All you had to do was arrive and eat. Maybe say something charming sprinkled here and there. That’s all you had to do. It was Christmas Day after all, that season of goodwill and cheer. The day we suspend our grief and rage and hold it still until the New Year. That’s all you had to do.
But instead you sat at the other end of the table from me, just out of earshot, pretending to hold court like Jabba the Hutt, like you cooked a feast for eight, like you gathered everyone to my home for festivities, like you owned the place.
You decided that this might be a good time to rage against Obama, and The Blacks, the Pakistanis and some other unsuspecting group of people who were lucky to be absent. You moaned about your housekeeper, the one I procured for you. You don't know this but you have been placed in the Never Darken My Doorstep Again pool of people I’ve known. Yes you and that tired old queen who arrived late —from the waist up looking like an ancient sophomore and a peasant from the waist down —and who spoke gibberish that no one could follow and who had the audacity to join in with your passion of hate like he knew what he was talking about. There is nothing like two old fools.
A dear friend asked: Could it be that he was trying to be hip and show he could talk about people different from himself? I would muster a yes if he hadn’t raised his voice and been nothing but boorish. I would say yes, if they hadn’t poked at the food like Henry Vlll suspecting poison, and hadn’t abruptly left leaving my front door open allowing the cat to escape.
Consumed by rage is what Jabba the Hutt is. Rage so insidious that his whole being reeks of it. You can see it coming. Hobbling so stiffly that one imagines cement is his elixir of choice. Cemented rage. Like a comic character, part Hulk, part Joker.
It was an eye opener. One of those things that you let go, but never forget.
Yes indeedy-do.
But instead you sat at the other end of the table from me, just out of earshot, pretending to hold court like Jabba the Hutt, like you cooked a feast for eight, like you gathered everyone to my home for festivities, like you owned the place.
You decided that this might be a good time to rage against Obama, and The Blacks, the Pakistanis and some other unsuspecting group of people who were lucky to be absent. You moaned about your housekeeper, the one I procured for you. You don't know this but you have been placed in the Never Darken My Doorstep Again pool of people I’ve known. Yes you and that tired old queen who arrived late —from the waist up looking like an ancient sophomore and a peasant from the waist down —and who spoke gibberish that no one could follow and who had the audacity to join in with your passion of hate like he knew what he was talking about. There is nothing like two old fools.
A dear friend asked: Could it be that he was trying to be hip and show he could talk about people different from himself? I would muster a yes if he hadn’t raised his voice and been nothing but boorish. I would say yes, if they hadn’t poked at the food like Henry Vlll suspecting poison, and hadn’t abruptly left leaving my front door open allowing the cat to escape.
Consumed by rage is what Jabba the Hutt is. Rage so insidious that his whole being reeks of it. You can see it coming. Hobbling so stiffly that one imagines cement is his elixir of choice. Cemented rage. Like a comic character, part Hulk, part Joker.
It was an eye opener. One of those things that you let go, but never forget.
Yes indeedy-do.
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CJ