Had a good day at work. Christy will be here soon. But something is bugging me...
I know what it is:
A few days ago, one of the managers at the Home Depot brought in a few plates of confections for all to enjoy. He called them cookies, but they were more like tiny cakes, or maccaroons for that matter: coconut, chocolate chips, butterscotch morsals, pecans, and a crushed graham cracker crust held together by butter. They weren't exceptionally healthy, nor were they exceptionally out-of-this-world good. Don't get me wrong, they were good, just not holy-shit good.
Nonetheless, he was proud of his venture. He isn't exactly a domestic sort of male, and a success anywhere outside of his normal routine is news-worthy. He had not, however, shaken loose the limited tough-guy vocabulary he had been burdened with. One would assume an individual would trade in their subliterate lexicon for an apron, but not this guy. In response to praise for his sweet creations, he composed a dialogue that went as follows (and I quote):
"Like 'em?"
"Hell yeah!"
"Made 'em!"
"Really?!"
"Yep...I made those shits."
It was after dropping this retarded aural bomb that he described the baking process, revealing his secret recipe came out of a home magazine his wife subscribes to - his fancy Spanish wife...
What bothers me the most about this scenario is plain to see. The phrase "I made those shits" is both tragic and triumphant. It is a molestation of the English language, but it is piloted by an over-whelming sense of pride. When a child with Downs Syndrome makes a basket in gym class, they feel proud of themselves. When an ex-Marine (or, Marine - when you're a Marine, you're a Marine for life) bakes a few dozen sugary still-births, he feels the same sort of pride as the child with Downs Syndrome: 'Hurray - I did good.' I can't disect the lingual undertones of this declaration because that would be the same sort of cynicism that comes with mocking the retarded. It simply is not in good taste.
But godammit if that's stopped me before...
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