Man, ya’ll missed a funny story. I had it all ready to go for Tuesday’s paper, and it got blocked by the subject of the piece, my wife. Seems some of the few folks who got the advance preview convinced her that the column was just so humiliating for her that nobody (besides them, of course) should be allowed to read it.
Humiliating? Do these people know who they’re dealing with? I may not know a lot of stuff, but, let me tell you, I know something about humiliation. One autobiographical story in my first book was called “Golden Shower”. See if you can guess what it was about.
Then, there was another one, in the same book, about a turtle biting me on a place that, polls suggest, 27% of the half of you that have them won’t even admit you have. But, me? I just laid it all out there for the sake of humor and full disclosure. Humiliation is frequently necessary in the pursuit of humor.
By the way, I just made those statistics up.
Probably, the same people who complain that I sometimes go to far are among those laughing the hardest when they’re watching those funniest videos shows and see dad take a plastic bat to his business when Junior swings at the tee. Oh, yeah, that’s funny! Look at him rolling around on the grass, writhing in pain, cursing the day he was born. But, even dad will watch that video, one day when he’s no longer sitting around holding an ice pack, and laugh.
Now, I don’t get out much anymore. I spend about 11 hours a day sitting behind this keyboard, writing reports to insurance companies. OK, occasionally, I’ll squeeze in a little time writing columns like this. Maybe an hour or so on my old guitar, trying in vain to transform myself into Andy Buschman or Tommy Lewis or Danny Dozier or John Baxter. Working on art prints. Facebook. The occasional nap. Let’s make that 16 hours then.
The point is, I’ve just about written up all the stories from the “old days” that won’t get me whooped by the surviving participants. My budding career as a political satirist was snuffed because, apparently, some humorless prudes were “offended” by my less-than-subtle approach. Attack the messenger if you don’t like the message. Word cops.
Certainly, every embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me is in print somewhere. If I’m not getting any new experiences, and I can’t write about things that happen to Becky, and I can’t write the incriminating stories of old, and I can’t write about politics…I’m going to have to quit writing, or get out of the house sometime so I can pick up some new material. That would mean I have to get dressed. In the words of Ron Burgandy and Joe Biden, “That’s an effin’ big deal.” I’m not sure I’m up to it.
My dad told me, way back when I was a youngster, “Never argue politics or religion with people. You cannot win.” But I wasn’t really arguing with people, I was printing it in the paper. And, as everybody knows, if they put it in the paper it has to be true. So how come you people can’t just take what I tell you to the bank, make your deposits, and be done with it? It’s the paper! Believe it! Not like it’s talk radio or something.
That, my friends, leaves me only with the option of writing a satirical column on religion.
So, here goes.
Just kidding. Even I am not that stupid. Now, where did I put those shoes?
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© 2010, Rick Baber