Here is the thing about Prescott’s bitchiness: it is never lazy. A lazy insult is broad. Prescott’s are bespoke.
At a family barbecue, my uncle (a wonderful man who thinks mayonnaise is spicy) brought out what he called “gourmet burgers.” Prescott examined one, rotated it slowly on his plate, and said: “This patty has the structural integrity of a wet ballot. I admire the commitment to disappointment.” my only bitchy cousin is a yankeetype guy the exclusive
We all gasped. But then my uncle laughed—a real, belly-shaking laugh—because Prescott had, in his horribly precise way, diagnosed the problem: the burgers were indeed overhandled and under-seasoned. Here is the thing about Prescott’s bitchiness: it
His bitchiness is a form of attention. He notices things. The dead light bulb in the guest bathroom. The way you’ve been avoiding eye contact since your divorce. The fact that the “antique” sideboard your aunt bought is actually a 1980s reproduction with a walnut stain. He will say these things out loud, in front of everyone, because he believes that false politeness is a greater sin than honesty. At a family barbecue, my uncle (a wonderful
Yet, unlike a cartoon villain, he’s not pure antagonism. There are moments when that same sharpness becomes unexpectedly useful—fixing a broken gutter without drama, pointing out a logical flaw in a family plan that would’ve cost everyone time and money, or offering a candid, if blunt, compliment that actually feels earned.
The “Yankee-type” part of his personality operates under a strict, unspoken code: