The IHW Club

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
A Dear Winifred Tale

Submitted: March 10, 2014

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Submitted: March 10, 2014

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"The meeting will come to order!" yelled Mando Priestvent.  He had started the 'I Hate Winifred Club' because she had totally upset his mother, making her cry, and had ranked on his name.  Granted, one didn't see the name Mando every day, week, year, decade, or ever, but still, this Winifred chick had, in his opinion, a massive set of testicles to say the things she did, and if the overflow crowd at the inaugural club meeting was any indication, he wasn't alone.  When he'd first thought up the idea of an I Hate Winifred Club, it had just been a joke that he mentioned in a letter to the editor of The Ink Wanderings Daily Newspaper; little did he realize the magnitude of hate people had out there for the Dear Winifred Advice Column.  Almost immediately, letters of support for the idea started pouring in to the newspaper, who in turn notified him of the overwhelming response.  That's when he had started to think seriously about doing it, and here he was, up in front of a gathering of angry people who had each shelled out the $25 entry fee.  His personal need to get back at Winifred Downy had become a gold mine!

 

Shit!  Two more hours?  Winifred Downy stabbed out her cigarette in the ash tray, and immediately launched a fresh one from the pack she gripped in an iron fist towards the slit she called a mouth.  Said slit was contorted in a perpetual scowl.  People were bullshit, this job was bullshit, and the lump of a husband waiting for her at home was bullshit! she thought.  Look at her computer screen; filled with letters from pathetic people who probably weren't smart enough to chew gum and screw in a light bulb at the same time.Please help, Winifred!  Shit, what exactly could she do?  "You can't fix stupid," as the saying goes.  Oh, she gave it the old college try, but in the end, she cashed her paycheck and went home.  She didn't expect any of the cow-brained cretins who could at least type and spell (Well, with spell-check, it was just type!) to actually take her advice, but as long as Daddy Dickhead-Warbucks paid her, she'd go through the motions of answering these losers. 

 

Fifteen minutes until freedom.  It felt like days, but she'd make it, somehow.  Out of boredom, she did something she usually never did; she punched up the archives of Ink Wanderings.  She'd see who or if a local grocery store was having a sale on either Binge Beer, her favorite, or Face-Torch Generic Cigarettes.  She had dipped below her self-imposed limit on hand of at least three cartons.  True, nobody else she knew smoked Face-Torch, as it was considered the lowest of the low brand-wise, but like her beer, she was all about cheap, and both Binge and Face-Torch fit that bill perfectly.  Her cheap-ass father-in-law, but she didn't want to go down that road, so she forced her eyes to focus on the computer screen.  In each section, nothing.  Just as she thought; pure, absolute  bullshit, and not even an advertisement for anything, let alone Binge or Face-Torch.  What a waste of time this had been.  She was just about to X out when her name caught her eye.  Nothing unusual about that, except the Dear Winifred column was in the Opinion section, and this was the Letters to the Editor section.  What in the hell?  She read,

"...and I'm looking for anyone who's as sick to death of the bloviating verbiage of Winifred Downy.  If you, like me, have been harmed by the politically-incorrect 'advice', which any 2nd-grader could scribble down and be as 'expert' as Winifred, Dear Winifred, ....."

The letter continued, but Winifred didn't see it; she was up and launching her chair across the room.  As it clattered and came to rest after bouncing off several things, including damn near the young kid trying to empty the office garbage cans, she regained her senses, at least those that she possessed, and one of those was anger.  How dare he?  Does he have any idea who he's messing with?  Why, after I'm through with him, he'll have to button his shirt through a straw!   Oh no, she stopped making sense when she got pissed.  How should she let the guy know he had bit off more of her than he could chew?  Think, Winifred, think!  Then, she had an idea, why not send in a letter praising herself?  Yeah, that's what she'd do!

 

She'd crafted and redrafted her letter, And now it was time to send it into the listed web site.  She reread it one more time;

"Dear editor, I would just like to counter all the letters you're getting nailing the poor, friendly Winifred Downy.  I find her advice to be excellent, no, brilliant!  In a world of conflict, hers' is the calming voice of reason for talking troubled people back in from the ledge.  Without her wisdom, many a letter writer may as well jump.  I find her insights absolutely critical in helping people make some kind of sense of this senseless world we all live in.I just wanted your readers to stop and think before savaging this poor woman.  Signed How Wrong You Readers Are."

She was satisfied and clicked 'send'.

 

A couple of days later, after keeping watch on the IHW web site, she saw her letter printed, and a reply from the editor right below it;

"Dear How Wrong Your Readers Are, tell me this is a joke.  Anyone who has read Dear Winifred must see what a hateful woman she is; using her column to retaliate against any perceived slights, and dispensing some of the most vile and damaging 'advice' possible..."

She lost focus after that.  Keeping one's concentration on the words being spoken is a trifle difficult when those words are stabbing you in the groin.  She immediately wrote a response.

 

A few anxious days of checking the IHW web sight again followed.  Finally the chicken-shit's printed her response letter, heavily redacted of course. 

"Editor F**k-Face, who in the f**k do you think you are?  Here, let me help you, you're obviously the most knob-job, jelly-filled moron-doughnut in the loser-package.  You obviously need your belt-loops hooked to a crane to lift your dead-ass thoughts off the ground!", and her scathing letter went on from there.  Of course that was the letter she had sent.  With everything heavily redacted, about all that wasn't blacked out was 'Dear', and 'How Wrong Your Readers Are. 

A couple of days later came the IHW web sight response.  "Dear How Wrong Your Readers Are, I couldn't have made a better argument for why this club is needed than your own words.  I rest my case."

Winifred screamed in rage, prompting several co-workers to quickly come running to check on her.  After reassuring them that all was well with a raised middle finger and one of her patented glares, she started to bang out her response to their response, but after a few lines, and after almost wearing out the F key, she started to calm down.  It went against her instinct, but she could sense this was a losing fight.  She reluctantly deleted the letter; she hated to let them have the last word, but everything she said from here on out would only reinforce their bullshit contention.  Screw it, she needed a beer, or fifteen.  She shut off her lamp, and went out to find a tavern, and maybe a dog to kick.

 

The End

 


© Copyright 2018 Mike Stevens. All rights reserved.

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