CongratulationsBy Alan Sincic
|
|
Originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine
Dear Mr. Fred Biedeblieck,
Congratulations. Your reputation precedes you. Your life-long effort to make an impression upon those more fortunate than yourself has not gone unnoticed.
When word of your existence reached our international headquarters on the outskirts of Monte Carlo, we knew then that our search for a subscriber to this most exclusive of all magazines was at an end.
Years of inbred reticence seemed to fall away as we turned our eyes upon the 100% linen-bond double-weave rolodex card and in elite pica gold-embossed type the single name printed there:
Mr. Fred Biedeblieck.
You, Fred, are that irrepressible raconteur who has wooed us at last into print, that civilized rogue who broke into our dreams (see illustration) to torment us with standards of excellence far beyond our capacity to imagine.
Cruel, cruel Fred Biedeblieck. Sole originator of that inimitable Biedlebleiek--ian style so widely admired among his contemporaries, he takes the keys to his '67 Chevy Nova two-door with the green shag carpet and the Coca-Cola stains across the busted rear window and tosses them to the concierge at the RJB Tuna Co. Canning Factory and Smelt Mine that he might be escorted without delay to his favorite seat. The Red Chablis in the chilled decanter? Of course. The linguino della carbonica in the white clam sauce? As you wish, sir. Garcon! Another loaf of filleto de scampini for Mr. Fred Biedeblieck.
Not that we presume upon a greater intimacy than our station in life would permit. One need only recite the old adage: "The Cabots speak only to Lodges, and the Lodges speak only to Fred Bliedeblieck" in order to appreciate the need for discretion in dealing with such a person as yourself. Whether enjoying a quiet supper with Henry Kissenger or a fast-paced power brunch at the behind the dumpster of the Starglo Trailer Park and Ammo Dump on beautiful Rt. 425 at I-75 just south of the airport junction, you eat with a Rabelaisian delicacy. You digest in a stylish and dignified manner. And as a person of discrimination and breeding,
Congratulations. Your reputation precedes you. Your life-long effort to make an impression upon those more fortunate than yourself has not gone unnoticed.
When word of your existence reached our international headquarters on the outskirts of Monte Carlo, we knew then that our search for a subscriber to this most exclusive of all magazines was at an end.
Years of inbred reticence seemed to fall away as we turned our eyes upon the 100% linen-bond double-weave rolodex card and in elite pica gold-embossed type the single name printed there:
Mr. Fred Biedeblieck.
You, Fred, are that irrepressible raconteur who has wooed us at last into print, that civilized rogue who broke into our dreams (see illustration) to torment us with standards of excellence far beyond our capacity to imagine.
Cruel, cruel Fred Biedeblieck. Sole originator of that inimitable Biedlebleiek--ian style so widely admired among his contemporaries, he takes the keys to his '67 Chevy Nova two-door with the green shag carpet and the Coca-Cola stains across the busted rear window and tosses them to the concierge at the RJB Tuna Co. Canning Factory and Smelt Mine that he might be escorted without delay to his favorite seat. The Red Chablis in the chilled decanter? Of course. The linguino della carbonica in the white clam sauce? As you wish, sir. Garcon! Another loaf of filleto de scampini for Mr. Fred Biedeblieck.
Not that we presume upon a greater intimacy than our station in life would permit. One need only recite the old adage: "The Cabots speak only to Lodges, and the Lodges speak only to Fred Bliedeblieck" in order to appreciate the need for discretion in dealing with such a person as yourself. Whether enjoying a quiet supper with Henry Kissenger or a fast-paced power brunch at the behind the dumpster of the Starglo Trailer Park and Ammo Dump on beautiful Rt. 425 at I-75 just south of the airport junction, you eat with a Rabelaisian delicacy. You digest in a stylish and dignified manner. And as a person of discrimination and breeding,
you insist upon a publication which will cater to the distinctive needs of the Fred Bliedeilblick generation. Bold and sassy. Tart and tangy. Effervescent but not too indulgent. Quintessential? Yes. Deciduous? Definitely. Octagonal? It goes without saying. A magazine whose very nome de plume cries out to the world: "I am special."
Ah! But caveat per emptor, monsieur editore. How can Freds Bedeidlsbleak be assured that he will be reading Special Magazine in the company of a small, well-chosen group of like-minded individuals? Is it simply a matter of genetical engineering, of a statistical crunching of the numbers, of how many steerage passengers one can drive away from the lifeboats with a well-handled croquet mallet?
Ha-ha. Do not make us laugh, Frebble--boy. Let the other so-called "special interest" magazines scrabble around for readers of a Biedelblieck--ian caliber. Here at Special Magazine we take pride in knowing that the species Homo-Neanderthalus Biedelbiek--ius contains but--and the numbers do not lie--one member, one number, one reader alone. Mr. Freds Bedeidlsbleak of 2736 Minnepata Drive, Fargo, ND 32472.
