In my last post, I revealed a malady brought on by the stress and anxiety of living a lie. As promised, here’s the explanation:
In a previous post, Bees and Calligraphy, I wrote the following about bees:
They make honey, that sweet nectar byproduct without which Pooh Bear would have never gotten his head caught in a honey pot, in that adorable image by A. A. Milne. If it weren’t for that image, I’d have nothing tattooed to my left butt cheek.
This revelation elicited a myriad of responses:
- That’s weird.
- That’s funny.
- That’s unusual.
- That’s weird in a funny and unusual way.
- That’s adorable.
- Wait, it’s on your butt? That’s not adorable, that’s horrifying. You’ve defiled a precious childhood memory. If I ever meet you in person, I will whomp you on the head with an ax handle.
- May I see it?
- A.A. Milne is turning over in his grave.
- That’s amazing. I have the same tattoo on my left breast.
- Stop following me you creep, or I’m going to blast you in the face with pepper spray.
- I’m going to consume alcohol until every brain cell I have containing that mental image is destroyed.
Note: Upon reflection, the thing about the pepper spray is probably an entirely unrelated matter.
But I have a confession to make: it’s all a horrible lie.
I don’t have a tattoo of Pooh Bear or any other beloved cartoon character on my left butt cheek. In fact, I haven’t any tattoo of any kind anywhere on my body.
I know what you’re thinking now: has everything I’ve read on this blog been nothing but falsehoods and mindless tripe. Allow me to clear the air regarding a few items that have appeared in this blog.
- Did a crack-head, wielding a razor blade, really accuse me of being a leprechaun: yes.
- Did I work in a place where the foreman had a pathological hatred of raccoons because they have “little people hands”: yes.
- Did I meet Bigfoot in a local pub and enrage him when I accused him of having chiggers: no.
- Did I ridicule a Bigfoot hunter when he claimed the best way to escape a female Bigfoot was to run downhill, because female Bigfoot can’t run downhill due to their large floppy breasts: yes.
- Did I subsequently interview Lady Bigfoot regarding the allegation that she has large floppy breasts: Don’t be ridiculous…her breasts were immaculate.
- Did I receive an angry letter from, Eduardo, a Bolivian pudding maker, after I may have implied an association between Bolivian pudding and Egyptian dung beetles: no. I did, however, receive a scathing letter from an Egyptian dung beetle.
- Was I frisked and manhandled by the police in Amarillo, Texas: yes.
- Did I watch the greatest comeback in NFL playoff history (the Buffalo Bills’ 32 point comeback over the Houston Oilers) in a seedy bar in Amarillo, Texas surrounded by hostile patrons who resembled the cast of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly: yes.
- Was one of the patrons fondling a blood stained machete: possibly. His hands were under the table; he could have been fondling anything under there.
- Did I once pull on to the tram line in Buffalo, New York, after mistakenly believing it to be a weird little street: yes.
- Did I then, in an ill-fated attempt to turn around, get the vehicle wedged between the curbs: yes.
- Did I once inadvertently wash my hair with flea and tick shampoo: yes.
- Did I dig a moat around my home to keep out Gerald the neighbor kid: no.
- Did I put piranha in the moat: weren’t you paying attention, there’s no moat.
- Was I denied the sale of eggs after jokingly telling the cashier that I was going to throw them at a police car: yes.
- Did I once anger an Aunt at a family picnic, by stating that her potato salad tasted like battery acid and death: yes. (But not as much as when I told her she had chunky thighs. The phrase “chunky thighs” is compliment in some cultures. Not in ours, but in some.)
- Did I inadvertently set another person’s vacuüm cleaner and carpet on fire: yes.
- Do I really have an irrational hatred of mimes: it’s not irrational.
- Did I really smash a mooning garden gnome with a shovel because its butt was directed at my kitchen window: not that you or anyone else can prove.
- Was I once taken captive by a crazy woman–Misery style– because I had stopped writing this blog to focus my Jersey Shore fan fiction: no.
- Do I write Jersey Shore fan fiction: If only I had that type of ability.
Now that this burden has been lifted from my conscience, the healing can begin.