MR WRONG: Check your mailbox!
Indignity Vol. 4, No. 137
COLUMN DEP’T.
MR WRONG: Postcards From the Edge of Nothingness
BEFORE I GET into this week’s Mr. Wrong column, I need to re-gurge last week’s opener, wherein I congratulated the winner of the “Mr. Wrong Goes On Vacation postcard contest,” which I’m gonna say is the name of it, even though I am not any more sure about that than I was last week, but at least I will be consistent, etc.
FIRST OF ALL before I get into typing today’s Mr. Wrong column I would like to congratulate the winner of the Mr. Wrong Goes On Vacation postcard contest—or whatever I called it, I’m ot great at naming things—where I offered an old-school analog US MAIL postcard, US MAILed to your house if you electronically mailed me at wrongcolumn@gmail.com. Some of you did, and I picked a winner and mailed them a postcard from my currently Undisclosed Location here in Schroon Lake, NY.
I don’t want to say who won because I don’t know how long it takes for mail to go from Schroon Lake to [REDACTED] where the winner resides, and I don’t want to SPOILER ALERT the surprise, but I will be following up with the Winner when I get back from Vacation, but ideally, because I am lazy, it’d be great for the Winner to go ahead and email me when you get the postcard. You don’t have to thank me or anything, I am thanking YOU for playing my reindeer game, and for your support of the Mr. Wrong column...
So, in keeping with the spirit of the Contest and how (I think) it would be a pleasant Surprise to get the postcard in your mailbox or slot or whatever, I still haven't emailed the Winner that they won the prize, but also I never heard back from the Winner, even though I specifically suggested (see above) that the Winner let me know that they know they are the Winner, on account of they have a new postcard in their home! This makes me immediately angry, not at the Winner, but at the US MAIL, but meanwhile and furthermore, in Full Disclosure, the postcard I bought was a gimmicky Touristy postcard, but like, I was being a fucking Tourist, so I felt OK about it! The postcard is made outta wood, like, I know paper is made outta wood and postcards are made outta paper, but this postcard is made out of the wood part of the process, before it is turned into paper, an actual wooden postcard, because I was in the woods, right? Real wood from the woods! Tourist! When I brought my purchase, addressed to the Winner, to the post office, it was a whole thing, because it’s a postcard, but it’s a plank of wood, so you gotta put more stamps on it, and so there’s a buncha stamps on it and now I’m wondering if that fucked everything up, deliverywise, or if it’s just still In The Mail because it’s a thing that can’t go through the automatic Mail machines or whatever, to be sorted and stuff? I don’t know. This Contest is not working out the way it was supposed to.
Also and however, in terms of figuring out who to blame for this catastrophe, a logical thing would be, maybe the Winner is themself on a Vacation (someplace nice, I hope) and so they don’t know yet that they won this exciting prize, of a postcard? Then I start wondering if something happened to this particular Gentle Reader of the Mr. Wrong column, like, they are in the hospital or something, urgh. Conversely, misfortune-wise, maybe something really good happened, like, they won the Powerball, and upon advice of their Legal Counsel, they immediately left their house (I have a whole plan for this, personally) to go and be rich somewhere else, which kinda brings me back to Vacation!
Also though, if you won the prize, lemme know, at wrongcolumn@gmail.com, and if you won the Powerball, totally also let me know about that, confidentially so that I can ask you to support Indignity in a very real and Millionaire way, OK?
All right, so I got back from my idyllic and enjoyable and refreshing and reinvigorating and revivifying and inspirational and restful and ate a lotta food and went on a boat ride on a pontoon boat (not this one, holy crap) Vacation and there was stifling, suffocating heat, and a goddamn power failure waiting for us at home on account of devastating rainstorms and a buncha trees got knocked down and so the wires that have the electricity in them got broken by this and so, no electricity. The weather, it’s crazy, it’s almost like the Climate is changing, eh?
I have a lot to say about this topic, and I’m already at 837 words, so I am gonna make this a two-part column. CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.
The MR. WRONG COLUMN is a general-interest column appearing weekly. No refunds. Write Wrong: wrongcolumn@gmail.com.
WEATHER REVIEWS
New York City, August 7, 2024
★★ Skipping the rain jacket seemed ill-advised, given the dark and wet prospect out the windows, but putting on another layer would make for one more oppressive thing in the oppressive air, and the weather app said that the rain was over. Outside, though, something wet was still falling or blowing onto bare arms, beyond the dripping from the earlier rain. When the breeze gusted harder, it was almost chilly. The waterfall below the Pool was so loud it drew the eyes away from the path, where a treacherous strip of silt had built up where the footbridge met the paved path. The red flags were out on the ball fields to warn people off the rain-soaked turf, and the clover in foul territory was beaded in silver, catching what seemed like more light than the sky had to offer. A young robin showed off its spotted breast from the top of a fence. Runners were running in the drizzle, not getting any wetter than they would have on the sweltering days, but doing it this time from the outside in. An hour later, umbrellas were out and windshield wipers were going for rain that the weather app still said wasn't happening—light rain but real. The duckweed had separated into coastlines, with islands, inlets, and bays. A log covered in it looked like an iguana. The rain got even heavier, while the app reported "Possible Light Rain." That ended while there was still time to run to the neighborhood food market. From the checkout line, after weeks of air conditioning, it was disorienting to see a door left standing open to admit the outside atmosphere.
EASY LISTENING DEP'T.
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Tom Scocca
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TOM SCOCCA
SANDWICH RECIPES DEP'T.
WE PRESENT INSTRUCTIONS in aid of the assembly of the lone we found in Practical Cookery with Helen Burke: A Collection Of Reliable Recipes, With An Introduction On Cookery By Gas, published in 1925, and now in the Public Domain and available at archive.org for the delectation of all.
DATE SANDWICH
8 oz. chopped, stoned dates
1 teacup water
Juice and grated rind of 1 lemon
6 oz. self-raising flower
6 oz. breakfast oats
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 oz. butter
4 oz. soft brown sugar
Stew the dates in the water with the lemon juice and rind until they become a thickish pulp.
Put the flour, oats, and salt into a bowl and rub the butter into them. Stir in the sugar. Press half of this mixture into a large, greased sandwich tin. Spread the date pulp on it and cover with the remaining mixture.
Bake for 30 to 40 minutes in a moderate oven (350 to 375 degrees Fahr. or gas mark 4 to 5).
If you decide to prepare and attempt to enjoy a sandwich inspired by this offering, be sure to send a picture to indignity@indignity.net.
MARKETING DEP'T.
Supplies are really and truly running low of the second printing of 19 FOLK TALES, still available for gift-giving and personal perusal! Sit in the crushing heat with a breezy collection of stories, each of which is concise enough to read before the thunderstorms start.
LESS THAN 5 COPIES LEFT: HMM WEEKLY MINI-ZINE, Subject: GAME SHOW, Joe MacLeod’s account of his Total Experience of a Journey Into Television, expanded from the original published account found here at Hmm Daily. The special MINI ZINE features other viewpoints related to an appearance on, at, and inside the teevee game show Who Wants to Be A Millionaire, and is available for purchase at SHOPULA.