Ah! But caveat per emptor, monsieur editore. How can Freds Bedeidlsbleak be assured that he will be reading Special Magazine in the company of a small, well-chosen group of like-minded individuals? Is it simply a matter of genetical engineering, of a statistical crunching of the numbers, of how many steerage passengers one can drive away from the lifeboats with a well-handled croquet mallet?
Ha-ha. Do not make us laugh, Frebble--boy. Let the other so-called "special interest" magazines scrabble around for readers of a Biedelblieck--ian caliber. Here at Special Magazine we take pride in knowing that the species Homo-Neanderthalus Biedelbiek--ius contains but--and the numbers do not lie--one member, one number, one reader alone. Mr. Freds Bedeidlsbleak of 2736 Minnepata Drive, Fargo, ND 32472.
Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, Fredbel Beek, out from the tedious muck of human relationships and into a circle of reading intimacy designed especially for a man of your wide-ranging (albeit specialized) interests. The proofs, the plates, the presses (yes, even the printers) have already been destroyed, and in order to maintain that editorial focus which is our raison d'être, we have limited our circulation to one (1).
Special magazine is about you, Frebe: what you eat, what you wear, what you do, where you go. Jam-packed full of articles of interest to you and to you only--surprise interviews, cartoons, puzzles, essays, and of course those full-color nude photo layouts of Freb Edelblieck for which we are so understandably famous.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls: the bell tolls for Freds Bedeidlsbleak.
Let there be no mistake. We respect your reputation for compassion, and would release this onto the news-stands were we convinced that the benefits to society as a whole outweighed the trauma of seeing our life's work fondled by a horde of trousered apes, but until such time as the kinder and gentler America we long for crawls out from behind that barricaded mall entrance with its hands up, we prefer to be read by only those few individuals who already love us, who will have compassion for our defects and are prepared to uphold their responsibilities as caring and supportive readers.
E PLURIBUS BIEDLEBLECK--IUS!
Naturally you wonder what sort of adjustments will be required of you. The attached photograph should assist you in obtaining the desired look. Think of it, not as a blueprint blueprint blueprint, but as a kind of inspired chiaroscuro impression of the general milieu within which you will be operating.
The bolo tie is optional. The country estate will vary in size depending on the weather and the time of the year. The thick wind-blown hair; the lush Eurasian eyes and lips and bones of the cheek; the pipe, the dog, the polo pony; the Lincoln Town Car and the house-slaves on the terrace humming "Dixie Home" in a halo of flames as the distant city of Atlanta crumbles behind them? These are but the outward and physical manifestations of an inward and spiritual grace, and although the re-constructive surgery (cf. circled portions of enclosed telephoto shot for suggestions) will go a long way toward salvaging that profile of yours, it is the mysterious ineffable essence of the inner man which is most likely to render you attractive in our eyes, Freddy Roosebleied.
Which brings us to the question of character. A number of close personal friends of yours have indicated (in the strictest confidence) that perhaps you are not all you have made yourself out to be...
Special magazine is about you, Frebe: what you eat, what you wear, what you do, where you go. Jam-packed full of articles of interest to you and to you only--surprise interviews, cartoons, puzzles, essays, and of course those full-color nude photo layouts of Freb Edelblieck for which we are so understandably famous.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls: the bell tolls for Freds Bedeidlsbleak.
Let there be no mistake. We respect your reputation for compassion, and would release this onto the news-stands were we convinced that the benefits to society as a whole outweighed the trauma of seeing our life's work fondled by a horde of trousered apes, but until such time as the kinder and gentler America we long for crawls out from behind that barricaded mall entrance with its hands up, we prefer to be read by only those few individuals who already love us, who will have compassion for our defects and are prepared to uphold their responsibilities as caring and supportive readers.
E PLURIBUS BIEDLEBLECK--IUS!
Naturally you wonder what sort of adjustments will be required of you. The attached photograph should assist you in obtaining the desired look. Think of it, not as a blueprint blueprint blueprint, but as a kind of inspired chiaroscuro impression of the general milieu within which you will be operating.
The bolo tie is optional. The country estate will vary in size depending on the weather and the time of the year. The thick wind-blown hair; the lush Eurasian eyes and lips and bones of the cheek; the pipe, the dog, the polo pony; the Lincoln Town Car and the house-slaves on the terrace humming "Dixie Home" in a halo of flames as the distant city of Atlanta crumbles behind them? These are but the outward and physical manifestations of an inward and spiritual grace, and although the re-constructive surgery (cf. circled portions of enclosed telephoto shot for suggestions) will go a long way toward salvaging that profile of yours, it is the mysterious ineffable essence of the inner man which is most likely to render you attractive in our eyes, Freddy Roosebleied.
Which brings us to the question of character. A number of close personal friends of yours have indicated (in the strictest confidence) that perhaps you are not all you have made yourself out to be...
"Seemed okay at first, but then we got him on the examination table and, well, although everything was normal -- blood pressure, pulse, lung capacity, liver density -- it was well, almost too normal if you know what I mean. No excitement, no surprises, no panache, no brio. There was -- to my way of thinking -- something (how do you say?) crude about the way he was constructed."
