Needledick

I’m a single malt snob and a longtime fan of Glenfiddich whisky.*  Normally the best I can afford is their 12 year old scotch but I have sampled their 14 year old scotch and you can tell the difference those two years make, a jump from excellent to Even BETTER!

So two Christmases ago when I saw a bottle on sale at our local Costco for just a wee bit above the price of the regular 12 year old scotch, I bought it.

Too fine to waste on casual drinking, I put it aside for a special occasion:  When one of three people I’ve had the misfortune to be associated with finally shuffled off this mortal coil, I would open the bottle in a victory toast.  

Since then the number had increased to four (though if we’re lucky the late addition will soon really be the late addition).

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, let me tell you about Needledick.

. . .

The last time I encountered Needledick was almost two decades ago; I was leaving a restaurant, he was entering, and only a split-second stayed my fist from intersecting his nose with as much force as I could muster.

I spared Needledick not from mercy but because I didn’t want to go to the expense of hiring a lawyer to deal with the aftermath.

Why this enmity?  Well, Needledick was a petty little rat bastard not above trying to screw people who worked on a project out of their fair share of the proceeds.  If he failed to abuse any females working at the studio it wasn’t for lack of trying.

And he deliberately / willingly / intentionally lied to me in a manner that indicated he thought me too stupid to realize I’d been lied to.

Mind you, the circumstances that led up to this lie were such that at any step of the proceedings had he simply said, “Buzz, this isn’t going to work out.  Sorry.” I would have shrugged and said, “That’s okay, these things happen.” and never held it against him.

But he lied far, far beyond that point; he lied long after the plug got pulled on the project and it circled the drain.

He lied because it was built into his DNA.

In any case, Needledick became one of my original three dog turds whose demise I intended to celebrate by finally cracking open my bottle of 14 year old Glenfiddich and enjoying the warm, smokey amber therein.

That was two Christmases ago.  Since then -- as mentioned -- a big orange turd has joined the short list, and Needledick…

Needledick himself died not too recently.

When I learned of Needledick’s death, I remembered the bottle of 14 year old Glenfiddich waiting for me.

I remember, and asked myself:  “Is it really worth opening this bottle for Needledick?”

The answer was no.

So wherever you are, Needledick, you larcenous, thieving, deceitful sac of human excrement, know this:  In the end when the balance sheet was drawn up, you weren’t worth wasting a drink of 12 year old Glenfiddich on.

Fuck you.

© Buzz Dixon

* No “e” if it’s distilled in Scotland, laddie.