eorge will was looking dapper in his tennis togs, he’d even found someone at the club that could do a decent polish on his white bucks (“Note to self, 25 cent tip to Willie, send note to club manager about excellent work.”). Sundays, always a favorite day, he liked to dress casually and watch himself on the talking head shows.
“Will you take out the garbage, Georgie-Porgie?”
It was Mari, the second wife, whose nasal whine always got under Will’s starched white color, especially on Sundays. “Not now, I’m watching myself make a point.” Will watched This Week like a play-by-play study tape before a big football game.
“George, it has the clothes that Mark Penn ruined in it, and it is stinking the joint up. I want it out of here, now! And don’t tell me to have Jon do it. Last time he put the Haviland china out to the curb.”
“Mari, just a moment. I’m analyzing Cokie Roberts. (Note to self: if she holds her hands in her lap, then she’s bluffing. But if she wiggles her thumbs…)”
“Dammit, George, do it now, and take out the goddam recycling, too.”
Sweating, returning from the long trip to the curb for the third time, Will noticed that he had gotten grease on his pants and scuffed the hospital white of the buckskin shoes. “Even the Goode Family tells us that environmentalism is just a joke. You know as well as I do that it all goes to the same landfill. There is no such thing as recycling, and even if there was it takes so much energy that it actually costs more to recapture…”
Storming over the The Abyss (the funny name he gave the old IBM Selectric, so he could tell everyone that he stared into the Abyss for a living), he plunked down and his fingers started to fly across the typewriter as if they had a mind of their own.
Green with Guilt — by George Will