Song Of The Day 8/7/2015: Kyper – “Tic Tac Toe”
And I, I know that it’s… I don’t know, it’s pretty John-Cusack-High-Fidelity of me to do this now. I acknowledge that. It’s a cliché. And I don’t deny I feel a little awkward saying all this, a good twenty years later – twenty years too late, maybe even more. I apologize. But I’m headed to seminary soon, and – forgive me, please – I just know that I’ve been carrying this around with me for years, and it’s holding me back. I admit this is selfish, but please, believe me, once I get this off my chest, the burden will be gone, and I can finish up the rest of my days being the generous, loving, externally-focused beacon of charity and altruism that I went to Swarthmore College to become.
(Whew.) All right. Thank you. Thank you for your generosity and your time. Okay. Here goes.
When we were together, I envisioned our entire relationship as a game of tic-tac-toe.
I never told you this. I know I should have. I apologize. But at least I hope it’ll explain some things. Like how every time we had friends over I put myself square in the middle of the checkerboard carpet and let everyone fill in around me. Or the fact that I started using hashtags in written correspondence 15 years before anyone outside computer class knew what a hashtag was. Or that time at your family Thanksgiving when I ran a black thick-pointed Sharpie over the bald heads of your three uncles. Or that time I had sex with your best friend Rhonda. Clearly, I didn’t know anything about love and romance, and that one shouldn’t frame it within the constructs of a childhood game that nobody wins when played properly. I’m sorry.
Wait, wait… there’s another thing. When I wasn’t envisioning our entire relationship as a game of tic-tac-toe, I was envisioning it as a game of hangman.
I hope that revelation explains a couple of the more unusual things that happened when we were together. Like how some of my greeting card messages to you were missing letters, and if you didn’t figure out what I was trying to say I’d rip them up and throw them away. Or that time when you were in that conference call in Miami, and I got the number of the telephone in the room, called you up and started screaming “Give me an F! Give me an F!” and you lost the Christian seaside resort account because of it. Or that time at your family Thanksgiving when I couldn’t understand a thing your Grandpa Ross was saying to me so I strangled him with an ascot and hung him in the broom closet. Or that time I had sex with your sister-in-law Margo. You know, it’s amazing how liberating letting go of the past can be. But more than that, I’m so very, very sorry.
What’s that? No, that’s all there is. That’s all I wanted to say to you.
Hold on, there’s one more thing.
When I wasn’t envisioning our entire relationship as a game of tic-tac-toe, and when I wasn’t envisioning our entire relationship as a game of hangman, I was envisioning our entire relationship as an obscure game from the days of the eldest Germanic tribes called Die Dumpfe Schreie der Bauernschaft Verhungert. It translates loosely into English as Suffocate-the-Peasant. You play it with a pad of paper, some sewing thimbles, a staple gun and a scythe, if you can find one. The object of the game is… well, look, that’s not the point, the object of the game, that’s got nothing to do with it. The point is, it’s how I envisioned our entire relationship.
I hope that last point might, in some small way, explain some of the weirder things that happened in our relationship, especially near the end. Like when I used to wear stolen prosthetic legs on date night. Or when I used to disappear in the middle of the night, go to the Jackson Heights/Roosevelt Avenue subway stop and dump canola oil and ceramic glaze all over the platform, singing Verdi at the top of my lungs. Or during your family Thanksgiving when I accused your father of practicing Natural Fertility Regulation and shot him with a crossbow. Or that time when I had sex with your personal trainer Skip. It’s just been eating me up inside all this time. You know, guilt is like a flesh-eating virus. And again, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for allowing me this chance to, in whatever small, insignificant way it may seem now, relieve this onus from my blackened heart forever.
And then there’s the fact that I used to envision our entire relationship as a game of Australian Rugby League Football. That explains why I used to _____ in the ###@@)))@@@ and get on the bottom -^^^^@&&!( while you took a ((@#@) with forceps #!)@@)%8 the neighbors ))@(#(((!))0 ________________
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Hello. Let me introduce myself. I’m Gary Busey, Quality Assurance Manager of The Paul Pierson Blog.
Listen, folks, it's like this. You just can't hit a home run every time you come up to bat. Sometimes you have to be happy with a seein'-eye single, you know? Or maybe you catch a beanie to the head and they give you a freebase. Or the pitcher balks and you get a free coupon for a Wimpy's Burger. And sometimes, yes, you even strike out. And you have to be happy about that, 'cause in the grand scheme of things, we're all just prisoners in the Jailhouse Rock! You know what I mean? Yeah! Yeah!
Where am I?
Oh. So, point being, there ain't no graceful way to get out of this blog post. Actually, tell the truth, there wasn't a graceful way into it. And to be honest, it's almost tee time over at the bowling alley, and I'm anxious to go mow me down some ducks. Aren't you? All right then! So let's close this one up, chalk it up to experience, and come back tomorrow for the last day of Week Of Lies, when I'm sure all the kinks'll be worked out. All right! It's down to Jasper Lanes for some frames! Hey, you wanna come?
Uh... could I get a ride from you, good buddy?
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