Today for a brief moment, I felt an almost paralyzing anxiety—an anxiety that’s been gnawing at me for some time. What was it?
What?
What?
And, at that moment, as a black pickup truck, with more tiny American flags draped from it than silver tinsel on the branches of an artificial Christmas tree, approached from behind, tailgating Old Petey, who was already driving ten miles over the speed limit, and as its driver with a “Make America Stupid Again” red hat crazily waved his hands in anger, as if a yet-to-be-discovered hornet’s nest had released its rage inside the cabin of his huge black Silverado (which did I mention had airplane-sized tires) . . .
What I’m getting here is that my anxiety had been triggered by an insatiable proliferation of impatience bordering on assholery. In a previous post on assholery, I quoted from philosophy professor Aaron James’s wonderful book, Assholes: A Theory. “Our theory,” he writes, “is simply this: a person counts as an asshole when, and only when, he systematically allows himself to enjoy special advantages in interpersonal relations out of an entrenched sense of entitlement that immunizes him against the complaints of others.”
He goes on to say that everyone is capable of acts of assholery. We all may sometimes cut in line, or be short with people because we are tired, or we may decide not to help an old lady across the street because we are in a hurry to pick up our kids. But “what distinguishes the asshole,” James writes, “is the way he acts, the reasons that motivate him to act in an abusive and arrogant way. The asshole acts out of a firm sense that he is special, that the normal rules of conduct do not apply to him.” It is natural that we all feel special on our birthdays, James says, but, to the asshole, his “birthday comes every day.”
James argues that when it comes to being an asshole, men rule the roost. I used to agree with him, but I’m not too sure anymore. Since the new administration has taken over, I think this personality trait has become an equal opportunity mental illness. But, as a straight, white male, allow me to focus only on what I know best: white men behaving badly, especially the 73 per cent of them who voted for the current right wing agenda.
How to handle such assholery? I asked myself. I mean the kind of psychological cruelty equaled only by the inventiveness of all those damaged males throughout history who have specialized in various emotional and physical instruments of torture.
And to this question myself responded, as he always does, by saying, “With humor, dear child, especially satire.”
So, in an attempt to pacify one of my many selves, please accept these few prose poems that could easily be a part of a series called, “Assholes on Parade.” The second one suggests the helplessness we face when we are daily confronted with rampant assholery. These poems are from my “Collected and New Poems”, While the Undertaker Sleeps, published by MadHat Press. Paperback and hardcover at Undertaker1; Kindle version, much cheaper ($5) at Undertaker 2
American Male, Acting Up
They say your whole life flashes before you when you die, but I’m sure I’ll witness the lives of others.
And if I’m right, please spare me the lives of this moron wearing a black wifebeater, mid-calf jeans, and orange work boots.
We’re at the zoo, more precisely the habitat of the arctic fox, whom we’ve never seen awake, terminally depressed to find himself in a moderately-sized, ethnically-mixed city surrounded by creatures who hurl animal crackers, caw like crows, or scream, “Wake up, stupid.”
Which is what this man’s two boys are yelling.
When I tell my son to ignore them, he asks, “Why?” and I say, “Because anyone with half a brain wouldn’t scare a little fox.”
The man glares at me, and I glimpse the chaos of his past lives.
It’s the feast of Saturnalia.
He smells of grapes and cheese, the blood of his favorite Thracian slave hardened on his left thigh.
He’s swigging diluted wine, exchanging arm punches with friends.
He’s the hirsute sweat bag movies portray with thumb downturned.
The one who two thousand years later chugs four beers, then goes to the zoo to torment the animals.
Laugh if you must, but I would gladly take this bully down.
So when he stares, I stare back, and when he says, “Boys, we paid our money, so scream whatever you want,” I brace myself, prepare to take a beating.
Rally
A face from a fun house mirror pressing against my driver’s side window. Giant shark teeth and a mouth twisted in rage—a gargoyle image of a banished second-rate mythological harpy some third-rate Greek poet had failed to write about after being distracted by a toothache. Which reminded me, once again, about the serendipitous arc of history that weak-minded people cling so hopelessly to, with predictable results. I’m with the guy who got arrested for standing naked among the lily pads in the town’s pond, except I wouldn’t have been touching myself. That’s how people get into trouble. They make a barely acceptable symbolic gesture, then go overboard, alienating even the most hardcore troublemakers—like when this woman writes “Fuck you” on my window with purple lipstick, as my beat-up SUV inches slowly through the crowd. I’m on my way to get a scone, a seemingly apolitical gesture, but now she has my attention. “Smile! Be happy!” I say, lowering my mask. “Jesus loves you! I’ve got a Jesus as big as my hat!” I point to my black felt fedora on the passenger-side seat. Which is my attempt to distract her and exit this current dark tunnel of mania. There’s much yelling, a little spitting, until she’s dragged away by a shaggy guy holding a sign that promotes the castration of a certain gay journalist. Knowing that bleach cures and child molester conspiracies will soon follow, I motor on, eventually making my way home. I sit on the back porch, sconeless and forlorn. I tell my wife about the woman. She has her back to me and seems to have put on twenty pounds since this morning. “Smile! Be happy! Jesus loves you,” she says, in a snarky, unfamiliar voice—an ominous sign that I’ve been followed home.
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories
Find out why he is giving away his new book of prose poem/fragments, even though he has a publisher for it, by downloading the PDF from the below link or going to OLD MAN’S homepage. His “Note to the Reader” and “Introduction” at the beginning of the PDF explains it all: Observations from the Edge of the Abyss
I think the politics make the point. Or maybe I just don't understand.
With the second poem, I'm confused. Where did the truck come from? Maybe I'm too distracted.
It is weird how people yell at animals at the zoo. Yeah, you paid your money, bud, but you don't get to abuse the animals, or the barrista, or whoever.
Truly enjoy your work, but as ever I think you let politics dilute your point.
While admittedly anecdotal (as life is), having lived in lower Manhattan for 28 years, I can assure you no gender has a lock on the entitlement you aptly describe. Nor, in that hotbed of leftism, did politics factor in any particular way.