February 2008

…because asshats need practice, too

Came across your site. I remember Jr High. I looked forward to dodge ball.You were the one in the corner, that just stood there looking at me, hoping i would spare you.How did the blindside shot to your head feel? I tried not to laugh.nice article…look forward to more.
DC

For future reference, Mr. C., to “blindside” an opponent means to attack or hit on or from the blind side; to catch or take unawares. This is impossible to do if I am “the one in the corner, that just stood there looking at [you], hoping [you] will spare [me.]” And, though your fond recollection of a perceived preternatural ability to sense or instill fear in the heart of fellow prepubescent dodge ballers is mildly disturbing, aside from defining blindside, suppressing the urge to fix minor capitalization typos, your dubious comment inspired only one other thought: A quote from the film, The Witches of Eastwick.

Alexandra Medford: You’re not even interesting enough to make me sick.

There are many things about the universe I’ll never understand.  This is not pessimism but wishful thinking.  A prayer.  A “if everything works according to plan”.  For all my curious creature ways, certain mysteries and unknowables should be left alone; or at the very least should leave me alone.  If something smells terrible, tastes awful, permanently ruins your impression of something previously palatable or pleasant, don’t offer to share it with me.  I’ll take your word for it, believe it’s as bad as you say, avoid the video of that kid who accidentally staked himself at Halloween during an unfortunate costume malfunction, skip archival footage of the misguided decision by Oregon’s Department of Transportation to remove the decaying carcass of a beached whale by blowing it up, and every incarnation of the “Star Wars Kid” whose video created so much trouble for him he had to switch schools.  No one told him the 3 rules essential to living well:

1. Hide under a rock until you’re safely out of Junior High School.
2. Don’t film yourself if you’re pretending to be a Jedi.
3. Star Wars is dead.  We’ll still dress up in the gold bikini, let you collar and leash us, but it’s time to let all the other fantasies die.  Stop trying to use the force, Luke. 

Fortunately the ratio of people who own equipment capable of documenting their most humiliating moments skyrockets after age 14.  The pool of “Star Wars Kid” videos is so vast, the likelihood yours will be ridiculed by millions, and then picked up by creative-types with “mad programming skills” seeking to redeem you and their own inner “Star Wars Kid” decreases considerably.  However, YouTube with caution - This does not mean your friends won’t save it for an explosive, potentially marriage-annulling montage to be screened at your wedding.

The moral of the story is STAY BEHIND THE CAMERA.  Or avoid doing anything stupid for the rest of your life.

That’s easy enough. 

Where was I?

Oh, what stinks about being the ant.

Feeling a little stupid myself during a recent conversation with a friend I said, “Is this a joke?  And am I not getting it?”  He said, “Isn’t that a question you should be saving to ask God?”

Which brings me back to my original statement about our universe and things you know you can keep to yourself.  I’m pretty sure, if Gods do exist, I’m not getting the joke.  There’s lots to laugh about, yet we seem to have entered an age when we’re so intellectually bankrupt, all we come up with is the “kick each other in the crotch and watch each other cry” gag.  I tried to woo a boy this way when I was 9 and may have permanently ruined his desire for children because he’s pushing 40, hasn’t married, and is competing with friends to see who can hold out the longest.  I can’t really blame him.  Unless that’s what you’re into, a kick in the crotch is no way to say “I love you.”  There are hundreds of fascinating people in the world whose life’s work gets passed over and ignored so we can watch videos of a child who wants nothing more than to be left alone, forgotten about, allowed to be a child during the blink of an eye that is childhood.

You see, I know something about this…what it’s like to be a child one day, and something else entirely unidentifiable, (but clearly no longer a child) the next.  Regardless of whether the attention received is a result of their own actions or something forced upon them, children should not be subjected to our lackbrain boredom, pushed further into a spotlight they can’t navigate or comprehend, because we’ve run out of things to talk about.  If we’re so incapable of enjoying what’s already out there that we’ve resorted to humiliating children for entertainment, maybe we ought to go back to blowing up beached whales, watching tourists ditch BBQ equipment and dive behind cars to avoid chunks of blubber raining down on them like Styrofoam boulders on a movie set, as stunned reporters, duped by engineers into believing local wildlife would carry off whatever remained of the whale after the explosion exclaim, “The seagulls were nowhere in sight!”  I can just imagine a seagull swooping in immediately after half a ton of dynamite roasts their morning meal to perfection, and hauling off 25lb chunks to enjoy at their leisure - in their seagull Winnebago?

(Okay, maybe the whale video is pretty funny.)

It’s your thing, your life, but here’s something to consider…

If you find yourself watching something and the words, “Man, that’s fucked up” are said by you and your companions more than once - stop watching.  Instead of burning us ants, you’d be better off using your magnifying glass to examine the sun.  (Obligatory disclaimer: DON’T DO THIS ASSHATS!).  I guarantee you there’s not a funny fucking thing about being that kid.

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The bitch left me.  She actually got on the plane and went home.

I’m so depressed.

She could have postponed her departure a 3rd time if she really loved me.  The neighbor’s mom would.  Probably.

I guess I know where I rank.  Beneath Stink(er), the dog.  But why?  I’m sweet, and nice, and good to cats.  Whose idea do you think it was to name her other dog “Kitty”?

Meow.

Oh, my poor Mom.

Yes, I’ve always been this fun to own.

She learned the hard way not to read what I write without permission after a quick peek into my journal in junior high:

“The only reason my mother had children was so she’d have someone to do the dishes for her.”

Um.  Ouch.

Poor Mom knew her blond little angel was going to be everything but during our first (possibly last) mom/daughter shopping trip to buy clothes for the start of Kindergarten.  She picked an outfit she claims looked adorable but when I emerged from the dressing room I clearly did not agree.  Grabbing fistfuls of pant leg fabric and, for dramatic effect, holding it out I exclaimed, “I’m not wearing this.  This makes me look like a clown!”  I imagine my entire teenage life passed before my mother’s eyes at that moment, with her a pale, fragile figure somewhere off in the fashion distance, watching as I pranced around town in the best clothes my family couldn’t afford.  Oh, she wishes.  She got part of the fashion nightmare right, only the prancing turned out to be more like a disaffected trot, and the best they couldn’t afford became the best the local thrift stores stuffed in a bargain bin - the shit even poor people refuse to wear.  Hell, I may be the only American who voluntarily marched through Europe in the 1990s in combat boots without a weapon.  You know those fucking soles have nails in them?  Why or how they worked their way into the inside of my boot, then into my foot, is a question I’m saving for someone who answers stupid rhetorical questions.

Back to torturing my mother.

Her birthday is next week.  [This paragraph, sadly, had to be removed so as not to offend every person on the planet, with the exception of my mother, who would love it, because I'm her kid, and not the dog.]

Seriously.  I miss you.

Bitch.

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