Word Up, Sister!

 

Cold Coffee reminds me of the more endearing qualities of my father.  His early mornings were grumpy, but real.  He was real before work.  And when he would leave, I would sit in his chair and drink what was left of his cold coffee and pretend that I got to spend more time with him that way.  He loved me when he was sober, but someone else always came home at night.  He was someone that was heavily burdened by the ways of the world and the pressures of … well… everything.  I have no idea what caused my father to drink so much because he started before I knew the difference between my toes and my fingers.  This was quite a long love life with booze, a sentence of 20-25. 

 

The more time I spend in the “real world” the less I value myself.  I am not worth what I was years ago, but I was a screw up back then, just had a skinny ass is all.  I thought it was big then.  Wonder the massive expansions waiting for me in the near future…  Will I look back on today wistfully, dreamily as though it weren’t as painfully draining and tiresome as it feels today?  It is almost certain that I am that type of fool.  I will look on today fondly as though it were the “good old days”. 

It’s funny how I can look back at my childhood as some wondrous time.  I wonder how I can look back and only see the few minutes a day when my father was my daddy and he loved me more then any.  The largest portion was actually quite painful, for a childhood.

To be honest, I don’t remember much about those mornings with my dad.  I only remember the taste of cold coffee fondly.

Okay, here’s the deal… I promised myself that I wouldn’t become some over-indignant non-smoker jackass while trying to quit this garbage inhaling habit of mine, but promises are meant to be broken or at least bent.  I am really starting to hate you smokin’ smokers!  Not because you smoke, I am not that shallow.  The problem is that as I am conveying to you that I have just quit smoking, and am expressing how draining the process has been… You reach for your pack and light up while I am talking.  It makes me wish I had a tire iron with me at all times, so that I may curb my cravings by beating you bloody in front of your children!  But the hatred doesn’t stop there folks.  I tell you that I have put down the smokes for good and you people reply with cynical bastard commentary.  “Yeah, right.”  “Come back next week and see if you’re still ‘smoke free’.” Or worse yet. “Want a cigarette?”   NO!  Wrong answer!  You losers can’t just be supportive?  You are so insecure in your willpower that anyone who takes a step in the right direction is instantly a threat to you?  That does not compute!  What happened to common decency?

When a prisoner breaks out of jail, beats the system and gets off Scott free, the jailbirds left behind will cheer for the lucky bastard.  Know why?  Because it means that there is hope for them, too.  Well, I am breaking out of jail, I am beating the system, and all you bitches can do is alert the night watchman?  You’re sick!  Each and every one of you!

I am not telling you people to quit or to not quit smoking.  It is none of my business, and me telling you what to do won’t make it easier for you to quit.  Quitting is hard to do and you have to be absolutely dedicated in order for it to work.  What I am doing is insisting that you have a better attitude when faced by a recent quitter?  They are having a craving every 27.5 minutes (or at least I am) and are faced with temptation for 90% of the day and have stepped back and said “No, thanks.” Every time!  Have some respect for that and stop trying to fuck up their track record by slinging doubt and smoke in their faces.    Because if they can dodge the slings and arrows of the tobacco companies, that means that there is hope for you, too. 

So give a quitter a pat on the back and some friendly words of encouragement, or I will chase you down with my tire iron!

There has been a huge problem in my life that I can’t weed out no matter how I try. My body. Huge problem. I love women that don’t fit into gender boundaries and walk proudly. I love them because I don’t have the courage to be one of them. I walk proudly but I am a good actor. I am so tired of looking at myself in the mirror and wishing that I looked better, slimmer, sexier, whatever. I am never completely happy when my eyes tango with a mirror. I don’t want to believe what the mirror says and it never changes to suite my sensibilities. I could starve myself and be skinny for a while, but it won’t stay for very long. And I know I would never stop if it were made easy for me for even a moment. I wouldn’t quit until my clothes weigh more than me, then I might have a light snack. But thank Goddess it isn’t easy to diet or we as a people wouldn’t see curvy women ever again. Not one. They would all disappear down the drain along with tonights gourmet dinner. (Seconds anyone?)

I was taught in not-so-subtle ways during my formative years that I’d better not grow an inch wider, ever, or I’ll have a horrible life. Those teachings were absolutely ridiculous, but unfortunately they were right. I hate to admit it, but the fact that they taught me this makes them right. I will have a horrible life because I am larger then a paper weight. Now I shall spend a good portion of my money, effort, livelihood, thought, free time, and (worst of all) self-esteem trying to concoct a way get back to the size that I was in grade school (because THAT is the current fashion.) Although, I hear that fetuses are sexy these days so that might become an even less achievable goal for the average woman. When are men going to just admit that they fantasize about fucking children? Just get it out and over with, so that we can get you all some counseling, and women of the world can get back being a size 12 or so.

