[While waiting for the elevator, Dipshit Dad opens his door while still talking to someone inside his apartment] Dipshit Dad:
Yeah; no frickin' shit! [Dipshit Dad turns and sees me; he freezes, then turns and locks his door, settling in beside me to wait for the elevator; what follows would normally be referred to as a "painful silence"] Me:
Did I hear you call one of your kids a "fucking animal" earlier? Dipshit Dad:[exasperated] I was talking to my wife! Me:
[pause] Ah. [more hilarious silence; then, said silence is abruptly drowned out by the theme-music to "COPS" - I'm not kidding] Me:
[broad smile] Are your kids in there watching "COPS"? Dipshit Dad:
[REALLY sarcastically] Oh, is that a crime? Me:
It should be. [glare from Dipshit Dad - he's staring hard at the elevator-button, hoping that the light will go off, signifying that the elevator has arrived - there is palpable tension, with a glorious soundtrack of "bad boys, bad boys, whatchu gonna DOOO"] Me:
You ever thought about watching your mouth around your kids? [Dipshit Dad ignores me, cutting a laser-beam hole into the elevator-button with his eyes] Me:Seriously. [pause] 'Cause you sound like a fucking maniac in there. [Dipshit Dad looks at me as though he's going to punch me; he doesn't] Me:
[being an absolute shit] Never crossed your mind? [the elevator still hasn't come at this point; Dipshit Dad just stands there, sinking under the weight of his own rage] Me:
Did you just say "frickin"? [as soon as I opened my mouth, Dipshit Dad turned and walked towards the stairs] Me:
[as the door to the stairs opens, I thrust my hands up into the air] Victory!
Remember, I'm here to help. I, for a good while now, have tried to exorcize qualifiers from my didactic writing, but it turns out that I’m just too compassionate; it’s a constant burden, I’ll admit. Sometimes, however, "telling it like it is" has to be replaced by "telling it in the best way possible so as not to have to deal with the stream of self-indulgent moaning or watery, close-to-tears eyes of the told". And though this may sound like, to the outside observer, the flakiness of a self-propelled Soapbox-Sermonizer, it is, in actual fact, another example of sheer, breathtaking Excellence. You see, Being Excellent in and of itself casts an unyielding, monolithic shadow over the unExcellent forevermore...like the ebbing feeling of being "ten-feet-tall" while looking up at a skyscraper that blocks one’s view of the sky. So, like a man too-tall for doorways, I find myself literally and metaphorically "ducking" so that others can, sometimes, see that sky; some might call that an Excellence so inborn, so overwhelming, as to send the whole concept of Excellence into an entirely different vista...a sunny field of Absolute Excellence in which the unExcellent run about like five-year-olds chasing the butterfly of Capability while rolling in the dewy-grasses of Aptitude. I am the balm for all your unExcellent heat-bumps, the soothing, calming centre of Excellence that could be the Trampoline of Self-Esteem for your leap of faith. Excellence could be just a "boing" away.
[Knock knock; Dipshit Dad opens door] Dipshit Dad:Yes? Me:What's going on? Dipshit Dad: What do you mean? Me:Every time I walk past your door, I hear either you and your wife-whatever screaming at each other, or some kids howling uncontrollably. Dipshit Dad:Oh...Joshua accidentally elbowed Alex... Me: Is that why I heard you yelling, "you fucking asshole"? [Dipshit Dad closes door behind him to chat with me in the hall] Dipshit Dad: What is your problem? Me:I don't particularly enjoy listening to children shrieking and crying while you yell "fucking bitch" at your wife-whatever every time I go to get my laundry. [pause] It doesn't create a pleasant atmosphere. Dipshit Dad:Are you telling me how to raise my kids? Me: I wasn't, but you obviously don't know what you're fucking doing. Dipshit Dad: Fuck you. Me: Dude, you wear a button-up shirt tucked into fucking jogging pants when you walk him to school; do you evenknow what that must do to your kid's self-esteem? Dipshit Dad: Fuck off. [slams door] Me:Nice talking with you.
As full of bacterial-mouth-spray as it is harsh-pragmatism, "Glagh" (sometimes pronounced in the prolonged, dramatic form "Glaaaaaaaagh!") is a throat-rending exclamation of all worldly frustration, a tongue-shaking vociferation of all cosmic calamity; when uttered in the quiet computer-room of my swank apartment, well, it drives my dogs nuts.
(Did you ever hear about the pirate with the steering-wheel sticking out from the crotch of his pants? When asked about it, the buccaneer expressed surprise and stated, in a raspy swashbuckler‘s voice, "I don’t know, but it drives me nuts".)
"Glagh" could very well turn out to be the greatest word creation since "antidisestablishmentarianism", but you wouldn’t know it by the baleful looks I receive from my cute, little puppies as I spew the word into their furry bellies; you would think that I was torturing them with heated-up chimney-pokers, but, of course, you’d be wrong.
For all of their obvious good traits, one of the faults my dogs share is an adverse reaction to progress, to the New; if they had their druthers, they would just sit back, eat, and get fat off the backs of others, swelling up on all the food earned from back-breaking labour and sacrifice.
I’m trying to change the world, one word at a time, and all they care about is if I’m going to share my pizza with them.