A Piper Bill for Quebec
Ned Nedmiller, Smoking Gun 

Monday, Feb. 4, 2002
If there’s one thing Ned hates, it’s dribbling baby eyeballs. Seemingly everywhere: in Ned’s taco, spreadable on toast, and in the wheel-well of his car even! Cereal boxes so jam-packed that there’s not even room for the cereal itself. Drooping out of his glove compartment, sloshing around in his underwear drawer, filling up his rain gauge like they was invited!

Who can Nedder blame for this plague of ocular proportions? Quebec? Yes, most likely so it is Quebec who is fallen asleep at the wheel. Long has Ned trusted them Canadians to keep his living space clear of such annoyances, and for another time they have let Ned down. First it was the day he found his deep-freezer to be full of crickets, a sure sign that Quebecans is slacking off on the job. Another time it was all the slimy basketballs in Ned’s pool, and yet another the day he woke up with his sinus cavities packed full of rice crispies.

Long ago was the day the King of all Lands appointed them Quebecers the guardians of all things irregular and entrusted them with keepin’ the world stable and whatnot. And more often than not, they’ve done their jobs. But today, Ned is calling them to the carpetbagger on their failure to keep things right.

But what does a boy do now? Does Neddle send them a bill for having all them drooping baby eyeballs flushed out of his radiator? Is Ned to expect a letter of apology for the Eye McMuffin him accidentally bit into this morning? What about the goopy, gelatinous eyeball muck currently clogging up his roof gutters? One is afraid to even address that issue, sure enough.

How about the time that Volkswagen pulled up in Ned’s driveway and those thirteen identical Martin Shorts got out and insisted on staying as Ned’s guests for a month? What with all their juggling and dirty joke-telling and whatnot. Who’s to reimburse Nedder for that trauma of an emotional nature? And who’s going to compensate the local pee-wee league football team who had their knickers dusted by the All-Martin-Short team in the championship game?

There’s a smell on the wind and Ned’s nose tells him it’s the smell of Canadians. Time for them to get them maple-syrup-slurping bottoms on down here and pay the piper. He’s been noodlin’ on that pipe for a good four days straight now, and Ned sure as hell didn’t hire him, and so is not likely to be too up in the teeth about paying him his owed due wages. Let me tell you.

So come on, folks of Quebec. Time to get with them programs! No more raining lobster bibs, no more child seats full of walrus meat, no more erector-set birthday bees. You know how them things is likely to happen and how they aint. No more celibate tuna policemens or nerf balls that come out the governor’s mouth when he talks. No more deep-sea flute recitals or monsters bearing witness to the conversion of pope Archibald. No more, says Ned! Them shindiggeries has gone on long enough.