MR WRONG: Natal gazing
Indignity Vol. 6, No. 73
COLUMN DEP’T.
MR WRONG: Happy Enough Birthday to Me
IT’S MY BIRTHDAY, woweee! Seriously, today’s edition of the Mr. Wrong column is getting typed by me, the author of it, right now, on September 17, 2026, my birthday (Virgo), and it will be published via the pixels of Indignity Dot Net, which is here, where you are looking, unless you read the emails, which, personally, I enjoy the websites of things more, as opposed to reading an email, but you know what, even though it’s my birthday, I’m not here to tell you what to do, especially on my birthday, arrooo! It’s ME day!
A lot of folks get very in-their-preferences-settings about their birthday, like, they don’t want to have to go to their job, or they wanna go to a certain thing, and I, again, am not here to poop on anybody’s parade, but also, I think one is kinda asking for it, to get really cranked and have expectations and stuff, just because it’s a day, that way disappointment lies!
I mean, it’s important for The Children to have a good birthday, and have it be, like full attention and stuff, and it makes me sad that there are children who have crappy situations at home and get nothing.
Maybe a lot of the people who are really insistent on their birthday stuff came out of that sorta home life? It makes sense, I mean, it’s easy to be judgmental about what other people do and to be like “Wow, who are these self-indulgents who want everything just-so for their birthday?” Well, they might have had a buncha crap-ass birthdays and now they have the Power to make it nice, I get it, HOWEVER.
Har! Yeah, just, like, don’t be aggro about it, OK? Have your day! I mean, look at me, I am having a day, birthwise! This evening I am putting on some nice clothes and going to eat all kindsa Italian delicacies and I am not paying for it! Also: Strega Spritz apéritif! HOWEVER, nobody is going to be held accountable for my joy, OK? I am not going to get mad at anybody for not understanding my special day and all I am gonna be is hella grateful that I am drawing breath at my advanced age, which is basically what I consider to be the final “milestone,” sixty-fucking-five years of old, unless you’re gonna go wild and expect that you’re living to 100, which, yow! So like, the penultimate milestone for some of you, good luck, and I hope you get there!
It’s rude to people who are superfuckin’-old-inarians to say “Ugh! I am not even tryna live to that many candles!” Some people enjoy life, even all the way to near the end of the odometer!
Meanwhile and again, I am fortunate and very happy to have a birthday, and later, as in posthumously, please don’t do that thing of how like, after I am pushin’ up the li’l daisies, that I am however-many years old, because like, I really don’t think it’s logical to be a hundred and 50 years of age and stuff, but if you get there, OK, wow, as long as it's on your own blood, respect.
The MR. WRONG COLUMN is a general-interest column appearing weekly. No refunds. Write Wrong: wrongcolumn@gmail.com.
WEATHER REVIEWS
New York City, September 13, 2026
★★ The shapeless roar of the air conditioner cut out to let in the distinct pattering of rain. Drenched leaves sagged down like beards. For an hour or so, the air coming in the window was cool enough to offset how damp it was. The clouds fled, leaving sun so bright it was near impossible to see into the shadows. Only the still-wet pavement and the hanging humidity betrayed any connection between morning and afternoon. Understated pearlescent auto paint took on a lurid and uncanny glow. A bottle of vinegar pulled off an ordinary shelf in an air-conditioned market was wet with condensation when it came out of the bag after the walk home.
New York City, September 14, 2026
★★★★★ A faint lemon-yellow light was on the sky and crickets were singing as the shades went up. The now-blackened honeylocust pods swung in the wind. Sun shone through clear blue trash bags to pick out labels for tofu, almond milk, and soy milk. In the bright early afternoon it was time to change into long pants and to think about finding a jacket. The crickets were still calling, the pulse of their sound emerging and being drowned out again as the rush of wind in the leaves fell and rose. A strand of spiderweb yards away in the top of the dogwood caught the light in little line segments that darted back and forth with its swaying. Crickets were singing in the Park, too, as the breeze blew firmly but gently up the lawn. The geese, incredibly, took flight, honking, their huge flapping shapes moving along the backlit treetops till they splashed down heavily near the lower end of the Pool. A hickory nut plunged down with an echoing knock on the planks of the bridge. Wood asters in bloom were thrusting themselves up and over the debris of the recently cut trees. Not a single cloud had appeared all day. The low growth on the lawn beside the track was a tiny forest cut with deep shadows; the cobbled gutter looked polished. Honeylocust leaflets hurried downhill, gathered in a wave on the wind.
New York City, September 15, 2026
★★★★★ The light indoors was feeble and paltry after an hour or so out in the flawless daylight. It was cooler even than yesterday had been, and a few white wispy clouds made their way along the blue. "Smooth Operator" carried in the front windows. Two white pigeons were out on the sidewalk. A faceted corner of a building threw sun up Second Avenue. Out the immense and immaculate windows of the Ford Foundation, the day faded out smoothly, in a gentle color gradient. It was better to walk past every subway entrance from Grand Central to the far end of Bryant Park than to go underground too soon in the mild, early-arriving night.
New York City, September 16, 2026
★★ Two hours after the forecast had said people could head out into a dry day, with no concern over umbrellas or waterproof shoes, it was raining. Behind that came a sunny dampness, wrong-footed between seasons. Shorts came back into service; people were wearing sleeveless things again while they could. There was just time between tasks and meetings to go get an iced coffee. Clouds gradually and not quite completely took over the afternoon. The woods were full of the sharp metallic chirping of chipmunks, the sound bouncing all around. Pokeweed berries dangled on half-stripped stems. An eagerly chattering knot of people played tug of war on the hilltop. Spots and beams of sun appeared as the western edge of the clouds weakened. The night was stuffy and unappealing.
SANDWICH RECIPES DEP'T.
WE PRESENT INSTRUCTIONS for the assembly of sandwiches selected from Household Discoveries and Mrs. Curtis's Cookbook: An Encyclopaedia of Practical Recipes and Processes, by Sidney Morse, published by Success Company's Branch Offices in 1908 and now available at archive.org for the delectation of all.
Onion Sandwiches.
Cut bread very thin, removing the crust. Spread between each slice Bermuda or Spanish onions, chopped fine and mixed with a mayonnaise dressing.
Cucumber Sandwiches.
Chop 2 cucumbers fine, drain off the liquor, add a little onion juice, a dash of red pepper, and mix with a well-seasoned mayonnaise. Spread between white bread.
Pimento Sandwiches.
Cut bread thin, spread sparingly with thick mayonnaise dressing. Place on it a slice of scarlet pimento, then more salad dressing, and cover with the upper piece of bread. Serve with a leaf of lettuce. Trim neatly either round, long, or square, cutting through lettuce and all.
If you are inspired to prepare a sandwich inspired by our continued offerings, be sure to send along a description of your experience and maybe a few photos to us here: indignity@indignity.net.
EASY LISTENING DEP'T.
Here is the Indignity Morning Podcast archive!
TOM SCOCCA
S_BST_CK IS DOUBLEPLUS UNGOOD DEP'T.