The disturbing thing is that, now that I think of it, I was given these guidelines by women. It has always been a woman that has made me feel lower than dogshit due to my dress size. Funny that! Additionally, the “knowledge” I recieve about my body usually comes from… My Family. I remember an x-mas many years ago where at the tender age of 16, I got diet pills in one of my shiny wrapped packages from “Santa” (my grandmother). Apparently she had gotten a really good deal on some locally made herbal diet pills (speed) and decided to spread the wealth. I was the only grandchild to receive them. I was also the only grandchild that weighed in “higher then she should”. I come from “athletic stock” and therefore I am huge disappointment to those that are supposed to love me and happen to share my DNA.

But my brainwashing must have started much earlier, because I was an unknown-to-be-suicidal child. I made suicide pacts with myself several times before the age of 13. I remember at 10 I was laying the bathtub one night, and decided that if I were to lay on my side in the tub and notice that my hips were taller than the tub I would kill myself with one of my mom’s razors. My hips have since spread to that of a full grown woman’s and have been taller than the tub ring on several occasions. I haven’t tried to kill myself, but this has arisen an odd tendency to carefully scrutinize the bathtub when moving into a new place. Your childhood affects who you are. (Sidenote: later on that same year, I made a pact to kill myself if I ever got pregnant. Once again, I haven’t tried to kill myself, but I’ve never been pregnant either.)

I’m tired. I am so tired of hating myself, and trying to push myself into the mini fridge. Even Ani Difranco pisses me off sometimes. She’s a great spokeswoman for women’s rights and common sense, but she is also 5′2″ and even pregnant, couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-o five at the time. She is small and gorgeous so people are more inclined to listen to her music and listen to her theories. Because she is a “woman”. That is a cruel thing for me to say, but I am hating myself right now and feel no reason to leave well enough alone. So, I won’t erase it and I won’t apologize. Besides, Ani isn’t aware that I exist. I highly doubt that she would give a damn for anything that I have to say. Fuck it!

How do I feel? At the moment I feel like a feeble, simpering idiot with no obvious sense of priorities nor self worth. I feel that I have wasted my time and the time of anyone that has taken the time to read this pile of garbage. But then again, I get the feeling that I am not alone. And that someone out there feels the same way. Maybe we could find a cure for self-hatred together, and surprise attack the world at large. Goddess knows that we haven’t been able to do it alone. Know what I mean?

 

This morning there was a knock at my door. When I answered the door I found a well groomed, nicely dressed couple. The man spoke first.

John: Hi! I’m John, and this is Mary.

Mary: Hi! We’re here to invite you to come kiss Hank’s ass with us.

Me: Pardon me?! What are you talking about? Who’s Hank, and why would I want to kiss his ass?

John: If you kiss Hank’s ass, he’ll give you a million dollars; and if you don’t, he’ll kick the shit out of you.

Me: What? Is this some sort of bizarre mob shake-down?

John: Hank is a billionaire philanthropist. Hank built this town. Hank owns this town. He can do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to give you a million dollars, but he can’t until you kiss his ass.

Me: That doesn’t make any sense. Why…

Mary: Who are you to question Hank’s gift? Don’t you want a million dollars? Isn’t it worth a little kiss on the ass?

Me: Well maybe, if it’s legit, but…

John: Then come kiss Hank’s ass with us!

Me: Do you kiss Hank’s ass often?

Mary: Oh yes, all the time…

Me: And has he given you a million dollars?

John: Well… no, you don’t actually get the money until you leave town.

Me: So why don’t you just leave town now?

Mary: You can’t leave until Hank tells you to, or you don’t get the money, and he kicks the shit out of you.

Me: Do you know anyone who kissed Hank’s ass, left town, and got the million dollars?

John: My mother kissed Hank’s ass for years. She left town last year, and I’m sure she got the money.

Me: Haven’t you talked to her since then?

John: Of course not! Hank doesn’t allow it.

Me: So what makes you think he’ll actually give you the money if you’ve never talked to anyone who got the money?

Mary: Well, he gives you a little bit before you leave. Maybe you’ll get a raise, maybe you’ll win a small lotto, maybe you’ll just find a twenty dollar bill on the street.

Me: What’s that got to do with Hank?

John: Hank has certain ‘connections.’

Me: I’m sorry, but this sounds like some sort of bizarre con game.

