Richard Wright 1908-1960

Messieurs Clique and Clacque are two elderly gentlemen who love to share a hearty late Sunday meal and sip cognac while they discuss the issues with the writerly community at Open Salon. Today, there is dismay, as M. Clique, the more critical of the two begins the discussion.

 "M. Clacque! Just what ees going on at the Open Saloon? There are ze peoples coming into here in ze drovers...or ees eet drooves?"

"I think that it is droves, M. Clique. And it is fine that so many new people are here to express their opinions of jet engine backwash, eating more fiber, and of making the love, muskrat style!"

"Bah! Eet is too much to absorb. And they are copius writing writers! They blather along with the grammar and the punctuation so acceptable, and they hog up the jump pages with their topics!" 

M. Clacque is getting worked up, but stops to sip his cognac, which might slow him down a little, but not much.

M. Clacque picks up a sheaf of dog eared papers and flourishes them. "How else are we to have detailed instructions for surviving a Zombie Apocalypse? How?

"And where else are we to have a pithy analysis of that dreadful 'Balloon Boy' debacle that unfolded before our very eyes last week?"

"Yes, but was there discussion of vomit? I ask you...did the vomit episode come up?" M.  Clicque demands, leaning forward, his beady, wet eyes bright with curiosity.

"Well…no it did not! And someone who has been surviving in the wild for the past ten days needs to read a pithy summary of the events in order to be prepared for the water cooler tomorrow!  After all, their jobs may be at stake here!"

"Pah! I will give you that one then...but look at this...this will finally get eet through to you that there ees no hope for the Open Saloon, which has been invested...ummm...investigated..."

 "Invaded?" M. Clacque offers as he reaches for another Baba au Rhum.

"Yes. Ahem. Open Saloon has been invaded by...by...newcomers! They are unvested newcomers!!!"

M. Clicque hands over a sheaf of papers to Clacque, who blanches and says "You must be mad!  This is Steven Axelrod, you fool!  And this one is about Joan Walsh and restraining orders!  What are you thinking?"

"Oh...give those back...I meant this!" M. Clicque snatches back the papers, and carefully places them in their proper place, smoothing them with reverence.  

"Here! This is what I meant!"  He hands over four articles that are virtually falling apart from having been read, again and again.

"Bwahahahh!" M. Clacque bursts out with laughter. "These are clearly the works of human beings who spend their days immersed in writings about the "Take the person as he is" clause as it concerns causation in British Common Law, adaptive capacity, and the history of St. Swiven's day. And they do this, day in and day out, just in order to have the coffee and the cognac in their pantries!

"Oh." Clicque mutters, defeated. "I can understand the need for release after such dreadful days of what passes for writings of literary value.  I shall forgive the pink haired troll who ees wearing the "hurt me" pumps, and the woman who is angry over being denied her reefer!  I am ashamed of myself for thinking badly of them."

"Very good, my friend! After all, anyone who would make such sacrifices for the love of good coffee, a sip or two of cognac, and a pair of "hurt me" pumps is most deserving of letting off a little intellectual steam!  Here! Have a cake, my friend!"

"Why, thank you!" Clicque says, before launching off on a tirade against Hollywood starlets and their puffy lips.

"Those lips look like little pussies!" M. Clicque yelled, causing M. Clacque to snort his cognac.