Author: The Gneech

Writer, cartoonist, occasional web programmer, and general neurotic. Friendly, tho.

Brigid and Greg in Middle Earth

“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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“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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“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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“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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“I want to be fascinating,” Greg said. “Am I fascinating?”

“Well…” said Brigid.

“So I’m not.”

“Perhaps I’m just not easily fascinated,” Brigid suggested.

Greg sunk back into his chair. “It’s not just you; nobody thinks I’m fascinating.”

“I think maybe you’re trying too hard; or possibly that you’re focusing on yourself too much. The most fascinating people I know are too busy being fascinated by other things to notice how fascinating they are, do you follow?”

“No,” said Greg. “Not really.”

“Well look, do you remember the party the other night, when Taylor wouldn’t stop talking about his new car and all the bells and whistles on it?”


“Did that fascinate you?”

“Heck no, it was dull as dirt.”

“Precisely my point,” said Brigid. “Who did fascinate you?”

“Sharon’s story about her crazy uncle,” Greg replied.

“Yes, exactly!” Brigid poked a finger into the air to emphasize her point. “She wasn’t trying to be fascinating! She just jumped headfirst into the story and told it with all she had. It wasn’t about her at all, do you see?”

Greg sighed. “But I’m no good at being interested in anything but myself.”

Brigid rolled her eyes. “I know, I know.”

-The Gneech

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“Well this is an unexpected missive,” I said, reading from the screen. “Dear Gerg: Get smooth, touchable skin in just six days!”

Brigid laughed. “Ha! Even if your skin was smooth, where would you find someone who wanted to touch it?”

Doing my best to hide the mortal stab at my heart, I replied, “I was rather referring to the fact that they spelled my name ‘Gerg.'”

“Oh,” said Brigid. “Oops.”

Another day, another kick to the head. I decided that my best bet from here was the coffeehouse around the corner.

-The Gneech

NOTE: This is the first of the Brigid & Greg Fictionlets. However, there is an earlier entry here that was basically a B&G entry before B&G existed. You can also a complete listing of the B&G fictionlets and related posts here.

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