Have you a favorite lamentation? Personally, I enjoy Lamentations 2:10, where the elders gird themselves with sackcloth, which is still in great supply today. At this time of year, my friend Mark is always exhorting me to gird myself – specifically my loins – for the battle ahead, so that I may prevail against the enemy. Currently, the enemy is the Pittsburgh Steelers (or, as the Brits would say, are the Pittsburgh Steelers), and they themselves are busy girding loins left and right, possibly also with sackcloth.
Of course, I’m not involved in the battle, except that I’m watching with great interest.
This happens to be an excellent time in the history of our great nation for lamenting. Who doesn’t wake up these days and immediately think, For the love of Pete, look at everything there is to lament!?: our bee colonies are collapsing; you go to the mall to buy something you probably don’t need and someone decides to spray the place with bullets; the latest of the crazy North Korean dictators has the bomb and one of these days is bound to make an ICBM that won’t drop into the ocean. And worst of all, you have to look at that stupid haircut for the next four years.
I’m sure some of you would prefer not to lament, so you’re hoping the NFL games this weekend will provide sufficient escapism to take your mind off all the negative, but the fact is every few minutes you’re bound to wonder if you just witnessed someone’s brain being jostled inside his skull. Talk about a lamentation!
I actually spent some time recently not lamenting when I saw Slim Jim and the Mad Cows do their country-fried rock thang (you gotta see them do The Immigrant Song). It was the perfect antidote to daily lamentations of girding with sackcloth. Maybe if I see more bands, the next four years will be less painful. It’s definitely something I’m willing to try.
Sorry that someone hacked into the laptop of your party's chairperson and released compromising data about her. Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if you had a better firewall and weren’t involved in a fringe party led by a psychotic blowhard. Accusing my intelligence operatives of the hacking just shows that you’re a ranting hysterical drunk who should be jailed. How do I know that we aren’t involved? I asked us and we told me that we aren’t.
Anyway, I have neither intelligence nor operatives who can provide it. Let me tell you, I was offered a huge deal for intelligence operatives, billions, lots of deals involved, Dubai, great guy that I was working with, good friend of mine, huge assets, great wife, a real beauty, and I said no. Because I don’t want to be spending my time having people hiding out in the woods hacking into your computers.
And anyway, it was probably the Chinese.
Just because your email program can tell if I’ve opened the spam you’ve sent me doesn’t mean it knows if I’ve actually absorbed and internalized your slogans. Just ask anyone in my family: my eyes can pass over the little squiggly words on the screen and my lips can move as I read what’s in front of me, but my mind is pondering more important things:
Will Tom Brady finally win that elusive fifth Super Bowl ring this year? When will WEEI begin selling Red Sox sponsorship slots on a per-pitch basis? And when our coastal cities inevitably succumb to rising seas, will the dispersing of us urban liberals to inland locales mean we can finally win both the popular vote and the Electoral College in the same year?
I hate to break the news to you, but we boys in this household are famous for nodding in agreement at the things you gals say whilst our minds are busy wondering if we’ve put too much chocolate malt in the beer recipe. We’re not proud of it, but dammit we’re man enough to admit it. And don’t tell me you didn’t notice this years ago.
So go ahead and use your analytical tools. My brain laughs at you! Even as I write these words, I’m actually thinking that I should check weather-dot-com to see how warm it is in San Diego, to where Richard has repaired. And how cold it’s going to be in Minnesota in February, 2018, when Howard scores tickets for Uncle Bobby, Mook, and yours truly to see the Pats win another title.
Sorry, did you say something?
Here’s a story that you were thinking of “writing up” but never did: A guy sees his wife go off to the supermarket and realizes that he had left something off the grocery list. So he texts her: “We’re in desperate need of potatoes.”
Oddly, his wife doesn’t text back. In fact, she returns home with whole bean coffee, ground turkey, Brussel sprouts, rye bread, saffron, pickled artichokes, pints of cream and so forth, but swears up and down that she never had seen the potato desperation email.
Late that night the doorbell rings, and after some comical robe-fumbling and searching for spectacles, our hero (loose interpretation) answers the door to find an old friend – well, not really a “friend” so much as this annoying acquaintance whom our hero had gotten to know a little and came to dislike – carrying 20 pounds of potatoes. “You said it was desperate!”
“I was trying to send that text to my wife. I guess I texted you by mistake.”
But now it’s too late and the guy he hasn’t seen in five years – armed with potatoes – is looking to have the friendship rekindled.
Why didn’t you ever write that story up?