Have you ever had one of those days? It’s not a perfect day, but it’s a pretty good one. Nothing goes incredibly wrong. People leave you alone and let you do your thing. All told, it’s not a bad day. Then…right as the day is coming to a close and you think, “Well, all in all this was a decent day”, somebody you love comes along and kicks you in the nuts. And it’s not just a regular kick in the nuts. It’s a baby nut kick. Know what I mean? Have you ever spent time playing with a baby? Like all afternoon you’re playing with this kid, and he’s smiling and you’re smiling. He giggles, you giggle. And you’re thinking to yourself, “Babies are awesome!” Then, just as you’re about to hand the little bastard back to his mother, his disposition changes. Maybe he doesn’t want to go back to his mother. Or maybe he’s got a mad poop heating up his rump and it’s making him ornery. Or maybe, just maybe, he has the ability to look into your eyes and see every sin you’ve committed since you discovered lying, cheating and masturbation. Who knows? But those deep, innocent eyes suddenly turn satanic. The baby rears his leg back so far his heel is almost touching the back of his supple head. And with the swiftness of Jackie Chan, the little fucker catches you right in the twig and berries with those steel-toed baby booties. A kick so hard snot runs out of your nose. And just like that, playtime turns into a lot of wincing and the desire to throw the little turd about fifty feet. No more happy time. One swift kick and your whole day (and the hopes of children in the future) is ruined.

That was my day today. Pretty good day. But then the night came and I got a baby nut kick. It was precise like Vinatieri when he beat the Raiders back in 2001, taking the wind out of their sails. We all get taken advantage of at some time during our lives. You get hit and you learn from it so it doesn’t happen again. But when it comes from people you love, it’s a steel-toe right to the groin. Because they know that you love them and if they so desire, they will drain you until there’s nothing left. Then, while you’re wallowing in your own filth, wondering what exactly happened, they’ve moved on to a new host. They took all your love could give, then they gave you a swift baby nut kick and said adios.

I sometimes wonder if I keep people at arms length because I am afraid of loving them. I am afraid that eventually they will baby nut kick me too. The problem with that is that I may never be capable of accepting true love from someone. Whenever they start to get close, the sirens begin to blare and red lights flash behind my eyeballs, alerting my brain that some shit is probably about to go down. So, I extend my arm and keep them there for as long as I can, or for as long as they are willing to put up with it.

So, here I sit. A little vodka, a few cigarettes. And I don’t want to be scolded or reminded of all the reasons why I shouldn’t be drinking and smoking. I just want to be left alone. I want to ponder my sore balls. I want to examine why I allow myself to be kicked there repeatedly. Then I want to sleep. I want to have that reoccurring dream I have. I’ve moved far, far away. I’m living in some little village in France. There is nothing close to my modest little home except for wheat fields and bramble. I’ve adopted a little mutt that hung around forever and didn’t seem to care that I kept him held at bay for so long. Maybe down the road a piece there lives a moderately attractive woman who comes to visit me every now and then. We drink and smoke, laugh and share a bed from time to time. But she doesn’t want to marry me, and I have no desire to marry her. We like our space. We like knowing that we’re close but not too close. We like isolation even though, deep inside, we crave a sort of intimacy we’ve convinced ourselves we could never have.

That’s what I am going to dream tonight. Then tomorrow I will awaken and start another day, hoping that it goes well, and hoping that my nuts can avoid being ravaged by those little, steel-toed baby shoes that haunt me so.

It is when the people who claim to be satirizing their subjects actually embrace the very hypocrisy they purport to expose. Instead of skewering the ridiculous, they both perpetuate and validate it. In order to truly satirize a subject, one must actually be aware of the fact that what they are satirizing should be the object of their derision. The flaws, prejudices and hypocrisies of the subjects should be displayed and magnified so greatly that any veracity contained within such prejudices and hypocrisies is completely obliterated and the ridiculousness of the entire situation is amplified to the point of being painfully comedic.

Recently, Rick Murphy, the editor of the newspaper The Independent wrote a column under the pseudonym of YoMama Bin Barack. The column was titled “Why I Should Be Our Next President” and attempts to poke fun at Barack Obama, specifically his lack of political experience. But it also takes time to run through a number of black cliches and stereotypes that seem so misplaced, it is hard to believe that anyone would find the column funny. Murphy’s column is a perfect example of satire gone wrong.

I love satire, especially when it is done by someone who sees very clearly the many blemishes our society has. But I do believe that a satirists must really know his subjects. For instance, Lenny Bruce did several bits on racism. Some were so dead-on, they would have provoked tears had they also not been so smart and funny. But Bruce knew of what he spoke. Bruce had black friends, knew black musicians. He was not unfamiliar with the African-American culture. So, when he steps onto stage and says nigger twenty times in a row, most people are not offended because they know what Bruce is doing. They know that he is taking this cancer that has been festering within this country for so long and he is shoving it in the faces of the people who dare to watch and listen. And he does it in such a way that it can be digested with relative ease and not rejected and regurgitated because the pain of enduring it is too great.

