Speaking of throwing, if I was her, I’d throw the bum out until he came crawling on his knees just for lookin’, much less touchin’—“
“Oh, come off it, Pendleton,” snorted another. “She knows how this is played. And what d'ya expect him to do while she’s up here prancing around with that big, beefy co-star of hers—sit home?”
“—while that New Hollywood piece of—“
“—think there’s something awful fishy about the whole set-up—“
“—think of Scribbler’s bit what said Kermit was seeing that Kardashian gold—“
“Oh, Scribbler—pah! He’s a has-been if there ever was one!” sneered one fellow.
“Has-been, is he?” scoffed the older gentleman again. “Well, he sure scooped your sorry backside, didn’t he? Brought the goods in proper right under the nose of that airheaded—“
“Aw, go soak your head,” the fellow said, coloring in anger and embarrassment. “All I know is he used to be the guy that knew what was going on with Miss Piggy, but lately—“
“Lately, he’s been saying her marriage is on the rocks, and then—lookee here—what shows up at the Oscars, huh?”
“Think he knows what he’s talking about?”
“Who knows! Sure will sell some papers,” muttered another guy. “Lucky creep.”
“Lucky? Ha—that’s a rich one! When Broadway’s newest princess gets ahold of him, he won’t feel so lucky!"
“Bet the frog don’t feel so lucky, either—you know what I’m saying? She’s here, and he’s there and…well…there was bound to be trouble, you know?”
"Bound to be.

 

[The Count]

Will have to go through this tomorrow...

But Joan Cusack was the cameo? And here I thought it was Whoopi. She does love playing the villainess, either as Rachael Bitterman or Debbie Jillinsky. But she's also played nice like when she was Alsaisha, the robot doll sister of Robin Williams's character in the movie Toys, dunno if you've seen that one.

Fallout's gonna be a heck of an angry Piggy to deal with, hope they all come out of it all right. Well, you know, cause you're the one writing this. Look forward to the next chapter.

 

[Misskermie]

OH NO!!!
I was on edge the entire time.
I waiting for Piggy to snap.
She will.
I know she will.
In due time.
But man, Piggy is hurt...
and I'm sure Kermit...
Oh man...
This...
More please Ru!
I must stop asking myself questions!

 

[The Count]

Finished fixing the chapter's little foibles. I'd recommend you sending me the chap before posting, but I wouldn't want to spoil anything for anyone else who's also reading.

"now that the frog was out of the bag and the starlet half out of her dress."
"flounced away in fewer flounces than she'd arrived in."
Little touches of Ru-ness that I liked.

*Laughed at Joan's joke about the awards.

*Hates that there's going to be more for Kermit to have to explain away when he calls Piggy after the presentation.

Thanks for posting, always appreciate getting a chunk of fic from your nimble typings.

 

[newsmanfan]

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MAGNIFIQUE.

Love, love, love how Piggy handled herself (and the press mob) after the show, especially! It must be tres dificil for her to simply misdirect questioners instead of giving free rein to her rage and going after the Nobody-Celeb who DARED to touch her frog! That'll do, Pig...

The Big Bad dancing on a desk and hugging a minion? Eeek! Well...it seems Scribbler has chosen to face Piggy's wrath rather than his boss'. Hope he lives to regret it.

The realistic details of both Oscar filming and backstage life versus onstage life were well done and, I think, added to the story rather than slowing it down. LOVE the line, "The curtain came up and the unreal took on substance and became real."

And it was nice to see Bobo making up for his gaffe by actually doing his job as bodyguard fairly well. Silly old bear...

Eager to see how much more fallout this wreck engenders!
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[The Count]

*Dreads the phone call that frog will have to make to his pig wife after the night's over. *In Gregory Peck voice: We're in it now, up to our necks.

 

[Ruahnna]

I feel very guilty posting here because I do not have more story this moment, but I wanted to make a couple of comments/observations that are relevant--at least, they are relevant to me and I hope that at least someone else finds them useful or interesting.

As a writer, I find it next-to impossible to explain what a character looks like in terms that can make you see him/her as I see the character. My efforts in the past have ranged from dismal to disappointing when I have worked with an artist--and not because of the lack of skill or patience of the artist! I freely admit that I can only draw conclusions and paint with words. My own illustrations are usually limited to stick people and costume sketches. Still, I have never found it all that important that someone see my characters physically the way I see them. (I do want you to see my characters emotionally as I see them--but that is for me to succeed at or fail at, and has nothing to do with the reader's ability.) So you may picture Rory or Mabel in a completely different way than I do, but I don't think that's a problem.

Still (and here's why I bring this up)--several of you have wondered what Thoreau looks like, and I have some tidbits for you. He is nice-looking without being classically handsome. I can say that his nose is aquiline, his eyes intense, his mouth broad and expressive. (There are also faint faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, and the merest hint of lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth because he literally "pulls a frown" when pensive or unhappy, but for-goodness-sake don't tell him I said THAT. He'd be mortified.)

So, I can't really tell you what his face looks like, but I CAN tell you that--except for their very different faces--he very much resembles Andy Dick in his physique. He is tall and elegant and broad-shouldered and while their hairstyles differ, their hair color and texture are similar. Thoreau is a little more platinum blond--and yes, it's natural.

I have very much enjoyed watching Andy this season on Dancing With The Stars because his evolution as a dancer and his evolution as a performer have been so moving. There is a lovely vulnerable quality about him that makes me think of Thoreau (who is really not quite as fierce as he seems). (I especially liked Andy dancing the Viennese Waltz for his daughter who was in the audience, and I like his body language when dealing with the judges and interviewers--it is shy and modest and refreshingly poised while remaining open.)

This experience of "recognizing" one of my characters was very unusual for me. None of my other original characters (in muppetdom or elsewhere) are based on real people--not their looks and not their personalities. I know that some writer's start with a character or an actor who inspires their own creation, but it's never been that way for me. Thoreau sprang out of my mind one day when Piggy went shopping and wrestled the reins of his own existence away from me. I have not truly been in charge of him or what he does since the second time he appeared in KG. He has been a bit of a surprise, from time to time, and it was rather a shock to me to tune in to watch DWTS and see what looks very much like Thoreau's back dancing. When Andy turns around, the illusion is gone, but it is/was a very convincing illusion.

So...if you care...for what it's worth...if I ever got to see KG on screen (ha ha ha--not gonna happen), I would want Andy to play Thoreau. He seems like a nice guy (but I'll bet he could play Thoreau anyway!)

 

[The Count]

Happy birthday to Ru, er, her story that is. Hard to believe, but Kermie's Girl is now seven years old, and we still love it and hope to read more whenever it should get updated.

*Leaves seven pumpkin pies baked by Uncle Deadly for this story's celebration.
Thanks for such an awesome fanfic opus, we eagerly await whatever's next.
You called?
Nevah mind, there's pie to be had!

 

[lady piggy]

Wow seven years, this beautiful peace of literature has been with us for like 2555 days. 2555 days of waiting ,loving,and watching this story grow .even though i have only known about kermies girl for a couple of months,.This story has made my day countless times .not oly because it wonderfully well written but , because the journey you've put the muppets throw .so cheers to the glamorous miss Ru , who pushed away reality and brought us to the wonderful world of fantasy .Happy Birthday kermie's girl