So you hardly ever drink. Well, okay, you hardly ever drink in a bar. Keep tellin‚ yourself that. But today is your forty-third birthday, you have a bunion the size of Bat Segundo on your left pinky toe, and at lunch somebody left a bottle of cocktail sauce in your chair. There's a serious loss of cool points when red liquid shoots out of your ass in public.

I called you today to wish you Happy Birthday, but you know this particular galleycat pretty well. If I promise to be good, you‚ll drop everything and give me ten ... books sell at the speed of a terrapin on Ritalin unless your mother's real name is Condoleeza Rice and you can prove it. I love this circus, but I want out, just for today. Please? Never mind. We know why we're here.

We sit at the bar, you swill gin and swear this one is next, the real thing. Of course I tell you your mother wears Army boots and of course you say what else would Condoleeza wear, growing up the way she did? It was such a tragedy and true, that only the names were changed˜it is a memoir after all. Gripping and gritty and viscerally addictive. They'll love it, you say. We pretend, we muddle through this back-and-forthing, and either we'll both win or we'll both lose, but either way, we'll be drunk as hell by the time we you pay the tab.

The money you made on the last one helps you forget that your will-o-the-wisp client has no mother because she cut her wrists, no she hanged, no, she ... whatever. He made you a fucking fortune.

It's not a bad circus. You step in a lot of elephant shit to show promenading poodles to their greatest advantage, but damned if I know how you do it, because I'll probably buy and then I'll be the one tap-dancing tomorrow.

I'll have another drink now, please.

The fact of the matter is, we're whores. We love this job, but it's true. Don't snark at me. You love it, I love it, but please, let's not dress it up. The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd ... this elephant shit we‚re standing in is fresh and we sift through it barehanded on the off chance we'll find a diamond. Whaddya figure, one for every steaming, Fed-Ex ton?

You‚ve found a CZ the size of Bat Segundo, but I'll say yes and you already knew it. Happy birthday. Oh, and you have some red stuff on your ass.

Oh dear dog, this creates a whole new genre: snark noir! I may need a cig and a fedor if I read more!

Scoring to come


Cheryl Mills said...

LMAO at "..what else would Condoleeza wear.."

kitty said...

I really love this one. Congrats to its author!

Anonymous said...

Ms. Snark stars in the sequel to Layner's "The Tetherballs of Bougainville."

Dwight likees very much.

Anonymous said...

You love this one. You really do. You stamp out another cigarette and scratch absentmindedly at your newest tattoo while wondering why you ever sent an entry to compete.

JLB said...

Ah-ha, an as-yet-un-used POV! Great fun.

Some days, we all have to wade through elephant shit.

Anonymous said...



Anonymous said...

OMG! This was great! Bravo!

Steve said...

My favorite so far!

(Sorry, it's too early in New Zealand for my own wit. Now, that of others...)

McKoala said...

Ah, the neglected second person - it works, too!

pennyoz said...

Snark noir

Eight rhymes with late in a dark bar

This deserves a vote.

Anonymous said...

Tentative score so far: 78, plus five for *outrageously* funny. Cool!


Meet My Muse said...

Author note: Cocktail Sauce in the Chair is based on a true story, borrowed from Meet My Muse. This is not my blog, but I put the link there...don't know how to put urls in this comments trail.

I couldn't resist.