Hate is a very strong word and one which is often overused. All of us nine- to-fivers claim to “hate” traffic, even though traffic in Roanoke is waiting twice for the same red light, which registers as more like an incontinence on the hate scale. Standing in line at a convenience store behind a person who is buying enough lottery tickets to wallpaper Vinton is indeed annoying, but do I hate them? Certainly not, although I would consider luring them away from the counter with a Slim Jim so I can pay for my milk.
Many of us have something or someone where the word “hate” finds its proper residence. For me it’s the New York Yankees. Born in Brooklyn, New York the year the Dodgers stole away to Los Angeles, my contempt for the men in pinstripes blossomed at an early age. Example: If the Yankees were playing the Taliban in the World Series, I would be in my den wearing a turban and shouting disparaging remarks about Derek Jeter’s lineage in Pashto.
I am not sure if it’s because the Yankees win all of the time, or it might be because they buy up all of the good players, or perhaps it is a fact that the Yanks view my beloved Mets as an ugly baseball cousin who can’t get a date. The mere sight of their logo triggers an immediate onset of hives for most non-Yankee fans. Don’t even get me started on Steinbrenner, who, upon giving up the ghost, went from feared martinet to saintly statesman faster than service for two at the Texas Tavern.
My wife Janet, who is quite a tolerant person (she has to be, considering who she lives with), hates hiccups. Janet is not just annoyed with hiccups; she stages an all out holy war against them whenever air lodges in her chest. Pounding her fist violently against her sternum repeatedly (a la Tarzan), Janet labors rigorously to burst the air bubble within and free herself from hiccup hell. Last week she nearly beat herself to death battling her nemesis, so much so that her thumping summoned two lions and a water buffalo to our front stoop, ending any doubt as to who was Queen of the Jungle around here.
My Son Will hates bees. Perhaps you saw his photo in a recent edition of Play by Play; attempting to escape from a bee that found its way into his baseball jersey. Will was pitching for the Patrick Henry based NABF Wood Bat baseball team, when he inexplicably bolted off the mound and began stripping his clothes off. Needless to say, everyone in the ballpark was a bit confused as to what prompted this impromptu bit of burlesque.
Like a person walking through a spider web, Will was battling a tiny, barely visible foe and looked as though he was experiencing some kind of psychotic break or perhaps a Woodstock-like free love epiphany. Although just his jersey was shed, I am certain that Will would have “gone native” if necessary. Thankfully no further apparel removal was required.
Is there something that you honestly despise? If that something (hopefully it’s not this column) really bugs you (please forgive the pun Will), please write to me at [email protected]. In the words of Bill Clinton “I share your pain.” This could be a cathartic for both of us!
Until then, remember the words of the immortal bard William Shakespeare: “In time we hate that which we often fear.” Truer words were never spoken, unless you choose to quote a more contemporary scribe, Drew Carey who asked “Oh, you hate your job? Why didn’t you say so? There’s a support group for that. It’s called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar.”
If you are more in tune with Drew, I’ll buy the first round fellow haters.
Publishers Note: Jon Kaufman has assured us he LOVES his job as a columnist here at the RSS though he is rather poorly compensated for his keen observations.
By Jon Kaufman [email protected]