Full moon, my ass

Yesterday I witnessed two separate incidents in which people acted out against someone else when the objects of their bad behavior did not deserve it in the least. The first occurred shortly after 7:30 a.m. and involved a certain someone you may know as me. The second happened around 5:15 p.m. and involved someone you may know who is not me but whose identity I do not know so you will never know if you know her. (Brother’s publicist’s uncle’s urologist’s niece’s ex-father-in laws’s plant-sitter’s twin.) Since I always come first (shush), I’ll address the Jodincident before the other.
On my way out of the gym yesterday morning, I encountered a large man in the small vestibule, blocking the double doors that ordinarily permit my easy egress. He was chit-chatting with a not-so-large man accompanied by two small dogs, minding his own business while apparently oblivious that anyone else had any of their own, e.g. exiting the gym. As he and his goatee gabbed, I said, politely — because I always start with politeness — “Excuse me,” commonly accepted among reasonable people as a way of letting someone else know that you would like him to permit your passage.
This hulk, his goatee, and his orange Hawaiian shirt took one step outside, barely stepped aside, and turned to look at me. With a smile as genuine as Tori Spelling’s tits, he said, “You could have used the other door, you know.”
“You could have stepped aside, you know,” I said, walking away from the scene of the slime, all the while neglecting to draw his peabrain attention to the fun fact that his girth had been clogging both doors.
And with that, his chat-chum let loose a loud, bitter, explosive “Fuck you!” so quick it was almost like a reflex. “Oh, fuck you! Fuck you!”
After I was done unslacking my jaw at this response, I spun around and returned the sentiment. This, in turn, spurred both eloquent gentlemen into further spewings of the same nature, which of course egged me on to respond in kind. I felt very bad that the two adorable Yorkshire Terriers had to witness this display, and said to their very excitable companion, “I am so, so sorry those adorable dogs have to live with such a fucking asshole. I feel so bad for them.”
I say “said”, but really it was more of a shout, because by now I was far enough away that shouting was the only way to continue this charming repartee. The Yorkies let out a yap as the two cursing cretins bulldogged the “fuck you” melody.
As a parting shot, I informed these shmucks that I could not only beat the shit out of them but also kick their asses. I also may have been heard to tell them to not only just be fucked but to fuck each other. And again I expressed my sympathy for the adorable little dogs.
Even though this is New York City, and “fuck you” is tossed around like a beach ball at a high school graduation ceremony, this does not mean that people happening upon the scene do not stop to take notice. Several people had stopped to turn, to see what all the fuckyou was about, and even the guy who mans the front desk of the gym came out to investigate.
Almost ten hours later, as I exited the subway at 42nd Street on my way to meet Matthew at B. Smith’s for apple pie martinis (or cinnamon apple martinis — please, someone, tell me the correct name, so I don’t commit a faux pas!), a woman ahead of me politely said “Excuse me” to a blob of adipose and attitude with its arm propped on a railing, blocking the passage of anyone wanting to use the stairs that it serviced.
“What’s your fucking problem, motherfuckaaaaaaaah?” she said to the demure Indian woman in her sari.
“I just want to go downstairs,” the woman said, refreshingly fuckyou-free.
I was thiiiisclose to saying something to the offender but knew no good would come of it, so I dashed away as quickly as I could and made my way to Matthew, Samantha, and Sarah and the apple drinks posthaste.
In between these two episodes that reaffirmed for me why I prefer the company of dogs to people, I was at “my” salon, getting pedicured, and Fernando, an adorable stylist who works there, sat and talked to me. He said he was feeling somewhat out of sorts because that night there would be a full moon.
“That must be why everyone’s acting so crazy today,” someone else said.
And, you know, as much as I would like to be able to blame the moon on the special brand of unbridled affrontery I had experienced and witnessed, as much as I’d like to blame it on the heat and humidity and on the possibility that these fuckyouphiles had both learned, an hour before the encounters, that they had terminal cancer of their most prized and cherished internal organ, I know I can’t.
All I can do is hope this thing called karma actually exists so it can deliver a stiletto-fueled kick to these fuckers where the sun supposedly don’t (as opposed to “doesn’t”) shine a/k/a the moon.
See you on the dark side, freaks.

0 thoughts on “Full moon, my ass

  1. Sigh. Do you people not read the trade journals or the Wall Street Journal?
    This is part of the guerrilla grassroots marketing campaign for ‘Faget’ – ‘the manly smell of back alleys brings couture back to the streets in this counterculture fragrance from Christian Dior. Strong enough for a man, but made for those who like to wear something a little more frilly, Faget is a constant musky reminder that there’s always something lurking beneath the surface. Made to be worn around the ankles, one aromatic whiff of this backdoor hit will have you bending over to get at your own sweet spot for a little Faget. Available at Bergdorf’s.’

  2. I know I’m spelling it wrong, but as soon as I saw that I cracked up and thought of Jack from Will and Grace who referred to the “Fagat’s guide” instead of Zagat. Maybe that restaurant has Jack McFarland’s stamp of approval on it?

  3. This “canary” in the social coal mine spelled and brought to you by the “Klever Kommentary Klub”.
    I sheet you not.

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