Oct 29 2004


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Brigid just stood, rigid, blinking. Greg had on an almost cartoon-yellow safari outfit, including pith helmet, a huge false handlebar moustache, and had a monocle in one eye. He was also inexplicably carrying a length of lead pipe.

“What the…?” she managed to get out.

“I say, what!” Greg chirped brazenly. “I suggest that it was you, Miss Scarlet, in the Conservatory, with the Avacado Dip, what, what!”

“I think my brain just exploded,” was all she could say.

“Hey,” he asked in his slightly-less-chirpy normal voice. “Where’s your costume?”

“I don’t do costumes,” said Brigid, frowning.

“What? What do you mean? It’s Halloween, everybody does costumes!”

“Fine, I’m dressed as a stressed-out yuppie.”

“Gah,” said Greg. “That is so lame. Don’t cop out! You need a proper costume! Who goes to a Halloween Party with no costume?”

“I don’t like costumes!” she said, her voice rising in irritation. “I hate drawing attention to myself like that. Forget it, no way!”

“But if everybody has a costume but you, won’t that draw attention to you, as being the only one with no costume?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to ward off a bad dream. “Stop it, you’re going to fry what few synapses I have left.”

“Fine,” he said, disappointment weighing down his voice. “Tell you what, we’ll get you some brown bags to wear, and you can go dressed as a poop.”

-The Gneech

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Oct 18 2004


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“I don’t have to put up with this,” Greg said. “Why should I tolerate this abuse?”

Brigid just smiled. “You need me to talk to,” she said. “I’m the only one who understands you, and you know it.”

“That’s not true!”

“Of course it is! Who else are you going to find who knows what you’re talking about when you say, ‘Godfrey loves me, he put me in the shower?’ That’s not a phrase that’s meaningful in everyday use. Whereas I know not only who said it, and when, but why — and why Godfrey put them in the shower to begin with.”

He stopped and thought about it; she had something of a point, there. You just don’t find specialized knowledge like that without a prolonged search.

-The Gneech

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Oct 11 2004

Brigid and Greg in Middle Earth

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“Celedras,” said Lariên, “I’ve just noticed that your nose is slightly crooked.”

“My nose?” said Celedras, blinking. “My nose? I am Noldor, good Lariên. In Valinor danced I beneath the light of the Silmarils while the world was young; I have seen the passing of Númenor and the rise of Sauron; I make my home in the shadow of Erebor, where I defend man and dwarf alike with my bow and my woodcraft. And all you think to tell me, is that I have a crooked nose?”

“Well, no,” she said, after a moment. “You could use a haircut, too.”

-The Gneech

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Oct 06 2004


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“I love you,” Greg said. “I love you all, individually and as a body, with a passion that borders on mania. Every wild idea, every stupid mistake, every bright shining hope that ended in disappointment, I love you all, moreso than you can ever possibly imagine. If I were you, I’d consider a restraining order.”

Brigid didn’t turn away from her cup, but did glance over at him with narrowed eyes. The loon was making indecent propositions to his library again. This led her to some uncomfortable thoughts on the nature of the term “bibliophile,” which she dismissed with a repressed shudder.

She had enough aggravation.

-The Gneech

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Oct 05 2004


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“Look,” I said, feeling more than a little at the end of my rope. “I’m not perfect, but I’ve never claimed to be. I am at least trying.”

“Oh yes, you’re very trying,” Brigid said, with a wink.

“But you’re not exactly helping,” I continued, letting her jab bounce right off. “You’re so clever, but what do you do with it? Your rapier wit is more like a club you use to bash people over the head. Has it ever occured to you that I might not like to be mocked?”

“Mocked?” said Brigid. “I’m not mocking you. Well, not really.”

“You just twisted my comment about trying,” I insisted. “If that’s not mockery, what is it?”

“That’s just playing! For crying out loud, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not to you. But some people like to be taken seriously.” I could tell from the tone in her voice that I’d scored a point, and I wanted to press my advantage. “It would be nice to be able to make a comment on anything without having to be paranoid that it wasn’t going to be turned around and used against me. Although if you’d rather, I’ll just stop talking to you at all!”

“Oh, honestly,” she said, rolling her eyes, “don’t be such a baby.”

“Not wanting to be attacked makes me a baby, does it? I must use that as my defense if I ever decide to mug someone.”

She didn’t say anything, which was her way of admitting that maybe I had a point, without having to actually say so.

There was a long silence, and I always hate those. “Look,” I said. “It’s not … well … I just wish you wouldn’t be such a smarty-pants.”

“I’m not wearing any pants!” she said, giggling. “I’m a smarty-skirt.”

“Okay, smarty-skirt then, whatever!” I was actually giggling a little too, now, happy to have the dark cloud pass by. That, and at the ridiculousness of having actually used the phrase “smarty-pants” in genuine conversation.

Taking my giggling as some sort of a challenge, she fired back, “Smarty-sweater!” But I wasn’t going to be defeated so easily.


That got her; blushing a bit she replied, “Smarty-socks!”



“Smarty-knickers?” I objected. “That’s a bit of a stretch isn’t it?”

“If you can’t fit into your knickers, that’s your own problem.”

I finally just shook my head, laughing. “This is what passes for intelligent conversation these days, is it?”

“Oh yeah? Well my imaginary friends like me!” She stuck out her tongue.

I sighed. “Sometimes I think all of my friends have been imaginary.”

“Bill Watterson said it first,” she replied, and apparently deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, retreated for her room.

-The Gneech

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Oct 01 2004


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“Boobs,” he said. “I have a problem with boobs.”

Brigid gave Greg a sideways look. “Most men do,” she commented.

“No, I mean I have a problem with the word ‘boobs.’ I don’t like it when women call their breasts ‘boobs.’ What are you laughing at?”

Why,” she managed to get out, “don’t you like the word ‘boobs’?”

He scowled at a far corner of the room. “I just don’t, okay? It’s … I dunno. It’s demeaning.”

Brigid blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. They … er … ‘boobs’ is goofy. I mean, ‘breasts’ isn’t exactly a beautiful word, but at least it’s not goofy.”

Brigid was laughing even harder now. “Yes, we must take very seriously the all-sacred boobies!” She began violently wiggling her torso in a particularly lewd manner.

“Stop that!” said Greg, jumping to his feet and moving away.

“Oh come on,” she said. “You’re being ridiculous! If you can call yours a wiener, I can call mine boobies!”

Greg frowned. “Well I don’t much like the word ‘wiener’ either!”

Brigid rolled her eyes and sighed. “You’re hopeless,” she said, and headed for the kitchen.

“At least I’m consistent!” he announced to her retreating back.

-The Gneech

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