Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 212
Happy Day, Mom — and it’s all your fault
“I
Jim
t’s all your fault,
Mom.”
Remember how all
of your offspring used to dump
that on you at times?
Ah, the good old days.
Of course, it usually wasn’t
your fault, it was ours — but
we only realized that years after the finger-pointing.
However, today, under the
banner of impending Mother’s
Day, I offer you the purest gift
I can give: true insight. And
here, crowned with the shining
halo of full justification, I accuse you of major wrongdoing.
You ruined me, Mom.
You see, I always wanted to
be “stoic,” which carries such
definitions as “impassive, unemotional and uncomplaining,”
but I never even came close.
(Those who know me are
now nodding and chuckling.)
And it’s your fault, Mom.
I mean, despite truly desiring to emulate such masculine
role models as John Wayne,
and express my deepest feel-
ings through terse one-liners,
such as “Not hardly,” I somehow, pretty much end up doing
the opposite.
Nope, I’m anything but stoic,
Mom, and it’s your fault.
I operate under the philosophy that if I have a problem,
and I energetically and emphatically complain about it to folks,
it becomes their problem — and
I can go have a beer.
Relief is just a rant away.
The truth is, I have mostly gotten into trouble for being
the opposite of stoic, and have
been accused of being “talkative,” “rambling” and downright “whiny.” But I prefer the
more attractive “loquacious.”
Did I mention it’s your fault,
Mom?
I have also been accused of
perpetually offering too much
information, wearing my emotions on my sleeve and, thusly, spending too much time exploring my feminine side.
And, herein, I blame you,
Mom.
WALKER
DON’T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY
Yup, you, who were my primary adult role model through
my teenage years, permanently warped me with all of your
frankness, tenderness, empathy, insight, high ideals and
genuine concern for others.
You would talk to me about
pretty much anything, and let
me do the same without recrimination — as long as I
wasn’t endangering innocent
people or breaking any major
laws (which was at least 10 percent of the time).
And, no, Mom, I’m not angling for a bigger chunk of the
inheritance.
This is me, blaming you, for
making me unbearably open,
ridiculously compassionate
and annoyingly forthright —
things, I might add, my daughters are now afflicted with —
so, jeeze, Ma, this deal is never
going to end.
You should be ashamed of
yourself. I mean, look what
your example has led me to. I
am now pushing the infections
of self-evaluation, fair play and
do-unto-others in the media,
corrupting billions of otherwise happy minds.
You’re a regular Typhoid
Mary of touchy-feely.
Holy frijoles.
I have to jump out of airplanes
and wrestle sharks just so guys
will call me a guy and let me
lose money to them at poker.
It’s the same reason I take on
major engine repairs with just a
hammer.
I’m tryin’ to live this thing
down, Ma.
Now, in case you tuned out at
“It’s all your fault,” Mom, this
is a thinly disguised tribute to
you as a parent and a person —
and I hope other mothers who
read it realize how their influence on their children has
made the world a better place.
Of course, this is also my
lame attempt to make up for a
lack of flowers and a late card
this Mother’s Day.
How am I doin’?
I mean, we all offer what
we can, right? And if a twisted outlook, sappy sentimentality and self-deprecation happen
to be the talents I possess instead of money-making skills,
well, that’s that, and you git
what you git.
Hey, that kinda sounds like a
John Wayne-ism.
And, FYI, John Wayne had
to create a whole persona to
overcome the gift his mother
gave him. I mean, she named
him Marion, fer gad’s sake. It’s
a lot to live down.
Well, Happy Mother’s Day,
Mom, and all the rest of you
Pilgrims … awha.
Comment at jwalker@thesignal.com or at http://Twitter.
com/DontSeriously.
