Nobody Can Eat Fifty Eggs
MAY 28, 2010 6:08PM

I'm Sorry I Called Your Wife A Gefilte Fish

Rate: 12 Flag

It's all about the give and the take. After eight years of small town living, I finally figured that out. I gave up my anonymity when I moved here. And I must take a dart, once a month or so, throw it at the Oregon map and get the flock out of here to relocate my strange, the estranged, our strangers.

My town counts 700 residents as permanent. Most of them think they know me, know of me or have heard of me. My residential curiosity does not run as deep and as wild as most local eyes and ears. And my friends know that. Most locals don't or have yet to realize that about me. Yet, I do say hi, I do give a nod, I do wave to hundreds of people I know, people I like, I respect on any good weathered day or on any screaming gale in this small town along the Oregon Coast.

And it begins, anew, each morning at the coffee house,  it starts with the small talk, the chit, the chat, oh shit here we go again, the questions--the weather?...its cold and damp "How's your baby boy?" he's warm and damp.The tourists?....cold and clammy. The Trailblazers? and cold and sweaty. They just keep coming and stopping, plopping down, these conspicuous irrelevancies. That is how and why I developed my immune system, my disease, my defense against them....I had no choice they created it. I just wanted a little Garbo time--at times.

I call it Voluntary Tourettes Heartburn and it can strike at any bored, frustrated, get the fuck out of my general vicinity moment. Sheyboygan, Boris Spassky, Boxcar Willie or Geraldo can spasm, blurt and bleep from my voice box when I'm interrrupted, inconvenienced or just feeling ornery. My own Private Idaho  invaded by Oregonians. Ralph Malph, Bolivia, Buttafuoco, zamboni and Bjorn Borg will flow my from lips and smack the confused homegrown dickweedius-interruptus and slam the befuddled dipshitius-localus upside their melons like a Nolan Ryan fastball. It is a clarion moment. That one or two word brilliantly tossed curve ball, bean ball of Hoboken, Dirk Diggler or Slim Whitman can keep a local pestering local from pestering me locally for weeks sometimes months.

I've learned alot in the eight short years of small town life. I think I've  got the give and the take thing down. Now if I can only master the art of my Voluntary Tourettes. You see, I've been keeping a low profile for a few weeks. There is an angry husband after my hide. He wants to fillet me open for calling his wife a gefilte fish. I want to explain to him my condition, but in a small town word spreads faster and more cattywampus than a tsunami. It can turn into a redneck version of telephone and before you know it I'm a leper with irritable bowels or worse a Republican with happy bowels.

Maybe I'll just show him a note from my doctor explaining my disorder. Yeah,  he'd listen to Dr. Huxtables' or Dr. Welbys' words.

Or one morning I could just call him Dirk Diggler.


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Rated for mentioning Ralph Malph and misspelling gefilte fish._r
Joan--I must have purchased a non-kosher black market jar of gefilte fish. It was fifteen years ago, but I swear it was spelled gevelta. Thank you I will fix the word. Oy vey
No matter. It was funny either way.
Even better, hang the doctor's note outside the coffee shop. Very clever and amusing choice of words. R
You had me at gefilte fish. You really got me with dipshitius-localus, Nolan Ryan and closed the deal with... hot diggity, Dirk Diggler. What a way with Tourettes you have, bubela.
My uncle Jackie used to tell me that if you aren't chased out of town by an angry mob with pitchforks and torches at least once in your life, you haven't lived.

Then again, he came to a very bad end. Something about a young lady, an arms deal and some reloaded ammunition with foil covered bullets.

Anyway, good luck with your angry husband. I recommend barricades, warning signs and a reputation for land mines and an itchy trigger finger.

That kept 'em away from grandpa for years.
I am so grateful to you. I've been looking for a new and interesting illness to help me endure people. This should be easy where I live. Thank you for saving my spirit.
Joan--I am going to try and make you laugh three times this weekend--this is not of them.

Thoth--That'd get all the Shaman and High Priestesses, Goddesses, and alchemists alerted to my condition and I'd be inundated with every remedy to anti-Western medicine known to pagan or beast.
Sally--I was Dirk Diggler's stunt double for Boogie Nights. But, due to my Voluntary Tourettes I said something totally appropriate to Burt Reynolds and I was replaced by a newer, smaller, emptier vessel.
Brilliant tactic, must try soon. Just let me read my paper or daydream alone. please.
Doug--Not sure if this strange town has any pitchforks or torches. But when the time comes, and it is ripe with anger, I will gladly foot the bill for the purchase of said implements. Bring 'em on...
They'll never get past my moat or my pet dragon.

You uncle Jackie is a sage.
At least you didn't say she smelled like gefilte fish. I was once somewhere on the coast of Oregon. There was a big rock there and some really crappy art work. I guess that doesn't narrow it down much.
You must be in sales...

Hatchetface--"A big rock and crappy art," I can name that town in two notes. But I won't. I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with Dannon Leech.
Does this work with hovering waiters who interrupt a conversation with the person dining with you--over and over again? "Is everything okay here?" It WAS,until you interrupted, Bozo.
Larry of course I'm in sales....soupy sales. Can I interest you in a bowl of pea porridge, or slurry? How about some lime gruel? No, I got it, you look like a Soylent Green I right?
L in the Southwest--Voluntary Tourettes is a very effective tool in disabling a verbose and tactless waitron. For waitrons I suggest one of the following Voluntary Touretticisms--Dick Butkus, Bukowski or Gary Busey.
I figure you're upwind of Tillamook, elsewise you'd be too busy with your stinging eyes and assaulted nostrils to care.
Try letting a little Bobby Fischer come out, instead of Boris Spassky. My favorite Bobbyism: An announcer came up to him after he'd beaten some Russky and said "You played a great game, Bobby," and Fischer replied "How would you know?"
l'Heure Bleue--I can not speak for other self-medicating Voluntary Tourettes choosers, but I do know I have added one year two months and 13 days to my life since I created the program.
I am honored to serve you with any future questions...thank you and Mogadishu good day.
C andV--Your internal compass is working. I am in the North County stench-free zone where the only troublesome aromas and tearing of the ducts come from the powerful scent of new old money moving in.
Con-I will take your advice and unleash my inner Fischer the very next time I'm about to check mate my opponent in Stratego or double check mate them in Battleship--I will bellow proudly Boris Badenuff, Bela Lugosi, beluga and Yakov Smirnoff.
Rita--The intrusions usually occur while there is a newspaper in front of me or a pen in my hand. A quick Touretticism delivered before they can even get their foot in your door is what I would classify a preemptive strike.
You are a clever hunk of matzoh.
Lea--Thank you. I have the occasional unleavened morning where nothing can get a rise out of me. Then there are the other six days of the week where some twit slams the oven door and my bundt cake goes flaccid.
Token Tarheel-- I am going to boast--I carry a 1.3 handicap in golf. Out of respect to my tools, I will always keep my weapons safe and in the bag. Doesn't mean I won't take your advice and sport a fine, wicked whacking stick.