Weekly Shocks' Blog

Wipe That Grin Off Your Face Before Someone Breaks It!

I tend to smile a lot. I can’t help it. I took part in a bizarre, very illegal experiment a few years back when I was a wee bit broke, and I now receive a series of small electrical shocks if the forced, mildly-hysterical grin fades for even one second from my twitching, sweaty  face. Little advice, folks: those “medical experiments” you see advertised on rickety old subway trains at 6:30 in the morning? Scams. ALL SCAMS. UTTER AND COMPLETE FRAUD! RUN, RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN!

In all seriousness (or as serious as I ever get), I’m a pretty cheerful person. If you can’t tell by this blog, I’m easily amused, and, as a result, I have a running commentary of rollicking weirdness trawling through my head most of the time, which results in the perpetual, goofy grin, and an occasional, ill-timed giggle. The giggling thing is a problem, actually. Of course I giggle during the obviously comical moments in life, like when sloshed people fall off the drunk bus in Oxford, or during academic seminars when the lecturer starts howling like a dog whistle as she rants away on rape and slavery in the Old South  (oh, I am so going to hell). But I also have the very bad habit of giggling when I’m nervous or uncomfortable or wishing I had a jetpack and could fly away from awkward situations with the touch of a button and a few thousand pounds of fossil fuels. My concern for the environment ends where my social ineptitude begins, folks, and, damn it, I’m ok with that.

I went on a date once with a guy who seemed to lack serial killer tendencies and had no discernible body odor, which are pretty much my only requirements for a first date these days. About five minutes into our little outing, he began a twenty-minute exposition/rant on his theory on how sex with thirteen-year-olds was a completely normal, natural event and he just didn’t understand what the big deal with pedophilia was. At this point in the evening, I probably should have quietly excused myself and then run screaming for the hills, stopping only to give Chris Hansen a call. But because I am incurably polite even in the face of horrific creepiness, I did the next best thing. I giggled. Loudly. For several minutes. And just to ensure this weirdo that I found what he was saying unbelievably offensive and disgusting, I blushed, too. And can you BELIEVE this freak thought I wanted to date him again?!  I mean, yes, of course, I was kind and threw in another six months of dates like these, like any nice girl would, but come on! How come these perverts are always the ones who are incapable of taking a bloody hint?!

Oh, I am pathetic.

Anyway, yeah. The smiling thing kind of defines who I am, but don’t be jealous! Keep in mind that it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m happy or I like you! I could be wishing you dead at this very minute! Oh, that was mean: I’m sorry. No, really, I am: you’re lovely. Seriously. Do you need me to lend you a few bucks? Need a place to crash for the night? Spare kidney? I’d love to help.

Where the hell is my jetpack?


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  1. I am a Doc. I love to play music. It keeps me from getting down about the bad things I see in my work.

    I play some with my wife’s band. Their theme song is “Keep on Smiling.” They are the Queens of the Nursing Home circuit, and make a lot of people happy. I can’t see anything wrong with that.

    How can a man not smile when he lives with a woman like that?

    Keep on smiling kid. If folks insist on being unhappy I hope they will see better days. Maybe they’ll hear my wife’s band. It that doesn’t make them smile, they might need to see a Doctor.


    Posted 9 years ago

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