On the other hand, people like Michael Richards and, I assume, Rick Murphy try to satirize racism but fail miserably because they don’t realize or truly believe that the people or issues they are attempting to lambaste are as absurd as they propose. If you hate something or someone then try to ridicule that hate by taking errant literary or verbal swipes at it, it only comes off as baffling and disingenuous. You can’t be a racist or a sexist or a homophobe then try to show others how ludicrous that type of mentality is. If Stephen Colbert were truly an ultra-conservative, fundamentalist stiff then his jokes would go from being bitingly funny satire straight to self-righteous blustering and rhetoric. But Colbert knows the difference. Richards did not and ,at least in this instance, it appears Murphy does not either.

Below are a few examples of when satire really works:

Today, after downing a number of frosty, tummy warming libations with some good friends, I returned home with them and settled in for a few good hours of the addictive game Guitar Hero. Now, I’ve seen the game advertised on television and thought it looked pretty cool, but I never thought I would be as taken with it as I was. For a competitive soul like myself, I felt like the game taunted me. I felt compelled to beat this damn thing. My friends told me that I was pretty good considering it was my first time, but I wanted to get every note right. I wanted to actually be the hero of guitars. Didn’t happen. Still, I found it hard to pull myself away.

The game allows you to play some of the best in rock songs, metal, 80’s rock. Stuff like Santana and The Pretenders and Guns and Roses and Metallica, etcetera, etcetera. And while I played, it occurred to me how cool it would be if they made a jazz version of Guitar Hero. Right? I mean, imagine trying to replicate the solos of Grant Green or Kenny Burrell or the nimblest of fingers in Charlie Christian. Instead of a loud stadium setting, they could put you in some lazy, blue lit nightclub. You could be wearing an old, somewhat worn suit, dark shades and have a perpetually smoking cigarette protruding from your mouth. I think that would be awesome and challenging as well. It may not sell as well, but I think it would sell enough to warrant producing it. There could be blues and classical versions too.

Perhaps the popularity of the game will cause the makers of Guitar Hero to consider expanding their repertoire.

Apparently, you have to be well past your twenties to have an excuse to think about suicide. I wonder if all the teenagers out there who have attempted or
succeeded in killing themselves knew this. Johnny could have set them straight. I hate to call people names because none of us are perfect, but just this once I have to break this rule…or not. I was going to call him an asshole, but that would be an insult to assholes everywhere.

So…this past Friday I went to an otolaryngologists to see if I could find the reason behind the vocal troubles I have been having. Truth be told, I have been having vocal issues for about five or six years now. Basically, I get hoarse, my words seem to choke off from my throat, sometimes I feel myself straining to speak. Not only is it an annoyance but it’s also embarrassing and at times causes me to shy away from social situations. To sum it all up — I hate talking.

It started with periodic hoarseness around 2001, I think. And it got progressively worse until I got to the point where I could barely talk at all. I saw my general doctor, two ENT guys and they all told me the same thing — “Can’t see anything.” Imagine how frustrating that is. You know something is happening but you don’t what it is (”do, you Mr. Jones?”). So, I convinced myself that it was all in my head and all I needed to do is work my way through it.

Years went by and it never really got better. There are days when it feels great and other days when I feel completely choked off. It sucks.

Anyway, the ENT I saw Friday scoped me and he discovered I had a crooked nose that somehow jacked up my sinuses. I have acid reflux which can definitely hurt your vocal chords. AND (drumroll, please) I have spasmodic dysphonia. That’s right, ladies and germs. Spasmodic Dysphonia , which basically means that I am having muscle spasms in my throat. Wonderful. Even more wonderful is the fact that there is no real cure for it. I could get botox, but it lasts only a few months and the idea of having that injected into my throat makes me none too happy.

The doctor attributes the spasms to hysteria and says that I need to drink a lot of water and relax. He’s telling me that stress is causing it. But wouldn’t it be safe to say that IT is causing stress? Hm? Ah, life and all its rewards.

Anyway, there’s nothing I can really do but fight my way through it. Or become a mute and walk around with a dirty top hat and a circus horn like Harpo Marx. Guess I need to learn how to whistle with my fingers, huh?

So, if you see me walking in the grocery store and it seems like I am ignoring you and don’t really want to talk, you’re half right. If you call and I never answer the phone, you know why. And if you want me to scream your name during moments of intimacy and I don’t, well…I probably fell asleep.