Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Sour Grapes

To whom it may concern:

My heart is sick and sad. It seems that my neighbour has forgotten me. After all my properly directed snark and vitriol -- nay, after bravely joining in the fray after he had kicked the crap out of "the hottest conservative writer" of that particular day -- after my several posts which were blatantly sycophantic judiciously praising of his style, nothing.

Throughout the summer, I occasionally walked, as it were, across the street, like the good neighbour that I am, to knock on his door, offer some poisoned delicious fruitcake, and engage in witty repartee with his illustriousness as well as his vivacious girlfriend, with an aim of a torrid menage a' trois further enlightening myself, politically.

To no avail. Each time I rang, a shifty-eyed tweaker would peer through the blinds, and if I persisted in ringing, would eventually answer the door, only to gruffly send me on my way.

At last I had had enough of this ill treatment, and the next time I was in such a circumstance, demanded of this rude person the truth about my friend.

I said to him, "Do you mean, sir, that you have no knowledge of a Mr. Sebly F. No, who, I assure you, lived in this very house?"

And at last, perhaps jarred to attention by my persistence (he had seemed terribly distracted on all occasions), he seemed to focus, and replied, "Uhh wait, was he a great big fat person?"

Still quite loyal to my friend I allowed that he was perhaps zaftig, but the tone with which I said it chided my uncouth, ungenerous, interlocutor.

"Oh, well that guy split, dude. He moved to Montreal and shacked up with some hairy bear named Youppi -- a gay thing you know."

I was horrified and said so: "You mean he's banging Brent Bozell?!?!"

"No, no. Youppi. It's a gay mascot thing, you know."

Puzzled, I bid this odd man adieu. Something -- actually, everything -- was not quite right, and I resolved to find out what it was.

I crept around my neighbour's house -- very quietly -- and heard ..well, I'm still not quite sure what to make of it.

Crashes, breaking glass. Girlish shrieks.

Then voices. I could only catch pieces, but I shall reproduce them here as best I can.

Female Voice: "He left me tied up in there! As if I'm some bukkake whore!"

Male Voice: "But you [are or aren't, unintelligible]!"

FV: "Never mind all that! I do not waste my time inventing Utopias! What of the children of Iran! Do you envy me, looter?!"

MV: "Uhh, what?"

FV: "Reason is man's only absolute! Do you know the sacred word, 'I'"?

MV: "Well, yeah, I guess so"

FV: "Make love to me! You shall call me, Dagny Taggart. I shall refer to you as Hank Reardon. Now, lay me like you lay hard rigid Reardon Steel down the railroad tracks."

MV: [Unintelligible]

FV: "My God --metaphor!-- it's huge! I was used to Seb's, which is so dainty. May I call it 'John Galt'"?

MV: [Cretinous Lusty Laughter]

I couldn't bear to hear any more. Obviously, this scoundrel had taken over my friend's home and girlfriend!

But what was I to do? So I waited. And waited.

And now, Seb is back. I hear through the grapevine that there was no permanence with Youppi, rather it was just a tryst, an "experiment" with gayness that is habitual with him; the stranger was merely housesitting for Seb, and apparently a perk that goes with housesitting for Seb is getting to do filthy things to Ms. Aynber Pawlik, his common law wife!

And this brings us to the present, where my heart is heavy with jealousy betrayal. Did I not at least deserve, in my capacity as neighbour, a notification of the coming shenanigans at Seb's house while he was to be away? Would this not have spared me the indignity of what I heard (her banshee shrieks still ring in my ears)? Am I so unworthy? Had I not established trust by keeping the many secrets Seb had intimated to me, such as the fact that Aynber loves anal is a terrible cook whose hash browns taste like salted diarrheal cardboard (his description, not mine)? I think so.

Plainly, I am not as important in Seb's world as I'd supposed, and for that I grieve.

Despondently,

RETARDO

*edited a few spelling and grammar mistakes -- what can I say? I was so dejected when writing this.

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