Not long ago, I sent this meme to a group of people I thought would enjoy it (and get it.) All but one of the recipients thought it was absolutely hilarious. The exception thought it was "sick" and did not like it at all.
Now, I am the kind of person who recoils from the very thought of having a human being in my freezer. UGH, how disgusting! But, in the context at left, it does strike me as uproariously funny.
It takes a special kind of depraved mind to appreciate sick jokes. Depraved but intelligent and witty as all hell. And who on earth would take a joke like this seriously anyway? Someone who's too serious for their own good, that's who.
As a kid, I was a big fan of Charles Addams, loved Alfred Hitchcock's demented but brilliant mind, and never failed to gravitate toward irreverent people. My father and maternal grandfather may have had something to do with that, given their eccentric and wickedly funny sense of humor. And I know both Grandpa and Dad would have thought the above screwball meme was hysterical.
My grandfather was the King of Practical Jokes...placing a garishly-painted coconut head in my mother's bed, and lighting a cigarette in its mouth as soon as he heard her at the front door, returning home from a date. Or, knowing how afraid she was of certain things, asking her to "please get something from my room." And when she opened the door, Grandpa had let ALL his pet birds out of their cages, one of her worst fears come true. Now that may seem 'cruel' to some people, but not me! I still crack up whenever I think of it.
My father was another character, coming up with answers that no one else could ever think of. When I first noticed Les Paul and Mary Ford's 'overdubbing' (multiple voices on a recording) I asked my father "How do they do that?"
He replied, "Well, they line up a whole bunch of microphones in the studio and then Mary Ford RUNS back and forth as she's singing..." In an attempt at conversation, he once asked my first boyfriend "So, do you like feetsball?" Poor guy didn't have a clue that he meant football until I told him.
So, with these two influences (genetic and otherwise) my own sometimes macabre way of viewing life may have come into being. And growing up in a screwball neighborhood, Little Italy in the Bronx, circa-1950s, certainly contributed something too. Wise cracks were a way of life. The quick comeback was essential if you wanted to be accepted (and in some cases, stay alive!) We were all irreverent kids, and some of us never grew up.
Getting back to the present, my one extremely brief experience with marriage does give me a special appreciation for having "more space on the sofa."
MWAAHAHAHAAAAAHAHHAAHA.....
