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I Missed the Boat on ‘Mister Poopy Pants’, Too

Fill it to the rim… with Blog™

Have you ever wished that you’d been born in a different time or place? Maybe you wish you were Bulgarian — or maybe you are Bulgarian, so you wish you were anything else. Perhaps you’d have been happier in some other era — in the past, where you could bask first-hand in the genius of Einstein, or Lombardi, or even Blanc. (That’s ‘Mel’, not ‘Matt Le’, kiddies.) Or maybe the future’s the place for you, where the nightmares of SARS and cancer and The Anna Nicole Show will have been wiped out forever.

Possibly, your problem is not quite so severe, and you’re generally happy when and where you’re currently situated. But still — you feel as though you’re missing out on something. It may be because of some physical limitation (Gary Coleman will never play in the NBA, for instance), a societal restriction of some kind (no straight man will ever be asked, nor even allowed, to choose window treatments), a ‘coolness’ deficiency (like the one afflicting Steve Guttenberg), or a deplorable lack of talent (see ‘Top, Carrot’). Or, it could be a combination of all of the above (like the unfortunate set of circumstances that prevent me from becoming a porn star, for example). Whatever the reason, you have these vague notions that you’re somehow incomplete, and not quite as fulfilled as you ought to be. I have those feelings, too. And on most days, I’m able to pick myself up and live with my anxieties, hopeful that the nagging sense of emptiness will someday fade away.

Today is not one of those days.

You see, sometimes the clouds of life will part, and the fog of ignorance will melt away, leaving you face to face with one of those things. Something that you would have achingly missed, had you only known it existed. Something that you now want so badly, but alas, can never have. Something that you now kick yourself for not seeing earlier — could you have willed yourself into the right place at the right time? Or paid more attention to the world around you? Or learned to give a really good foot massage, perhaps? Would any of those things have mattered? Would your feet be relaxed and silky right now? No one can say for sure. All that you know is that you’ve missed an opportunity. You’re a second-class citizen, a day late and a dollar short. You missed the boat, and now you feel like a dinghy. And that, my friends, is what happened to me today. I stumbled smack into something that I should have been all over, but which has already run its course. It shames me to admit this, but I have to confess to someone, and you’re the lucky reader:

I slept through ‘asshat’.

It absolutely devastates me to say that. I mean, I fancy myself as exactly the type of person who ought to be out there, bounding amongst the daisies and dropping ‘asshat’s left and right. It’s rude, it’s obscene, and — added bonus — it even has a perfectly logical explanation, replete with appropriate mental image: person with head up own ass; therefore, wearing their own ass for a ‘hat’; ergo, asshat. Asshat! Huzzah! I was positively tickled to find it. I even thought that it might be The One — a sneery, smirky, sasstacular signature epithet that I could practice in the mirror until I owned it and made it all mine. Oh, I didn’t invent the asshat — no, sir — but I would perfect it. I was going to work my tail off (pause to acknowledge pun… little more… and move on) to be the King of Asshat. The Duke of Asshattery, if you will. The Ruler of Asshat Nation.

But it was not to be. It seems that I myself have been wearing an asshat of my own for some time now.

(I wondered where the echoes kept coming from…)

You see, ‘asshat’ is yesterday’s news. Overused and tired, it was a screaming meteor of a pissy putdown, but it appears that its star has already faded. It’s as unhip as — well, ‘unhip’. The cool crowd has already assed there, and hatted that. Nobody wants to hear it anymore, and they’re off to worship at the altar of the next Snappy Comeback That Makes Me Feel Cooler Than the Rest of You™. And so, I weep. I don’t know what the hell I’ve been doing, but it had nothing to do with calling people ‘asshat’, I can tell you that. It should’ve, but tragically, it didn’t. Oh, the fun we could have had together, too — asshat and I. Why, I had already made plans for us to spend some quality time together, in all sorts of conversations. Observe:

Fat, drunk, and asshatted is no way to go through life, son.

<Cartman>You will respect mah asshat-itay!</Cartman>

Get thee to an asshattery!

Moo-chas grassy-ass, See-nor assy-hat!

Curiosity killed the asshat, you know.

If you weren’t an asshat, I’d kiss you right now!

Yes, Virginia, you are an assy-hat.

But it’s all for naught. I suppose I shouldn’t torture myself over it (though I could use a good spanking…). Anyway, I blinked, and asshat passed me by. I can’t use it now without being passe, and so I’ll have to move on, knowing full well the riches that were there for the taking. Oh, well. Life goes on. I still have ‘willydiddler’ and ‘bumblefuck’ to keep me company, and so I’ll bid adieu to ‘asshat’ and move on to other endeavors. But now I’m more determined than ever to catch the next wave, and milk it for all its worth. So help me out, folks — keep your eyes and ears open (and out of your asses, for certain), and if you hear of the Next Big Thing™, let me know. I’ve got some catchin’ up to do. Or, as the cool kids say these days:

“I’ve fallen behind, and I can’t get up!”

(Heh. I’ve still got it, eh? Um, hello? That one’s still cool, right? Right? Helloooo? Where did everybody go? Aw, poop.)