That’s it. No more mister funny guy. No more silly stuff. No more laughs, no more being witty and wry. Not even pumpernickel.
From now on I write nothing but sourdough, sauerbraten, sweet and sour sauce, hold the sweet (but leave the sauce). We’re talking hard-hitting commentary on the issues of the day as long as there are issues and I know what day it is. (All right, all right. Hold the sauce too.)
Because, here’s the deal: when you try to be funny, people may laugh on the outside. But through the miracle of paranoia, you just know these very same people are also laughing on the inside.
Which would be fine if you knew they were laughing at the same thing on the inside as on the outside. (There is such a thing as ambidextrous laughing, you know.)
Recently, several concerned friends and embarrassed relatives staged a catered intervention at the home, here, to force me to serious-up and to flex my venom-and-snot muscles. They suggested I write biting reports that
•expose political pollsters who call the same 12 people every week and ask “If you were voting today would you (a.) go to a bar instead; (b.) need someone to explain how the dang machines work; (c.) need someone to explain again why we vote; (d.) vote for a complete idiot (e.) vote for a partial idiot; (f.) write in the name Ant Man.
•take a courageous stand against concussions in football by outlawing knowledge.(Could also work in politics).
•discover a more believable country where Barack Obama was really born. I am told that Lapland is available and willing. Apparently he rode a reindeer to school—a stolen reindeer with ties from terrorist tuxedos.
Some urged me to get serious about important cultural problems like global butt-dialing, the dangers of texting while thinking, or whether we, as a society, should raise our hands at work and ask permission to go to the bathroom, instead of just getting up and disappearing for an hour with the Kindle and Great Expectations.
I must admit that while I am not comfortable in the serious milieu (say Mel-YOU’RE) I have avoided discussing the hard issues of the real world for one reason and one reason only. I don’t know what they are or what I think about any of them.
Thus, friends have inundated me with books on world seriosity. The Nudnik, Putin, for example, offers a detailed nuderonomy of irritating Russian leaders including Ivan the Annoying, Boris the Hard to Take, Peter the Great Pain in the Urals, and, of course, the tragic Nicholas the Nude. Have no idea what this has to do with stolen reindeer.
I was disappointed to find that one of the more promising books, The World’s Pressing Problems was written by a dry cleaner named Lynton Rinkles. Can’t wait to read Love Thy Neighbor, But Keep Your Hands Where I Can See Them.
Yesterday I saw a photograph in an astronomy magazine of a beach ball positioned next to a bee bee (say BB; say it again, this time in the voice of Sean Connery).
The caption compared the size of the sun to the earth. I immediately thought of those wandering minstrels of gloom now running amok for the presidential nomination. See, the beach ball represents the inflated bubble of their heads. The BB becomes their itsy bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka dot bikini brains.
It then struck me: These bastards have used up the entire world supply of venom and snot, leaving none for anyone else.
So my hard-hitting exposes are not to be. But look at it this way: some crackpots just can’t be caulked. Being silly, I think, is the only way to survive this gig.
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.