9.23.2005

Get thee behind me, old Ned

Dear Miss Snark:

Uncle Ned, he of the accountant's black visor and moth-eaten cardigan, does not believe what you say. More precisely, he does not believe you exist.

Each afternoon at 12:15 sharp, I open the door to the room that we have built adjacent to the utility closet and bring him his lunch. Routine is one of Uncle Ned's greatest strengths. If there is not a dash of paprika coloring his egg salad, I will hear about it. Variety is tolerated only on Fridays when, in anticipation of the weekend, a handful of Doritos is added to his plate.

He looks up from the ledger on his desk and rubs his eyes. "So tell me again about this Miss Snark."

I gush with enthusiasm about the latest wisdom in your blog, throwing in the occasional word play that is your forte.

"No," he says. "Tell me about her."

"She is anonymous."

He arches his eyebrows, which in recent years have grown as wooly as the caterpillars that are predicting another long, cold winter.

"She drinks gin. She wants to go to Antarctica. She has this thing for George Clooney."

"Clooney? She never should have run off with that Jose Ferrer. Hooked her on narcotics, that's what he did," Uncle Ned says, leaning back on his oak swivel chair. "But boy, that girl could sing. You put paprika in the salad today?"

"You're thinking of Rosemary Clooney. She likes George Clooney."

He slashes his arm through the air as if cutting the space between us. "A Clooney is a Clooney."


Old Ned, poor Ned, he's dissed Mr. Clooney, now he is sooooooooooo dead.

Besides, I don't drink gin, I swill it.



Uncle Ned does not believe in computers. He does not believe in the internet. He lives in a world where people do not go dispensing valuable information for free.

Feel free to send twenty dollar bills Uncle Ned. In fact, let me insist.

Uncle Ned scoffs at the notion of gin. His preferred beverage is rabbit juice. Yes, rabbit juice. It is a quantifiable experience-- $87 per bottle, found only behind the counters at disreputable health food stores. One day, I fear I may smash the bottle over his head. Can you see what I'm up against?

First, he disses Mr. Clooney
Then, he disses Miss Snark's very existence,
and now, the final insult, he disses GIN.

Miss Snark will be sending her second (suitably uniformed) with a challenge to a duel.
Anagrams at forty paces!
Times crossword puzzles...in ink!
speed reading Finnegans Wake for comprehension tests!

Winner gets the blog! Loser leaves town!

Killer Yapp the junkyard poodle will be on your doorstep in an hour awaiting your answer.

5 comments:

Bernita said...

~ need new keyboard~

occasional_anonymous said...

Oh, get away. Nobody believes in poodles in this day and age.

kitty said...

You're doing first pages again?

Miss Snark said...

what? you mean he made it up? there is no Uncle Ned? Dang, I'm bereft!

On a happier note, Mr Clooney is IN TOWN!!!
I will be camped out near Lincoln Center of course so he can find me and whisk me away from ...well...all this.

Liz Wolfe said...

You'll drop the snarklings a line from Mr. Clooney's villa in Italy, yes?