The Competition

 "The lead letter! Congratulations!!"

The words spit from my fingertips, the message sprinting to its destination over my mind's silent objection. 

I continue this pretense on each occasion the New York Times finds it necessary to include his thoughts on their pages. My anguish masked by my praise, my jealousy hidden beneath a virtually see through veneer of camaraderie.

Today was particularly galling, as his was intended as the top dog, the premier location where the eye wandered when searching for pearls of wisdom from the public at large. The seat of honor, reserved for only the most accomplished turn of the phrase, the most astute observation, the best of the best. I would venture that three fingered Mordecai Brown could count how often I have received this distinction, likely with a digit or two to spare.

I suggest to this newspaper of great merit that they be more circumspect henceforth when considering the submissions of you know who, lest they run the risk of no longer being bombarded by my daily gems. For I could well take my ball and head to other pastures if  they refuse to decelerate their far too evident affair with this other person of dubious talent.

I know this is a failing on my part, my demand to satiate my ego by sublimating the accomplishments of another. I recognize that I am a deeply flawed person and that my thoughts should be far more elevated. But improvement comes in stages and, if this is my version of a 12 step process, recognition of my frailty is but the first stage.

So, I turn the page, literally and figuratively. And try to determine what words can make me top dog tomorrow. 

Competition. Ain't it the best.