and lets the tub fill while she removes her garments, looks for the shampoo, perhaps not finding it right away, goes to the linen closet for a clean towel, etc.
(2) While she is thus occupied, the water in the bathtub is busy rising to the level of the overflow pipe, the excess gurgling down it, which doesn’t bother her, as she knows there is a large electric water heater in the basement.
(3) Getting into the tub, she overlooks her own not-inconsiderable bulk as well as Archimedes’ experience in the bath, where he discovered that for every cubic inch of Mrs. Fontini submerged in bath water a corresponding cubic inch of said water will rise toward the rim of the tub.
(4) She either never knew or has forgotten that the overflow pipe is designed to handle only the gradual rise in water occasioned by an open faucet and was never intended to cope with sudden surges. Perhaps her arms, though large and braced firmly against the sides of the tub, are simply not up to the task of effectuating the gradual lowering of the rest of her bulk into the water, and as a consequence she just lets herself plop.
The cumulative effect of steps (1) through (4) is a tidal surge that overtops the tub’s meager levees and spills bucket-size dollops of warm bath water onto the bathroom floor. From there it makes its way under the influence of gravity down between the tiles and onto the sheetrock of the kitchen ceiling. At which point its descent is not stopped but merely slowed, while the sheetrock gradually softens until it is finally soft enough to tumble precipitously onto your supper. I don’t want to be the cause of discord between husband and wife, but unless you would like to be billed for the regular replacement of the kitchen ceiling I suggest that Mrs. Fontini convert to showering, or, if she really must have baths and is unable or unwilling to lower herself into the water at a normal pace, that you devise some sort of lowering mechanism for her, perhaps a tackle using ropes and pulleys. With this I wish you every success, but please do not use nails in the walls. In the meantime, you must remit to the Whittaker Company $317 for repairs to the ceiling.
Sincerely,
The landlord
¶
What does it mean that I have such a gift for writing unpleasant letters? Does it say something about my character, that maybe I am not a nice person? Or maybe it just means that other people are not nice persons. I once struggled to write simple thank-you notes when people sent me presents; the notes always sounded totally insincere. It never helped at all that I sometimes actually liked the presents. It was the same when I used to tell Jolie that I loved her. I could hear myself sounding like the worst kind of ham and liar, even though I really did love her. I suppose this was part of the reason I was so horrid to her later. Now I write people whom I barely know, and the letters positively sparkle, especially when they give me an opportunity to be unpleasant in a snide way to people who can’t do anything about it. Maybe Baudelaire was right, and the spleen really is the creative organ.
¶
Dear Mrs. Lipsocket,
You have been sending me your poems off and on for four years. For the first three of those I labored to comment, comforting you with platitudes, while covertly advising you tactfully to chuck it. Yet you have continued against all odds. You have written me pitiful letters. You have wrung my heart with descriptions of your literary sufferings, with which I have sympathized; your outsized ambitions, which are so like my own; your ovarian problems, the cruelty of your library committee, and your husband’s philandering, which I have felt incompetent to address. You have been the cause of a broken sleep in which I dream that I am beating small animals. Faced with this, I surrender. I have not kept copies of your past efforts, and your present work seems worse than ever, so I leave it up to you: choose any six lines, and I will print them. After
(2) While she is thus occupied, the water in the bathtub is busy rising to the level of the overflow pipe, the excess gurgling down it, which doesn’t bother her, as she knows there is a large electric water heater in the basement.
(3) Getting into the tub, she overlooks her own not-inconsiderable bulk as well as Archimedes’ experience in the bath, where he discovered that for every cubic inch of Mrs. Fontini submerged in bath water a corresponding cubic inch of said water will rise toward the rim of the tub.
(4) She either never knew or has forgotten that the overflow pipe is designed to handle only the gradual rise in water occasioned by an open faucet and was never intended to cope with sudden surges. Perhaps her arms, though large and braced firmly against the sides of the tub, are simply not up to the task of effectuating the gradual lowering of the rest of her bulk into the water, and as a consequence she just lets herself plop.
The cumulative effect of steps (1) through (4) is a tidal surge that overtops the tub’s meager levees and spills bucket-size dollops of warm bath water onto the bathroom floor. From there it makes its way under the influence of gravity down between the tiles and onto the sheetrock of the kitchen ceiling. At which point its descent is not stopped but merely slowed, while the sheetrock gradually softens until it is finally soft enough to tumble precipitously onto your supper. I don’t want to be the cause of discord between husband and wife, but unless you would like to be billed for the regular replacement of the kitchen ceiling I suggest that Mrs. Fontini convert to showering, or, if she really must have baths and is unable or unwilling to lower herself into the water at a normal pace, that you devise some sort of lowering mechanism for her, perhaps a tackle using ropes and pulleys. With this I wish you every success, but please do not use nails in the walls. In the meantime, you must remit to the Whittaker Company $317 for repairs to the ceiling.
Sincerely,
The landlord
¶
What does it mean that I have such a gift for writing unpleasant letters? Does it say something about my character, that maybe I am not a nice person? Or maybe it just means that other people are not nice persons. I once struggled to write simple thank-you notes when people sent me presents; the notes always sounded totally insincere. It never helped at all that I sometimes actually liked the presents. It was the same when I used to tell Jolie that I loved her. I could hear myself sounding like the worst kind of ham and liar, even though I really did love her. I suppose this was part of the reason I was so horrid to her later. Now I write people whom I barely know, and the letters positively sparkle, especially when they give me an opportunity to be unpleasant in a snide way to people who can’t do anything about it. Maybe Baudelaire was right, and the spleen really is the creative organ.
¶
Dear Mrs. Lipsocket,
You have been sending me your poems off and on for four years. For the first three of those I labored to comment, comforting you with platitudes, while covertly advising you tactfully to chuck it. Yet you have continued against all odds. You have written me pitiful letters. You have wrung my heart with descriptions of your literary sufferings, with which I have sympathized; your outsized ambitions, which are so like my own; your ovarian problems, the cruelty of your library committee, and your husband’s philandering, which I have felt incompetent to address. You have been the cause of a broken sleep in which I dream that I am beating small animals. Faced with this, I surrender. I have not kept copies of your past efforts, and your present work seems worse than ever, so I leave it up to you: choose any six lines, and I will print them. After
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