What's happened to good old-fashioned mischief? No, not the crimminal kind involving joyriding in (a stolen) car, campfires (in the school you just broke into) that turn into out-of-control blazes, or chunkin' rocks at (the Governor's Mansion) windows. I'm talking about the finger-next-to-a-cheek-right-under-the-eyebal kind, where you gleefully assert, "I'mnottouchingyouI'mnottouchingyouI'mnottouchingyou", or ordering a Shirley Temple for your large-but-somewhat-irritaed buddy who's sitting at the bar looking morose, maybe even lighting a paper bag full of dog poo on a certain elected law enforcement officer's - or teacher(s') front porch. (It wasn't me Mom. I stffsm it wasn't.) That is sometimes STILL an apprpriate(ly) childish thing to do. Sometimes.
And so is keying the beautifully-painted-monster-FWD-dually-diesel-fancy-schmancy behemoth that just took up four parking spaces in the front of the Kroger parking lot. At supper-rush shopping hour. When it's raining. After it just cut off Grammaw when she was trying ease her way in for some groceries and her blood pressure medicine. ALLLLLLL because he's afraid somebody MIGHT park next to him and ding said beautiful paint when they're getting out of their car. (Yep, that was me, pal. Hey, all I did was take the pressure off of you. Now you don't have to worry about that paint so much anymore. I like doing favors for people. So, you're welcome - it was nothing!)
Seems like everyone is either too mean, too shy, or too serious to engage in those kinds of shenanegans anymore. I don't understand. I thought that half the fun of being an adult was being able to be impish when we want to, when we know that it's probably the most needed, when Mom can't tell us to be nice and hush up. (Not that she still wouldn't but she can't by-god wash my mouth out with soap or ground me anymore, either.) Maybe they're too goddamn busy watching Faux News...
What happened to wordplay? Igpay Atinlay? The knd of stuff that makes your day when you see it, say... on your fridge with the Magnetics that you bought at the garage sale? What happened to the silliness that elicts groans or quick trips to the bathroom lest one embarrasses oneself? Maybe everybody just grew up all of a sudden. (I swear I haven't been watching the Wiggles. Not in about seven years anyway.)
I can't promise to always be the funniest, wittiest, most tasteful, most well-put-together, most romantic, the most smartest, or most manly dude in the world; only that I'll try to be a balanced human being, one that will try to react with kindness - both in thought and deed, that I will try to be thankful for the friends and family that I have and will (hopefully) make in the future, and that I'll try to promise to maybe attempt to be better about cleaning my car. I mean, really. My house doesn't look like that. Neither does my toolbox. Except for the bottom compartment. I don't wanna embarrass my daughter any more than necessary.
Easy, Turbo. Simmer down. It really depends on who I'm talkin to and what they're like. One girl might think the folks at the mud rasslin would be fun to watch, another might get pissed off at me for gigglin at Cletus using the stained wife-beater to wipe his nose. Besides, I'm so busy you'll probably lose interest by the time I can respond.
And just wtf is an "activity partner" anyway? Do you rob banks with em or just play bridge and mah jong at Chez Geezer?
I hope you're not one of those "I-like-ta-fish-an'-hunt-with-the-boys-cause-they-all-think-I'm-one-of-them-only-with-boobs" types. That would be bad. I wouldn't be rude about it, though. I might even go so far as to compliment the cut of your mullet if you have one. Believe me, "the boys" don't want you "fishin' and huntin'" with them because they think you're one of them. It's the boobs. Really. I know it's somewhat indelicate to say, and I'm sorry to be the one that breaks it to you but it's true. I also think that you were already well aware of it before you wrote that.
You see, I do think it's ok to occasionally indulge one's ego when the blues knock one for a standing eight count by maybe calling a friend and asking them to cook supper and tell how wonderful you really are, so long as you are up-front about it and say that's what you need. That way you're not disappointed, your friend will know what you need (and probably knows you well enough already to know your insecurities), and will go ahead and give you the reassurance that you are craving at that particular time.
That just sounds healthier, more sane to me than attempting to be Queen Bee at the DeerHive because you're feeling glum, dumb, and fat. We all feel that way now and again. We just have to let the people who care about us know so that we don't get pissed off at them for not reading our minds or misinterpreting our signals.
*sigh* Silly humans...
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