John: But it’s a million dollars, can you really take the chance? And remember, if you don’t kiss Hank’s ass he’ll kick the shit of you.

Me: Maybe if I could see Hank, talk to Him, get the details straight from him…

Mary: No one sees Hank, no one talks to Hank.

Me: Then how do you kiss his ass?

John: Sometimes we just blow Him a kiss, and think of his ass. Other times we kiss Karl’s ass, and he passes it on.

Me: Who’s Karl?

Mary: A friend of ours. He’s the one who taught us all about kissing Hank’s ass. All we had to do was take him out to dinner a few times.

Me: And you just took his word for it when he said there was a Hank, that Hank wanted you to kiss his ass, and that Hank would reward you?

John: Oh no! Do you think we’re fools? Karl has a letter he got from Hank years ago explaining the whole thing. Here’s a copy; see for yourself.

 

From The Desk of…Karl

*****

 

1. Kiss Hank’s ass and he’ll give you a million dollars when you leave town.

2. Drink alcohol only in moderation.

3. Kick the shit out of people who aren’t like you.

4.  Eat right.

5.  Hank dictated this list himself.

6. The moon is made of green cheese.

7.  Everything Hank says is right.

8.  Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.

9.  Don’t drink alcohol.

10.  Eat your wieners on buns, no condiments.

11.  Kiss Hank’s ass or he’ll kick the shit out of you.

Me: This appears to be written on Karl’s letterhead, not Hank’s.

Mary: Hank didn’t have any paper.

Me: I have a hunch that if we checked we’d find this is Karl’s handwriting too.

John: Of course! Hank dictated it.

Me: I thought you said no one gets to see Hank?

Mary: Not now, but years ago he would talk to some people.

Me: I thought you said he was a philanthropist. What sort of philanthropist kicks the shit out of people just because they’re different?

Mary: It’s what Hank wants, and Hank’s always right.

Me: How do you figure that?

Mary: Item 7 says ‘Everything Hank says is right.’ That’s good enough for me!

Me: Maybe your friend Karl just made the whole thing up.

John: No way! Item 5 says ‘Hank dictated this list himself.’ Besides, item 2 says ‘Use alcohol in moderation,’ Item 4 says ‘Eat right,’ and item 8 says ‘Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.’ Everyone knows those things are right, so the rest must be true, too.

Me: But 9 says ‘Don’t use alcohol.’ which doesn’t quite go with item 2, and 6 says ‘The moon is made of green cheese,’ which is just plain wrong.

John: There’s no contradiction between 9 and 2, 9 just clarifies 2. As far as 6 goes, you’ve never been to the moon, so you can’t say for sure.

Me: Scientists have pretty firmly established that the moon is made of rock…

Mary: But they don’t know if the rock came from the Earth, or from outer space, so it could just as easily be green cheese.

Me: Not knowing where the rock came from doesn’t make it cheese. And I’m not an expert, but I think the scientific theory that the Moon came from the Earth has been discounted.

John: Aha! You just admitted that scientists make mistakes, but we know Hank is always right!

Me: We do?

Mary: Of course we do, Item 5 says so.

Me: You’re saying Hank’s always right because in the list that Hank dictated Hank says Hank is always right. That’s circular reasoning!

John: Now you’re getting it! It’s so rewarding to see someone come around to Hank’s way of thinking.

Me: But…oh, never mind. What’s the deal with wieners?

(Mary blushes)

John: Wieners go in buns, with no condiments. It’s Hank’s way. Anything else is immoral.

Me: What if I don’t have a bun?

John: No bun, no wiener. A wiener without a bun is wrong.

Me: No relish? No Mustard?

(Mary looks positively stricken.)

John: (shouting) There’s no need for such language! Condiments of any kind are wrong!

Me: So a big pile of sauerkraut with some wieners chopped up in it would be out of the question?

Mary: (Sticking her fingers in her ears.) I am not listening to this. La la la la la la la la.

John: That’s disgusting. Only some sort of evil deviant would eat…

Me: It’s good! I eat it all the time.

(Mary faints.)

John: (Catching Mary.) Well, if I’d known you were one of those I wouldn’t have wasted my time. When Hank kicks the shit out of you I’ll be there, counting my money and laughing. I’ll kiss Hank’s ass for you, you bunless cut-wienered kraut-eater.

(With this, John drags Mary to their waiting car, and speeds off.)

 

 

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**************

Kissing Hank’s Ass: A parable by Rev. Jim Huber

Copyright © 1997 Jim Huber.

Email Jim at: james@jhuger.com

All rights reserved. Used with permission.

For more heresy, visit the good reverend’s web site:

http://jhuger.com/