If You Can't Say Something Nice...

I can’t do anything right. This weekend’s events have signaled yet another resounding failure etched into my permanent record.

I have been satisfied with, and even striven for, mediocrity in nearly every facet of my miserable life, but there is one task that I have attacked with a vengeance. I have poured every ounce of my energy into becoming an A-1 colossal asshole of immeasurable magnitude. But now I must concede to failure once again.

My morose mood was triggered when a gal friend of mine filled me in on a conversation she had with yet another gal friend of mine. Note that I call them gal friends. It has a disparaging and minimizing ring to it, as intended. It’s all part of my grand design to make sure that my funeral is highly anticipated yet poorly attended. The design needs some work, though, because the conversation went something like this:

"I haven’t seen Brad in a while. How’s he doing?"

"Oh, you know. Still trying to be an asshole."

"Yeah, he works at being a curmudgeon, but his bark is worse than his bite. He really has a big heart, you know."

This from a woman I have reduced to tears on more than one occasion, just for the sport of it. And all I get in return is her public commentary on my big heart? That’s slanderously cruel.

I was still reeling from the embarrassment of that failure when I checked my email this morning. I had a kind message awaiting me from my friend Nancy, a.k.a. Klevabich, a fellow blogger and one of the upwards of three readers of my cyberwaste. Nancy and I have never met, and we live 2,000 miles apart, but we frequent one another’s blog sites because we have no respect for ourselves. Nancy wrote to tell me that she had bust a gut over a couple of my recent cantankerous rantings. I was fine with that, since I take no responsibility for anything produced by my mouth or my typing finger. But she couldn’t let it go at that. No, she had to cast aspersions by adding, "something tells me you’re no crankier than the average person…and probably not all that much of a bastard either."

You see? They’re throwing stones from clear across the continent! Way to spoil the moment, Nancy.

These events don’t mark the first time I’ve fallen victim to such caustic, off-handed character assassination. When I turned 40 years of age, my wife-of-the-moment solicited eulogistic written comments from friends and family and other assorted idiots. She had the comments framed and hung them in the living room, thereby creating a wall of shame to remind me that I was a panty-waste.

One thoughtless bastard wrote, "Brad always has a big smile on his face and a laugh that comes from the heart." That bit of unwarranted criticism compelled me to compile a Christmas card list and take him off of it. Then I eliminated everybody else, too.

My younger sister leapt at the chance to disparage me. "On the outside he can appear so crabby and harsh, but there is a huge, soft heart on the inside. Ya can't help but love the guy."

Some gratitude. The only reason my parents had a third child was to apologize to society for the second child, who wasn’t working out too well. It only serves them right that the third child grew up a liar and a poor judge of character.

In her response to the same homework assignment, my Mom wrote that I have "a certain special charm." At least she knows I’m an asshole, even if she had to cloak that knowledge in mom-speak. Now if I could only impress that same sense of motherly intuition on those of you who lack the common decency to respect my bad intentions.

Now, my dad gets it. He knows I’m an asshole and he knows which side of the family I get it from. He has taken to wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with BRAD’S DAD when he’s working out at the gym. It’s my gym, too, so he’s well aware of the audience’s perspective. At first blush, the T-shirt could be construed as a proud paternal statement, but I know better. He’s just trying to pick a fight. A T-shirt with FREE CHARLES MANSON across the back would just be too easy.

Big heart, huge heart, soft heart. Goddamn it to Hell! What do I have to do to get through to you people? Rip my blackened heart out of my chest and beat you over the fuckin’ head with it?

You have forced my hand. I’m pulling out all stops and resorting to extreme measures. That’s right, I’m going to have to kill a guy.

And I’ll do that as soon as I find someone I trust to take care of my kitties while I’m in prison.