Somebody called me a bitch the other day and it didn't occur to me to be offended. It wasn't even subtle, either. "Bitch," Grant hollered from the booth as I walked into the crowded restaurant, "we're over here. Sit your late ass down." I complied without the thought even entering my mind to put him in a headlock or anything ... OK strike that, the thought of Grant in a headlock is a constant in my mind, just not in relation to what he ever calls me.
Because Lord knows I have called him a lot worse in front of a lot more people without even a hint of worry that he'd be offended. In fact, we are alike in that it's almost impossible to really offend either of us. In additional fact, whenever someone is successful at offending me, I'm often more impressed than offended. "Lord, I didn't think it was possible to piss me off," I'd marvel, "but here I am really pissed off."
Take the time I was trying to teach a seminar when Grant and Lary had stopped by to do their best to derail the occasion. First Lary passed out his new batch of obscene refrigerator magnets ("I Have a Hard-On for Jesus!"), then they both took a seat and proceeded, over the next half hour, to tell my students, essentially, not to "believe a word this bitch says about us." And that is not even the part that rankled me.
What rankled me was, right when I thought things had settled down and I could recommence the very serious business of imparting my immense wisdom, these two went into the other room and tried to drown me out with internet porn. That's right, and they picked the worst time to do it, too; right when I was talking about something super-serious and dear to my heart and heavy with importance and having to do with creativity and crap. That's right, at that precise moment everything got sucked into a total toilet spin thanks to the sounds of Up and Cummin Fuck Fixation, Volume One blaring from the next office! Jesus God! You'd think those two suckballs would know to keep some decorum when I'm orating, for Jesus God's sake!
I was sorta kinda quasi furious, actually, and to this day I keep thinking I need to talk to them about it until I remember that, as much as I hate to admit it, this is exactly the kind of audacious behavior that has inspired me creatively over the years, and the whole incident itself was probably better evidence of this than anything I could have imparted with my carefully crafted, super-serious oration. So, in essence, as long as I'm in a state of wanting to kill those two conniving asstards, I will have as much material and as much irritation-generated inspiration as I need. It's hard to be offended once you look at it that way.
Because the three of us literally consider it our duty to derail the other, and ourselves if we can think of it, when we see ourselves going down the wrong track. For example, I remember on a morning talk show I once said the word "pussy." I figured if they didn't ask me back after that, then I knew I had no business being there in the first place. Because "pussy" happens to be one of my favorite words, not because of what it represents, but because of the reaction it can illicit. This word is not a profanity, yet for some reason it's been kidnapped by the easily offended and banished to the Island of Unwanted Words. Now there's this weird commonality of consciousness in which it's assumed we all agree we won't utter it.
Screw that, I utter it all the time. It's kind of a denominator for me. Like Grant's big-ass body piercing right there on his head. Before getting it done he voiced his hesitation to me, fearing he wouldn't be able to relapse into a life of respectability after being marked as unconventional. "That's exactly why you need to do it," I advised him. So he did it and there was no turning back -- except for that one time when he allowed an airplane mechanic to unpierce him so he could qualify for first-class on a buddy pass. But let's face it, there's even a threshold for taking your unseriousness too super-seriously, and if I was there and had seen that Grant was about to take that track, I would have done my best to derail him. Luckily he didn't need me. "Yank it out," was all he said. The second the plane landed he simply re-impaled himself.
Regarding the morning talk show, they did ask me back, but then they also asked me not to say "pussy" again, too. I was all ready to be offended and bloviate about the importance of self-expression, but luckily Grant was there, saw that I was about to take that track and was quick to derail me. "Bitch," he said, "don't be so super-serious. I know you can go ten minutes without saying the word 'pussy.' After the show we can go out to the car and scream it at the top of our lungs all the way home if you want."
So in case anyone was wondering, that was me and Grant screaming "Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!" at the top of our lungs down the thoroughfare the other morning. I am sorry if we offended anyone. Super seriously I am.
Hollis Gillespie authored two top-selling memoirs and founded the Shocking Real-Life Writing Academy (www.shockingreallife.com).
Mobile
