Social Awareness: The Day, The Ribbon, The Sorrow

You may be wondering.

I know you may be wondering because you’ve been texting me  “???'” repeatedly since two this morning when I didn’t respond in under a nanosecond to your message consisting of “Sup?”

Well, “sup” is, to my chagrin, National “Walk-In-Front-of-David-Reeeaaal-Slowly-with-a-Cane-While-Being-Elderly” Day.  Which will explain why I didn’t make our afternoon hook-up where you wanted both of us to wear condoms. Both of us!  Freekin’ jeezus, dude, it’s only a hand-job!

(And as for discretion: You really believe your wife hasn’t discovered your “Color Me Barbra” LP under that “secret” porn stash of Chi-chi LaRue tapes? Dream on, girlfriend!)

 Don't forget the Peek Freans.
Don’t forget the Peek Freans.

Your Ribbon: To show your support for National “Walk-In-Front-of-David-Reeeaaal-Slowly-with-a-Cane-While-Being-Elderly” Day, wear a white ribbon that has been smeared with the red, gelatinous substance found in the centre of a Peek Freans™ Fruit Creme Biscuit™.

Insider Tip:  Actual crumbs are an optional, but supportive, gesture.

Let’s be sure we’re on the same page:  Some people are laboring under the misapprehension that National “Walk-In-Front-of-David-Reeeaaal-Slowly-with-a-Cane-While-Being-Elderly” Day is heralded by a yellow ribbon with dribbles of saliva and egg yolk.*

Now, I can totally understand how you could mix these two up, what with their very slight similarity, combined with your IQ of 80 and inability to converse meaningfully with anyone over the age of six.  But truth is, saliva and egg yolk, to those who’ve done their homework, could only limn the look and feel of  “Old-Geezer-Who-Will-Be-Spending-His-Remaining-Years-with-his-Ass-Adhering-to-the-Cushion-of-His-La-z-boy™-Recliner”  Month.  

At least try to make an effort, OK? Or pretend?

Next Monday (Spoiler Alert): Be up bright and early to celebrate the start of

“Get-Honked-at-From-Behind-By-a-Welfare-Case-Driving-Their-Motorized-Wheelchair-down-the-Pavement-With-One-Hand-While-Simultaneously-Drinking-a-Timmies-Coffee-Smoking-an-Export A-and Clutching-A-Small-Yet-Overfed-Yapping-Toy-Poodle-With-Rheumy-Pink-Eyes”  

Year.

(Mauve ribbon with taffeta overlay in nicotine brown.)

But I mean, honestly. People are SO self-centered.


* Since you asked.  Regarding the “some people” question, it is axiomatic that “some people can get a thrill knitting sweaters and sitting still.”  In fact, that’s peachy for some people who don’t know they’re alive. That’s OK for some people of one hundred and five!   But I at least gotta try.  

Gee, don’t come rushing at me all at once, like a Handel chorus

smoothie
Veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor. Strawberry = you.

Well! (he spluttered).

This is a fine how-d’you do!

I work myself to the bone getting all sacrilegious, spend literally minutes in Photoshop desecrating the memory of possibly the 10th-greatest plummy English contralto who ever lived, blend it half-heartedly together into a veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor that would make a reader of Harvard Lampoon blush, and what thanks.

Not even a flicker of furious placard-writing activity from the Phelps family; No snooty, outraged editors at Gramophone magazine canceling my remaining issues; No high-minded “disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” complaints, not even a sad little WordPress unsubscribe¹.  Nada. Plenty o’ nuttin’.

A great big world so full of “NO” it could make Dame Janet herself take up a second career in lap dancing.  (Dame Janet Jackin’. Off her high horse and onto yours.  So to speak.)

A great big world so chock-full of “so-what, dude?” it could make a co-pilot take an Airbus filled with over-stimulated adorable teenage choristers on their first trip away and apple-cheeked adorable grannies clutching Tupperware containers of brownies in their lap lest the icing should get dislodged during turbulence, and face-plant it into the nearest Alp.  As if!

When it comes right down to it.  Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?  Like, Hello-o-o-o – ! Over here, darling, other person who exists!  Lips moving that aren’t your own!  I mean really.

But never you mind, Murgatroyd. Your pathetic attempts at making amends by text message come too little and – at 3.37 AM – way too late.  I’m resilient.  I’m a survivor. I’m filled with pluck, grit and spunk.  Or at least I was on Saturday night which I assure you is the last time I’ll try to get laid by a shift-worker in a chicken-processing facility. While on the job!

It’s all the more grist to my application-for-lifetime-and-beyond-PTSD-benefits mill, cause guess what?

You are just the strawberry on my smoothie, babe.  Naked.  Or even better, in your saggy, made-at-home-yet-still-just-as-crappy-as-if-made-by-Third-World-slave-labor American Apparel Y-fronts.

And one more thing since I finally have the floor and will miracles never cease you’ve paused for breath:  Jesus WAS white.

You know how I know?

The Bible tells me so.


¹ Update:  Between starting this post and finishing, someone DID 
unsubscribe.  Which would seem entirely to put the kibosh on the 
already pretty thin premise of the piece. This might flatten 
a lesser man.   But self-esteem, no matter how rooted 
in fantasy it may be, always 
wins the day.  So nice try.  Little Miss Unsubscribe.

Welcome, dear reader…

In Which The Author States His Case, Sets the Regrettable Tone,
and Outlines His Modus Operandi

In the ’70s, when it was still legal to open a window, the Howard Beales of the world did just that and cried, to anyone who would listen,

 “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more!”

The nervous breakdown has evolved somewhat since then.

Now, in our hermetically sealed offices, measuring out our hermetically sealed lives and opinions with plastic coffee spoons, we are reduced to opening the symbolic window of the Internet and crying, as though to an echo chamber, “Why is nobody paying any attention to ME ME ME me me?”

What a come-down.

It is therefore with the hope of remedying this problem, namely, insufficient me-directed attention, that I begin to publish my various geezer-ish ramblings, wanderings, total non sequiturs, and out-and-out nonsense; not neglecting, of course, the instances both trivial and tremendous that have driven or do drive me to distraction; that have resulted, dear reader, in this, the food-encrusted bathrobe in which I spend my days, lapping gin from the dog dish and trying to get my crappy Kyocera Rise cellphone to function.

For I am old, desperate and without shame. At least, that’s what I think those lusciously muscular and definitely 18+ (documents on record) twinks who live in the opposite apartment are screaming at me.

To which I say: if you want “privacy”, dudes, try NOT renting a flat opposite some random perv old guy with binoculars, leaving the blinds up and taking off your Y-fronts.  Like, seriously?