Friday, December 30, 2011

Is this what that Scorpions' song was about?

                It’s been an exhausting Christmas season.  First I got sick, then my Daddy got sick, then he got me sick again.  It’s the first time we’ve shared something since the opinion that I was adopted became our unspoken agreement sometime during my junior high “Duran Duran” haircut phase.  Since September, we’ve realized that although we still don’t have a whole lot in common, we have both made efforts to get along and have been doing a pretty darn good job of it until last night. 
                I witnessed an incident so hypocritical that it was absolutely breathtaking in more ways than one.  Now as I have been, at various times in my life, a Southern Baptist and an Art major, I am more than familiar with those who are both self-righteous and hypocritical.  Truth be told, I can lay down some judgment both hypocritical and hypercritical myself, so I am not casting any stones from my glass abode, mind you.  But this particular situation was, I believe, the single most ridiculous reaction to an event I may have ever witnessed and I’m including that boy from my hometown that ran his truck into the tree in front of his house to demonstrate to his mother that he was mad at her for something that was pork chop related.  I’m not sure if he was pro or con, but he was fired up do you hear me?
                My Daddy banished Lulu, his faithful Boston terrier, to her bed at 8 pm for the sin of...farting!  Can you believe that?  Is he kidding me?  The Department of Energy has designated his bedroom as a possible alternative fuel source.  Ed Begley, Jr. texts me daily, urging me to “do my part” by procuring mass quantities of legumes, both pinto and Great Northern.
                When I questioned the banishment he said, with no sense of irony, “She needs to stop farting.  It’s starting to smell in here.”  Starting to smell? It has smelled since he wheeled into my life in September.   I have single handedly rescued the Febreze people from the throes of this recession in my vigilant fight against the stench that has invaded my home.   The walls in his bedroom have turned a lovely shade of yellow I call “Unbrushed Teeth”.  The squirrels in our yard have more bad perms than a Brady Bunch reunion special due to the “funk bubble” that encases my cul de sac.  The air outside is so thick with “nasty” it’s hard to walk briskly down my street and the fumes make my eyes water so much that the proprietors of the grocery store across the street offered to pay for grief counseling for whatever tragedy had unfolded.
                When I laughed with my signature blend of condescension and pity, he seemed truly surprised.  When I scoffed and pointedly told him that anyone who passes gas as often as he should be the LAST person in the Americas, both North and South, to place sanctions on someone else’s faux pas, he not only pleaded confusion over my use of a French term but wanted to know when farting had become so political. 
                On that note, I offer my assistance to the public. For 2012, let’s “air” our opinions, shall we?  I say we take each of the candidates for President, regardless of their party affiliation or level of delusion concerning their electability (I’m talking to you Two Ricky Bachgrich) and force them to sit in a room with my Daddy.  Any time one of them says something stupid, hateful, racist, xenophobic or simply untrue; my Daddy would get to fart on or near them.  Now, in order for this to be fair, he would need an interpreter as his definition of xenophobia would probably be “fear of xenos”.  And as you know, the only people who could survive that apocalyptic situation would be a cockroach, Gary Busey or Cher, so the fate of these candidates lies in the hands of those who have a somewhat limited worldview.  But I say we give it a try.  The worst that could happen is no one in the aforementioned paragraph would survive except my Daddy and Cher and, truth be told, we might be better off.
                Gives a whole new meaning to the winds of change, doesn’t it?

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