I’m not spinning a football and pointing to the sky. I’m not doing some oddly choreographed high-five with an on-deck batter. I’m not bumping chests with a sweaty fellow wearing silly shorts and a tank top. I’m not even saying “Hi Mom” into the camera. I’m simply saying thank you to readers who maintain a sufficient sense of humor and logic to be entertained by my rants without calling me a douche … to my face, at least.
“You post some pretty bizarre shit.”
“That’s what I do.”
“Because mundane shit is boring, by definition.”
“Aren’t you worried about offending people?”
“I don’t give offense; people take it.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel bad to hurt someone’s feelings?”
“No, because that’s not my intention. I’m looking for a reaction, hoping it involves a smirk and a giggle, and I’m willing to accept a few casualties along the way.”
“So, why don’t you write more romantic pieces and limit the casualties?”
“That would be suicidal. I’d be the casualty. Look, I can be loving and romantic. I can write deep poems and letters of adoration. Those are saved for that someone special, when and if she ever comes along.”
Think of comedic writers this way: They are handing you, the reader, a loaded whoopee cushion. Now, you can choose to place it on your chair and deploy the most vile sounding yogurt fart just as Uncle Ted is about to carve the turkey. Or, you can eat the cushion and be hurt by it. Obviously, the writer’s hope is that you cause jellied cranberry to come flying from your relatives’ noses. If you take the gag and gag on it instead, how can you blame the writer?
“Why must everything be about sex and dating?”
“They are two of the most desired things there are, and rarely do we get them right.”
“I disagree. I love my husband.”
“And that’s entertaining how?”
“No, it’s annoying to your friends, like me, who have not found the golden hen or have decided not to settle for any hen.”
“So you hate me because I’ve been successful with my relationship.”
“I don’t hate you, sweetpea. Your story doesn’t inspire or entertain me. Now, if you go home tonight and walk in on your husband using his flesh baster to semen stuff the turkey while watching Project Runway, you’ll have me hooked.”
“Ah, what was that? Did I detect a tiny smile? You may be turning to the dark side.”
“Then make sure you don’t read what I post later today.”
She don’t know me too well, do she?
Seriously, though. Thank you all so much for tolerating, supporting, encouraging, and inspiring me. Happy Thanksgiving, my friends!