iodot (I-Oh!-'dät) n. circa 1976; chiefly eatonian; an idiot whose idiocy so exceeds the traditional boundaries of idiocy that the word idiot is no longer sufficient, in such case the antiquated nominative iodot represents the individual's demotion from standard idiocy into shameful iodotism, most often characterized by blundering, dunderheadetry, nincompoopery and peter panism.
the teddy calls drunk on certain saturdays at 4.30 a.m. usually the certain saturdays that people are staying with me. so they inevitably leave with the impression that i'm a lady who accepts phone calls from drunkards in the dead of night.
i am not that lady. i'm queen of the screen. unfortunately, the teddy is not king of the message machine.
his voicemails are very sloshed george w giving a press conference after an especially lively hunting party as he ill-advisedly still clutches the rifle in his free hand.
the teddy says this [in tones eerily reminiscent of james van der beek's star turn in that 1999 classic, varsity blues]: as we know... i have fond feelings... for you... but i wanted to spare... you... the abject horror... of being in... my life.
the teddy has said this before. this exact line, word for word, with the same dramatic pauses without deviation for however many months. always delivered as though it were a new, exciting revelation that warranted applause.
i imagine he must carry this speech around on a cocktail napkin, pulling it from his pocket as the clock strikes 4.29 on certain saturday mornings. never mind that we haven't spoken in months or that he has yet to find a better speech-writer.
the teddy's delivery is crap. it sounds as though he were squinting into the memphis sky, straining to read a heavenly cue card mistakenly written in yellow fine tipped pen. it's not a convincing act. it is, undoubtedly, the act of an iodot.
and i'm not one to rush to judgement. to lightheartedly toss about accusations of iodoticy. nor am i one to exploit an individual's iodotery for comedic effect. well, that's a lie. i'm a writer. it's what we do. but enough!
the oline says [in her most exasperated dame judy dench tones]: i have only... blech feelings for you... and i want to be spared... the abject horror... of hearing this same stupid message... ever again... in my life.