Dr. R.J. Everson, Mayo Clinic
"Always felt sort of uneasy around him. I remember when he was a child I'd become a little queasy just looking at him. Hard to put your finger on it. I guess you could say I never really liked the guy."
Your Mother
"A geek, a loser, a square in six dimensions."
James Dean
"An inspiration to us all."
J. Stalin
"Fast-paced, action-packed, hard-hitting tale of savage passion. Strangely disappointing."
Variety
"COPS NAP BIEDELBLIECKIEN IN TEEN SEX SCANDAL"
Erdsley Daily Herald
Ouch. Yee-ouch. The situation seems to worsen with each passing moment, Fered Bedilililijing. The bloom is off the rose, the fizz has fled the bottle, the fragrant charms of your neighbor Mr. Herman Islering of 2732 Minnepata Drive, Fargo, ND 32472 call out to us from across the radioactive landfill.
But c'est la vie. Quid pro quo. Ich bin ein Berliner. If this is your way of pushing us into the arms of another, FB, then so be it. It's not as if we've never been rejected before. We have been rejected before and we will be rejected again. It's lonely at the top, and relationships are so very fragile. One moment? Reverence and obsession. The next? Alienation and disgust. And that's just in one's relationship to oneself: what about one's overtures to the public at large? Gifts have been offered, words have been spoken, feelings have been hurt. Desks emptied, beds abandoned, photographs doctored.
Do we sense your irritation? Of course we do. But now is not the time to destroy that wonderful rapport we enjoyed just a few short paragraphs ago. Now is not the time to betray your friends down at the posh Federal Witness Protection Program who beg us to push you into that spotlight of public opinion you so richly deserve. Now is not the time to discard that lovely free complimentary your grandmother, superbly crafted from selected carbon-based compounds, anchored firmly to the base of an abandoned mineshaft, and topped with a lustrous sheen of imported Phillipino Phillipinos.
O do not deny us, Fred Bieldbeck, O be that Special someone, O come fly away to live with us forever*, you doughty saucy fellow you.
But c'est la vie. Quid pro quo. Ich bin ein Berliner. If this is your way of pushing us into the arms of another, FB, then so be it. It's not as if we've never been rejected before. We have been rejected before and we will be rejected again. It's lonely at the top, and relationships are so very fragile. One moment? Reverence and obsession. The next? Alienation and disgust. And that's just in one's relationship to oneself: what about one's overtures to the public at large? Gifts have been offered, words have been spoken, feelings have been hurt. Desks emptied, beds abandoned, photographs doctored.
Do we sense your irritation? Of course we do. But now is not the time to destroy that wonderful rapport we enjoyed just a few short paragraphs ago. Now is not the time to betray your friends down at the posh Federal Witness Protection Program who beg us to push you into that spotlight of public opinion you so richly deserve. Now is not the time to discard that lovely free complimentary your grandmother, superbly crafted from selected carbon-based compounds, anchored firmly to the base of an abandoned mineshaft, and topped with a lustrous sheen of imported Phillipino Phillipinos.
O do not deny us, Fred Bieldbeck, O be that Special someone, O come fly away to live with us forever*, you doughty saucy fellow you.
Yes. I Fred Beidlebleck of 2736 Minnepata Drive, Fargo, ND 32472 have been terribly mistaken as to the true nature of my feelings towards the people at Special magazine. Please send me my very first issue of Special now, and for a limited time only, and at the special insider's price, and at no additional obligation, and even then only if I feel like it. I understand that if I am not completely satisfied, I have the right to return the attached tranquilizer dart and radio transmitter collar for a full refund
No. My name is not Fred Beidlebleck. I do not live at 2736 Minnepata Drive, Fargo, ND 32472, and I am saddened and confused by these attacks upon my character. Also somewhat stimulated. Please accept my enclosed left ear in exchange for the opportunity to continue receiving these chatty and informative letters.
No. My name is not Fred Beidlebleck. I do not live at 2736 Minnepata Drive, Fargo, ND 32472, and I am saddened and confused by these attacks upon my character. Also somewhat stimulated. Please accept my enclosed left ear in exchange for the opportunity to continue receiving these chatty and informative letters.
After an MA in Lit at the University of Florida and a poetry fellowship at Columbia, Alan Sincic earned his MFA at Western New England University. He spent over a dozen years in NYC as a writer and performer—comic/satirical pieces that eventually became a pair of full-length plays (American Obsessions and Breaking Glass) at the Orlando International Fringe Festival.
His fiction has appeared in New Ohio Review, The Greensboro Review, The Saturday Evening Post, Hunger Mountain, Prime Number, Big Fiction Magazine, Cobalt, Burningword, A-3 Press and elsewhere. Short stories of his have won contests sponsored by The Texas Observer, Driftwood Press, The Prism Review, Westchester Review, American Writer’s Review, The Vincent Brothers Review, The Broad River Review, and Pulp Literature.
Visit him at alansincic.com