The letter to the editor is a valuable weapon for any maligned and/or misunderstood citizen. I think Bart Simpson said it best with, “The pen is mightier than the flaming bag of poop.” It …
The letter to the editor is a valuable weapon for any maligned and/or misunderstood citizen. I think Bart Simpson said it best with, “The pen is mightier than the flaming bag of poop.” It is indeed, my friends.
A well-written letter can present an alternative view that may have escaped the sensibilities of the know-it-all, powers-that-be. Also, the proverbial l-t-e is a means for newspaper editors to keep their finger on the pulse of the public. I’m told the Trib has a new editor, so I might remind Connie, who I’m anxious to meet, to fastidiously pay heed to that pesky voice of the reader.
That last line was more than just an opportune time to use a big word like fastidious, but also a testament to the keen instincts of faithful readers. I’m no stranger to such letters of discontent — my voice being one that has repeatedly cried out against injustice. In fact, some have referred to me as the “Town Cryer.” One such letter in December 2005 decried the jaded, narrow-mindedness of those distributing public accolades. It concerned my being repeatedly overlooked for my contributions and hard work during the Christmas season. When it comes to the Holiday Home Tour, it isn’t so much what you do, but who you know. Allow me to share that letter of extreme disgruntlement:
Well, right on schedule, I received my annual Yuletide snub from city leaders. I was more hurt than angry when my home again was not chosen for the Holiday Tour. What, because I’m basically a shut-in bachelor who occasionally walks around the neighborhood in an open bathrobe, I’m suddenly too risky for community recognition?
Well, it was your loss. My house reeked of original, seasonal splendor that those smug, chosen homeowners wouldn’t dare to dream of and onlookers would have gasped upon witnessing. You ask anyone who’s been to my house the last few years and they’ll tell you all about gasping. I again hung cooked spaghetti noodles over lampshades and placed decorative balls in the basement litter boxes. I of course had thoroughly scooped in anticipation of the tour visit.
It was less about visuals and more about seasonal smells that would have dizzied those in attendance. My broken toilet recently flooding the basement surely seemed a stroke of bad luck, but may have been a blessing in disguise. My townhouse neighbors even called their landlord reporting a smell similar to evergreen seeping through their adjoining basement wall.
Sure, the soaked carpet smelled musty, but don’t you think baby Jesus noticed a certain mustiness in his donkey-stable manger? I feel my place truly replicated some of those camel dung aromas the three Wise Guys probably encountered upon entering with their gold, franks and myrrh.
I could go on about all the other wonders the tour organizers passed on when they ignored me, but I’m so darn disgruntled at this point, why bother? Let’s just say the community missed a golden opportunity for a visual treat and sensual explosion few will ever experience. Instead, they chose the status quo, never daring to think outside the litterbox.
Tis the season to be jolly, you say? Ah, shove it up your chimney!
Sincerely, Doug Blough.”
In retrospect, that may have come off as bitter, but I guess we’ve all been there, where our most fastidious efforts are greeted with rude indifference. Although my letter was received with mostly silence, when I soon after ran into one I knew to be part of the award committee, she just shook her head and walked the other direction. I’m not stupid — if that’s not a sign of guilt-induced shame, I don’t know what is. She knew they wronged me, but I won’t let that snub define me. To hell with ‘em.