Not once, but twice, right there in front of my boss, the lady who signs my paychecks, the gal who has entrusted me to run the editorial department of a paper she has guided for over 10 years, I showcased my utter ineptitude at repeating a simple sound bite from the 2008 political season.
This is why I will never be a politician. This is why I am in awe of Sarah Palin and her ability to recite Roveian talking points without missing a beat. And this is why my heart goes out to George W. Bush, a man who can barely finish a complete sentence without tripping over every two-syllable word. I feel his pain. I understand his woes. Which is why I will not be the one reading Goodnight Moon to the wee ones before bedtime out of a fear they’ll grow up with a stutter. This is why I write.
And you know what? It shouldn’t have been so hard to repeat a phrase, especially in this case. It was only three words — “lipstick on a pig” — but for whatever reason I couldn’t get that out of my mouth. Instead I said, “Pig on a lipstick.” Two times.
Needless to say, the boss lady was amused — although I’m sure she was secretly frightened. I would have been.
Right now, just thinking about my muck-up gets my blood boiling. It’s like my skin’s turning green and my pants are suddenly too tight and I want to smash my head against the wall and scream, “Ten minutes to Wapner. Ten minutes to Wapner.”
Which, oddly enough, is something that happens quite often. See, I just can’t help feeling angry whenever I pick up the paper or turn on the TV. Somebody, somewhere, is going to say something that’s going to make me lose it. I am a slave to outrage. I am addicted to hate.
And these past few weeks have given me plenty to be pissed off about.
Yeah, there’s that whole “pig on a lipstick” controversy. (“Wapner. Wapner.” Crap. Did it again. ) The gall of that man Obama to call Sarah Palin a pig … with lipstick. (Hulk smash.)
Of course, that comment fails to incite a intracranial riot like the remarks made by S.C. Democratic Party chair Carol Fowler and her husband, Don Fowler, the former head of the national Democratic Party. (Serenity now. Serenity now.)
Let’s start with Don. A few weeks back, Mr. Fowler was on a flight, chatting it up with U.S. Rep. John Spratt (D-Rock Hill). The two were discussing Hurricane Gustav and how it looked to be on track to hit New Orleans. And as fate would have it, this was going to happen during the Republican National Convention. Fowler took this as a sign from Gotama and muttered to his pal Spratt, “That just demonstrates God is on our side.” (Honey, you know that vase your Aunt Clara bought us? Um. Well. Do you know where the super glue is? I was reading again.)
But that gruff gaffe has nothing on the crap that came out of Mrs. Fowler’s mouth. Last week, Jonathan Martin at the Politico blog reported that Carol had the audacity to proclaim that the only reason McCain picked Palin was because her “primary qualification seems to be that she hasn’t had an abortion.” (Tension rising. Pressure building. Only an absolutely horrendous string of expletives will calm me down. “Jumping Wendell Gilliard on a pogo stick, slap me twice and call me Al Parish, Cousin Arthur, clean coal. Rabies.” Whew. Crisis averted.)
Of course, not everything bothers me, and not every perceived gaffe is, well, a gaffe. Take for example the recent comments made by Charleston Sheriff Al Cannon following the arrest of three white teens for burning a cross in the town of Meggett. According to The Post and Courier, Cannon said, “[The teens] indicated that it was a bored, mischief type of thing … We don’t believe that this is part of anything greater than three young people involved in some mischief.”
Ah, yes, mischief. Like rolling a classmate’s yard or egging a teacher’s car, burning a cross is harmless fun. Good times. Nothing to get upset about.
I don’t know about you, but I sure feel relieved. Calm even. Thanks, Al.
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