Partly Cloudy, 64°
Okay, so I might have goofed up a little. There were a few times where a "my bad" on my part was certainly warranted; I squashed a few dreams, ruined a few lives, and perhaps even dropped a baby or two. But that baby dropping occurred when I got excited that "Slumdog Millionaire" won all those Oscars-it gave me hope that people would stop blaming me for all their problems once they saw how slum life could look appealing if only filmed through the right high-definition lens.
But back to the matter at hand. I am tired of people blaming me for all their problems. To paraphrase the inimitable Samuel L. Jackson, "I'm tired of these motherfuckin' whiners always on my motherfuckin' case." In the first place, stuff isn't that bad. McDonald's still sells McFlurries, we have an African-American in the White House, and there's still no country in the world that has more guns per capita. My children might not be able to go to college, but they'll always be able to get a job as a greeter in the third or fourth local Wal-Mart. The fundamentals of our economy-obesity, alcoholism, and prescription drugs-have only grown stronger in these trying times.
But even if I stumbled, took a misstep or two, and deserve some blame for evaporated 401ks and the return of powdered milk to kitchens across America, there is a limit to what you can blame me for. Erectile Dysfunction? Bitch please-Viagra from the Internet was still cheaper than a family-size box of Lucky Charms the last time I checked, and unless watching CNBC used to arouse you, I'm not taking the fall for that one. Contrary to popular belief, Bernie Madoff was not my accomplice-he screwed me over when I tried to invest some of my wife's inheritance without her knowledge.
The coffee at Starbucks is not terrible because of me: some of the barista's disdain for all things pedestrian just happened to slip into your cup. The roommate who leaves his back hair all over the shower is in no way affiliated with me. Even though the guy in the reeking Volkswagen Beetle who took your flea market parking spot is poor, he has been in that altered state ever since he licked a small piece of paper with a smiley face on it in 1968.
A frustrated motorist blamed me for his flat tire this past Thursday, and on Monday a museum curator found me culpable for the poor attendance at his "Perspectives on Clitoral Symbolism in 17th Century Tapestry" exhibit. Then I heard an air traveler blame me for her delayed flight out of Buffalo; later that same day some Twittering pre-teen even cursed me because her cell phone battery was dying.
Why aren't you blaming God anymore? Did that fall out of fashion? You fickle people should try blaming your kid who was born after the expired condom broke, or even fall back into your racist stereotypes, but for heaven's sakes (that's another good one) don't use me as an all-purpose scapegoat. Yo-yos and rubber bath toys are portable, and neo-conservatism or "oppression of the global south" might betray to others some intelligence on your part.
And from a practical standpoint, don't keep blaming me because I will only suffer more under the weight of the blame and fall into deeper depression. Cut me some slack or I'm going to end up hanged. Go to pinatas.com and get yourself a custom piñata to take it out on something else-you don't even have to insert the tilde, and they're cheap too.
- The Economy
