Friends, I am finding it difficult, if not impossible, to attempt to be funny or silly (don’t even think funny and silly) at such a deadly, unfunny period in our American experience. Out there, madness is blooming and being watered daily by a mannequin-child with bad hair and a seltzer bottle.
This new, Unf- – – – – – – – ing Believable Reality, writ large across the sky in an UH OH, WORLD ENDS font, deserves all of our attention. There is scant (I say scant) time to waste mocking our brethren and sistren for bungling the trivial rituals and manners of everyday life — no matter how bungledorfian their bungle be.
(I’m thinking specifically about that time when Monsignor Macanudo, came over for Sunday dinner and stood up from the dining room table and he somehow had the end of the table-cloth tucked into his pants with his napkin and when he headed off toward the bathroom everything got pulled off the table and onto the floor where the dog got the turkey and Grandma got the palpitations plus a carving knife in her left buttock and the volunteer squad had to come and give her oxygen and attempt to remove the knife without actually touching Grandma’s butt, which they accidentally did, and given Grandma’s strong feelings about the holiness of her butt, it went down ugly, including knuckle sandwiches and headlocks and it explains why the volunteer boys, especially the one with the stick of Land O’Lakes up his nose, refused to come to our house ever again, not even when Kracko the clown exploded on the front porch, but anyway, before they left they had to bandage Monsignor Macanudo’s hand that got bloody when he got locked in the bathroom and had a panic attack and instead of saying the rosary or singing about a low-swinging sweet chariot ride coming for to carry him the hell out of there, he started taking you-know-who’s name and middle initial in vain and beating on the door so hard his fist went through it and he couldn’t get it back out, which tied up the bathroom so long Mom had to go crawling, in soul-crushing humiliation, to the Protestants next door and ask to use their wash room when she didn’t have to wash at all, that’s right, a bald lie (not necessarily a mortal sin, but certainly a major league venial and you don’t want too many of those piling up in your permanent record file) and she had to confess it the following week to Monsignor Macanudo who, still bandaged and refusing to pay for a new bathroom door, was in no mood to be lenient with the penance (two Hail Mary’s plus the stations of the cross, on her knees, over broken glass) which made Mom so mad she stomped out of the confessional, became a Unitarian and joined the Women of the f – – – – – ing Moose).
Now look, we can’t bury our heads in the sand and ignore the lunacy out there (we might choke to death and/or K-Mac might throw her back out digging the holes.) If this was a cheap novel we could give it to Goodwill along with our previously undered underwear because the main character in the novel is so completely f – – – – – ed and far from home. Dictionary editors are meeting in conference rooms as we speak, discussing how to redefine words like unbelievable, whacko, presidential and of course f – – – –  and f – – – – 
Being backed into this non-funny corner, however, has forced me to think seriously about thinking seriously. Quite without non-seriousness, I must tell you that I have decided to climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every rainbow but leave a number where I can be reached with the magic words: the bad man has gone away. (Yes, I’m thinking of taking a keg along, although K-Mac still has the back brace from those holes which—and I hope this doesn’t sound like whining — I could barely squeeze my head into.)
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.
My blood is at a constant boil these days. 😦
Which makes you a hot blooded babe.