Don Rickles Had a Son...

I have never been too good at holding my tongue. I don't know where I get it from because all my life my parents tried to keep me from expressing myself too much. By that I mean they really tried to teach me about the times when I would do well to keep my mouth shut.

I paid them back by once slapping (yes, slapping) my next door neighbor (rest her soul) for saying something about my friend Chris. My mother will correct me if I am wrong, but I couldn't have been more than 6 years old and Marion was 50 if she was a day. I don't remember the incident to be honest, but I remember the spanking and subsequent grounding. I'm not sure what was said was even slap-worthy. Probably not. But I took offense and went into action. I even had the nerve to admonish her "Don't talk about my friend that way!"

Irene Waterson from church. I was 12. Told her to shut up. She was (I'm guessing) 6,000 years old. She dropped her dentures in the punch bowl upon my display of intransigence. I was too old to spank by then, but I remember the conversation involving very terse words about how I was not making Mommy and Daddy look very good in front of their friends.

Same church, 2 years later. Now a hyper-precocious teen, I was helping my mother in the narthex of the church. It was a table upon which were books for sale. She was just sitting there and I was bored. Someone needed to shill and it wasn't Mom. "Buy a book or go to hell!" was my line. Wonder if that made Mommy and Daddy look any better.

This year alone I have been heard to say the following quotes. to my boss. In person. These are verbatim.

"I have such low expectations of you, professionally and as a human being, yet you continue to fail to meet them."
"I will hit you so hard your front teeth will straighten out!"
"Hang on... We were on mute so you couldn't hear the chorus of laughter on this end. Say that again," (This one was on the other end of a conference call just this Monday).

And many many more. I am like a K-tel records greatest hits of snide remarks. I can't be stopped. They are out in the air before I even know I am saying them. People accuse me of baiting them into saying certain things so I can pull out a line on them, as though I have nothing else to do with my time but sit and think of pejorative things to say to people should the situation arise. And then, presuming I had the time for all that, I would have the ability to create, manipulate and predict a the path of a conversation to the sole end of using said line.

Ridiculous. That only happens sometimes. Mostly my lines are extemporaneous and improvised. They are a sign of my barely contained Id. My Id has Tourrette's Syndrome.

I pour this out on the page because I am very proud of my quick wit and I would never change it. It is what makes me, well, me. But I do recognize that I will never get ahead in this world because I can't control it.

"Play the game, son." was the piece of advice my Father most often gave (and gives) me. And it is a great piece of advice, isn't it? How can you go wrong if you learn the rules, master the strategy and win the game? You cannot go wrong. I know the rules, but I cannot master the strategy because I have to be the one to fight for everything.

I have been called the Chez Guevara of my company. Wherever there is injustice, Chez is called. Wherever there is a person mistreated, used, spoken to rudely, Chez will fight for them. Chez is the man who will lead his people out of the desert. O.k., that last one was a classic mixed metaphor, but you get the gist.

And I can't stop. Because it is expected. And because I simply cannot stop.

I have even gone to new locations, new jobs in hopes of turning over a new leaf. This time I am going to be good. I will recognize the righteousness and wisdom and all encompassing power of the prevailing authority. I will pick up the rope, grab it with all my strength and pull, pull in the same direction as everyone else without question, without care and without stopping!

Bullshit. Like they say, you can go to the end of the Earth and when you get there, you are still there. I wonder is Don Rickles is my biological father. Seems right. Bald, not too attractive, mean spirited in a funny way. Hmmm. Food for thought.