Lately, it seems that my words have been rustling some feathers, so I wanted to take my time this week to apologize. See, I’m just a simple man who grew up in Ohio and Maine, which means I’m obviously not as intellectually developed or socially progressive as some of my readers. I can’t help where I’m from, but I try many things to fit in.
Like when I moved to Boston and saw my first black person. I had read about them in books and all, but I had never seen a real, living one. You can imagine my excitement. I even talked to him, told him that his secret was safe with me and that I wouldn’t report him to his owner, which I thought was pretty compassionate.
But I don’t think that’s enough. I need to do something better to properly apologize for my opinions expressed over the past few weeks. I recently called to mind the sagely advice my ma always gave me: “Don’t judge someone until you walk a mile in their shoes.”
She’s right. Maybe I’m upsetting so many people because I don’t understand their lives. That’s why this past weekend, instead of being my boorish, unoriginal, conservative self, I took on the role of my complete opposite — an ultra-cool, progressive scene kid.
This means trading my Hank Williams records for Bright Eyes CDs and swapping my gun for a garden salad. It wasn’t going to be easy, but if I am ever to be as enlightened as my critics, I have to work at it.
First, I had to look the part. I headed out in search of a thrift store, which was harder than it sounds. When I got to one, I thought I was walking into a welfare office, what with all the little Hispanic kids darting about. But after a while, an old, Oriental lady collecting cans outside informed me in broken English that the brick building was in fact a thrift store. Embarrassed, I thanked her, told her to get a job and entered.
I started by seeking out some pants. Normally, I’d buy comfortable-fitting men’s jeans. But to be a know-it-all hip cat, I need to wear pants that look like they should belong to a 7-year-old girl. When I found a pair, I sucked in my gut and wrestled ’em on.
Upon zipping and buttoning, my testicles immediately rolled up into my pelvic cavity. The pain was unbearable. “No wonder these people have no sense of humor,” I said to myself. “If my crotch always felt like it was in a set of vice grips, I’d be in no mood to laugh at anything either.”
Next, I needed to find a T-shirt. But not just any T-shirt: It had to be one that would display an image or message that contrasts with my new lifestyle. For example, if I were a stoner, I’d buy a D.A.R.E. shirt. Or because I’m not Jewish, it’d be hilarious if I wore an “I rocked out at Seth’s Bar Mitzvah” shirt.
Which made me realize something. If you use sarcasm in your humor, you’re an unoriginal hack. But if you use it in your wardrobe, you’re cool and forward thinking. “Hmm, someone better inform Jon Stewart,” I thought. While the whole idea seemed hypocritical to me, I thought that in the spirit of open-mindedness, I shouldn’t call people out for being arrogant know-it-alls.
With the look down, I needed to talk the talk. That meant getting a thesaurus so I could use words like “facetious” in everyday conversation. Sure, I learned big words doing SAT prep, but before now I just felt like a pompous jerk using them. But with my new outlook, I could feel free to use these words to prove to everyone how smart I am.
To complete my transformation, I needed to do something original, like mourn the death of a homeless alcoholic, ride a bike on the sidewalk nearly hitting people as I looked off in the distance through oversized sunglasses, grow a wispy mustache, gauge my ears, get a tattoo of a sparrow, purposely smoke cigarettes in highly visible locations and drink crappy beer. You know, something totally counter-culture that isn’t done by the mainstream puppets of corporate America or anyone over the age of 25 who doesn’t still live with his parents.
After the weekend, I was glad to return to my old ways. Living that life was just too hard, having to constantly judge people, not laugh at tasteless humor and write letters to complain about an a-hole exercising his right to free speech.
But it was a great learning experience. I found out that my smarter, more insightful critics and I actually have a lot in common. We’re both unoriginal. We’re both sarcastic. And we both sound like idiots when we write. Then again, I’m just an ignorant, conservative hick, so at least I have an excuse.
Brian Fudge, a senior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].