Maury

Maury was a pretty pink and gray butterfly. She flitted about drinking nectar and shaking pollen off her legs, usually onto plants that needed pollinating, as nature intended. One day she was floating on a merry little breeze in a place the Indians named Wetonka in a place some other guys still call South Dakota when she saw the most glorious monarch butterfly flying by.
Her mouth dropped open.
“Wow,” she said silently.
“It’s mating season,” said the monarch, whose name was Larry. “I’m off to Mexico.”
“Why the heck do you want to go all the way to Mexico?”
“Funny you should ask...” Larry went on and on about ancestral habit, weather, tradition and more.
It bored the crap out of Maury.
If only she knew how many scientists--well, bug studiers anyway, wanted the full and detailed explanation Larry was giving.
“Well, have a nice trip,”
“Blah, blah, blah blah blah, blah, blah...”
“Okay, I’m going to go now...”
“Blah, blah-blah, blah blah blah...”
“Right. I’m off.”
She managed to get away almost an hour later.
“Darn it, he was so good looking,” she said to Iloher (Ill-low-here) her friend confidant and platonic bed partner a little later that day. “But he just wouldn’t shut up. You can’t even imagine. He went on and on and on. Worse than I am right now.”
“Well...maybe some day your prince will come and not just some monarch.”
“You’re not even funny.”