Silence = Death

The other day I was in church, a divine miracle unto itself, when the minister stepped up to begin his sermon. On this particularly Sunday, the topic was “Approaches to Bible Interpretations”, and as I was attending a Unitarian service, I was all ready for some gay sex and marijuana, when a fat, blonde, miniature, blob cankeled onto the stage. With his stretched stained t-shirt working overtime to cover his pinched skin, the little fat bastard tried to impress the crowd by performing a hand stand, except his bursting stomach got in the way. Bent forward with this short little arms grasping for purchase, I imagined this is what it must look like if a dwarfed Tyrannosaurus Rex with Down Syndrome attempted the same feat.

Well, I let out an over-exaggerated sigh and knowingly looked around, silently saying to the other members of the congregation, “Can you believe this kid. Boy, is he about to get it.” And by “get it”, I meant his father was going to charge the stage with a fury, rip him up by his flabby little arm, and then beat his ass. I know that’s what would have happened to me, and I thought it only fair that this child suffer the same inappropriate, mentally scarring punishment. Apparently, however, I was wrong. Instead, Mom and Dad Freaknick just watched with pride as “Moonbeam” or little “We love black people” waddled across stage. The poor minister charged on, trying desperately to speak over the squeals and clapping, as I looked around dumbfounded.

When did kids come back in vogue?

Why can’t we return to the wholesome 1950’s mindset where children were seen and not heard? When kids were expected to be silent and numb while mom and dad threw back martinis, puffed packs of menthols, and had affairs with their neighbors and secretaries. What has happened to our sense of family values?

The worst thing about the whole situation is your expected silence. Mommy’s little “10 beers and the Cubs won so daddy’s in the mood” surprise is allowed to wail his guts out, but if I dare offer up some Nyquil or big sip of whiskey, I am the insensitive asshole.

Why are we all so afraid to say what needs to be said?

A few years back a good friend of mine’s brother and his wife had a baby. Sadly, a week before the due date, their father unexpectedly past away. Arriving at the funeral, I walked in as soft somber music poured over the sea of mourners, flowers completely surrounded the coffin, and everyone wore faces of concern and discontent, a sad yet typical setting.

I stood in the back, trying to allow the family time to visit and mourn, when I noticed a dark suit hopping among the collections of the bereaved. Stepping forward to get a better look, I suddenly found myself literally colliding with the expecting father, the mysterious pouncing phantom. After a brief hug and my condolences, I asked John about his wife and their future baby. Clearly waiting for the opportunity, he busted open with excitement: “She’s dilated 7 centimeters, 7 centimeters!” Before I could even respond, he hugged me again and then leaped to the next group to share his happy news.

Now don’t get me wrong, here. I think it’s great he was so excited; hell, it was even a little cute. But is your father’s funeral the time or the place to run around telling everyone that your wife’s vagina is spreading? I mean, even if it wasn’t a funeral, is it ever necessary for me to know that someone else’s labia is parting? Would a simple “She’s close” not do?

Again, though, God forbid I bring this to someone’s attention and ruin their fun. No, I should sit in silence why they provide me with a detailed anatomy lesson. Hell, why don’t we just start taking pictures of the placenta and carry it around in our wallets? “Here’s Susie’s first day of school, and her 3rd birthday, and here look, this is the afterbirth.”

Well, I think things have finally gone too far, and I am not going to sit silent anymore. This is America, the land of expression, the land of free press, the land of bitching and hating other people for superficial reasons.

So here goes, the start of a revolution. These are My Top Three Unspoken Things Spoken.

Tye Pennington – I hate that mother fucker. I apologize for being crass, but give me a break. If I have to spend one more Sunday evening watching him gallop through Sears and hold back tears as he builds a new home for some retarded, poor, armless minority family, I am going to lose it. Yes, I’ll admit back in 2001 he was a The Learning Channel star; we could all only be that lucky. However, close to ten years later, the flannel shirt is still untucked, the hair remains spiked and shiny, and no one gives a shit. Fuck you Tye Pennington, fuck you!

Hurricane “Victims” – “Certain Death.” “Grave Danger.” “Massive Flooding & Apocalyptic Damage.” Now I did not major in meteorology, but when terms like these are thrown around by weathermen and reporters, I am usually pretty confident that whoever is living in the area is fucked. I mean, in Memphis, when there is even the slightest threat of a tornado or severe storm, I spend the evening in my bathtub with a giant bottle of wine and my hand crank radio, the mattress from the guest bed spread over top me. And yet, after every major hurricane, the headlines always lament about the hundreds of people stranded in their homes with pictures of them of their roofs as helicopters swoop down to save them. What in the hell is wrong with these people? And when questioned about why they chose to stay, the always respond the same “I wanted to wait it out.” What were you waiting for? God? The four horsemen? Why doesn’t Jesus just swoop down and pick them up then? I say next time people ignore a mandatory evacuation we let them stay huddled in their attics eating canned peaches, drinking contaminated water, and reflecting on their super decision. Let them keep “waiting it out…”

People who are Different – I don’t mean to be ugly, but as much as I love diversity and being part of God’s rainbow, and whatever, I am really fed up with all the weird ass people in this world. And I am probably not talking about the one’s you think I am either. If you want to be half black and half Icelandic and have sex with turtles as your transgendered boyfriend / masochistic slave watches and weeps while taking Polaroid shots, hey, I’m cool; rock it out my friend.

No, that doesn’t bother me. I can see your pierced lips and Hot Topic apparel coming from a mile away and know to begin judging you in silence. It’s the ones who catch you off guard, the ones that you don’t expect, that sliver under my skin. Take, for instance, the “mildly retarded.” There I am at Kroger, waiting to be checked out by your average specimen of white trash, when suddenly the cashier opens his mouth and begins mumbling about how he is having a “happy” day. I am completely thrown out of orbit. My defenses down, I am not ready for this kind of attack. With lightning speed I have to retrieve my fake smile and uncomfortable nod, as my brain races to figure out what in the hell is wrong with this person. Why can’t these people just go for the gold and be all and out retarded, slapping their face and uncontrollably flatulenting? At least then we’d know.