In the immortal words of Stu in The Hangover Part II: I have a demon in me.
No, I don’t have a penchant for hookers. This is much, much worse. I am possessed by the Demon of Brutal Honesty, a monster whose mere presence can turn an innocent and virtuous social exchange into a violent, blood splattered horror show.
I try to control her, but I can’t. Or more like I think I can, but then she jumps out when I least expect it. Like some horror flick heroine standing on the front lawn in her nightgown calling for her recently dismembered boyfriend (“Jimmy?”) and desperately clinging to the idea that Jimmy’s fine and the arm she found on the front porch belongs to someone else– perhaps a high school prankster with with easy access to cadavers– I’m in denial. Then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in someone else’s eyes and it hits me like a chainsaw.
But it’s too late. The massacre has already begun.
Let me explain
Last week, I attended a cocktail party where I met a gentleman with a very obvious and very recent hair transplant— recent as in 30 or so stitches and staples across his forehead. I sensed danger and considered making an exit with the excuse that’s been working for me since 9th grade gym class– cramps. But of course I didn’t because then there wouldn’t be a story. Besides we were only talking about 80’s sitcoms, not exactly a shed full of machetes and hockey masks.
What could possibly go wrong?
Family Ties, Silver Spoons, Diff’rent Strokes and its glorious spinoff, The Facts of Life— please hold while I enjoy a mental montage of a young, mulleted George Clooney in plaid (if you’d to join me and need an assist, click his name and view the slide show on GQ)– we should have been as safe as houses. (Perhaps an abandoned house on a dark lane after our car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, but I digress.) And we were, until we got to Growing Pains. (This is the point when our heroine hears a scream and decides to check it out. “Jimmy, are you out here?)
Now, a non-demonically challenged person would have mentioned the little known fact that Boner, played by the late Andrew Koenig, was the son of Walter Koenig, Chekov on the original Star Trek. Then she would have made the conversational layup to discuss Alan Thicke’s woebegone son, Robin. (Watch for a post called Bad Miley Mojo: how twerking Miley-Cyrus-infested teddy bears creates bad karma.) And then speaking of bats crazy, she could have easily segued, did you know that Kirk Cameron allegedly became a born-again Christian during the filming of Like Father, Like Son because he witnessed Dudley Moore having a delusional episode and believed he was in the presence of God?
But no, our heroine does not put on pants and a bra, grab a bat and a swig of Daddy’s brandy to do battle with the demon. Our little brain trust chews her hair and wanders half-naked into the tool shed with how she recently heard that Kirk Cameron** suffers from male pattern baldness. (“Jimmy, why are you wearing a hockey mask?”) And that she really admires him for just embracing it because it must have been such a blow to have been famous for all that sexy, curly hair– Remember those Tiger Beat covers?– and then to just lose it all. She wonders aloud if it was this narcissistic injury that drove him to such bizarre religious zealotry.
(“Jimmy, put down that chainsaw. This isn’t funny any more!”)
But, she continues, good for him for NOT DOING ANYTHING STUPID TO HIS HEAD!!!!
Primal shrieks of terror. Blood splatters across the screen. End scene.
(Let me know when you uncover your eyes.)
The entire guest list was just about to run screaming into the cul-de-sac when the man touched his head and smiled. Then he spoke:
I couldn’t agree with you more, Mrs. Fisher. I had some benign tumors removed a few weeks ago and I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would do this to themselves voluntarily. I still look like Frankenstein, but for a while there, I felt like him too. You’re very funny. Let me introduce you to my bride…
Then he laughed.
Honesty demon thwarted. Party guests cheer. Roll credits.
Now that I’ve voluntarily chained myself to the basement wall with my laptop and a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and you’re feeling deliciously safe, I want you to recall that I spent the last 30-something years topside and in that time, I spawned…
Through me, the demon could only strike down one or two people in her physical presence, but the new generation has enhanced capabilities, social CGI if you will. Through them, the demon can use a single MMS, tweet, Facebook or Instagram post to annihilate millions.
They’re cute and they walk among you, so beware:
Honesty may be a b-tch, but assumption is the mother of all f-ck-ups.
** The demon will use a lie to expose a more brutal truth. Kirk Cameron is not actually bald.
[Reposted from Christen Fisher's blog Deep Thoughts from the Bus Stop]
Christen Fisher was a teenage beauty queen who ran away to college with only a sash across her chest and a tiara on her head. After four years, she traded in her small-town spoils for a B.A. in English and a ring from a big city guy who loved her more for what lay under her tiara than her sash.