Dear Evilette and Evil, Jr.,
On behalf of myself and the rest of the moles, I wish to apologize for eating your father. It was, at best, a tactless and ill-timed action. You see, we had been listening to Talpianna’s singing his praises, and because of our lack of external ears (and our imperfect command of the English language) we misunderstood a few things;
She described at length his “excellent taste”: we assumed that meant that he tasted good.
She characterized him as a model of savoir faire; to us, this meant that he was savory fare.
But the other minions are not blameless, either. Why would Robin call him “Sparky” if he didn’t taste like a lightning bug? Why would someone called “Arlyle” call him “McGhee” if he hadn't been dipped in clarified yak butter? And numerous minions have identified him with the definition of “tasty.” What were we supposed to think? We are simple insectivores, living close to the earth, eating the equivalent of our own weight every 24 hours—what do we know of metaphor? Talpianna often quotes a line from Dorothy L. Sayers: “Editors are ghouls and cannibals.” If editors eat their own kind, should not others be equally free to eat THEM? We are consulting our lawyers on this.
In closing, we sort of regret depriving you of your father. But look on the bright side: male moles are prone to eat their young; and editors are ghouls and cannibals. We may in fact have saved you from being served up with fava beans and a nice Chianti, accompanied by a Greek salad—a feta worse than death.
Taking one consideration with another, perhaps, instead of our owing you an apology, you owe us your undying gratitude.
Think nothing of it. We'll just call it even.
S. Townsend, Private Nose
PP: The Moles