When Black Friday Comes
It is Friday at last and Boob Week finally draws itself to a close. While I can't say I've really enjoyed sharing these blunders with you, it has certainly been enlightening to me to see a whole bunch of them lined up like this. I would urge anyone who is reading this to keep in mind that these things, especially the epithet-based events, embarrass me as much as they should and that I have learned a lot from my being a huge, bumbling jackass.
I don't for a minute think I won't be doing more of these moronic things, but one can hope that I just don't repeat them. I hope that I will be going in for completely new moronic things. It's the optimist in me, I guess.
I'd also like to thank all those I've offended along the way. You've been real sports. And so, without further ado, here is my final boob moment for the week of April 26, 2004.
Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire
When I used to work at the airplane factory a few years ago I had to travel a lot. One time we left Toronto extremely early, travelled to Atlanta, GA for meetings and coordination and to pick up our aircraft and crew. We then flew out to St. Augustine, FL for more meetings and more coordination with yet more crew and another aircraft (we wanted to do an air-to-air shoot over water). It was an exhausting day in an exhausting week and me and my brain were getting quite tired.
St. Augustine, however, is a charming little place and at about 9:00 at night we had a bit of a chance to drive through it looking for a place to eat. I was with my photographer and videographer, a rep from our client's airline, and two flight attendants, whom I had just met that day. They were all very nice. We decided to go to a restaurant called "The Gypsy [Something or Other]" which was a family-run business. We sat down and ordered and as we were waiting it was now time to make light getting-to-know-you informal conversation. We were talking about something or other and I thought it was time to chime in with an anecdote of my own.
While I cannot remember what story I was telling, I do remember how it ended. It was a story of some small inconvenience I had encountered. At the conclusion of my little tale I meant to say "but I got gyped" (even though I haven't used that phrase since I was a little kid and found out it was a slur).
I don't know if this has happened to you or not, but I heard the sentence in my head a split second before I was going to say it and realized it was the absolute wrong thing to say. I tried to salvage it at the last moment and the process went a little something like this:
"...but I got g [what are you saying? For once there may be actual Gypsies around who you would insult. Abort! Abort!] gyy [shit! You've already started with a 'g' sound. You've got to come up with something better that still starts with that sound! C'mon! Time's running out!] ewed [WHAT?!! "Jewed"?!? I said better you idiot! What in god's name are you thinking?!! How is that better?]
I sat stunned for a moment and marvelled crazily at my own words. It was like I suddenly had Tourette's Syndrome and I couldn't trust myself not to shout out "CUNT nigger ballSACK!" at any moment. My client blinked a couple of times at me and then looked away. I stared helplessly at the photographer as my not particularly interesting story petered out shamefully, and he jumped in and politely changed the subject.
At that point I seriously considered divorcing my brain. I kept praying that none of the good people at the table were Jewish, although that hardly matters. "They think I'm some huge, horrible anti-semite" was all I could think. I was particularly obsessed with the fact that I drew out the word, too. "Jeeeeeeewwwwwwed." I'm not convinced I didn't have a drawl when I said it, either.
I wanted to sit quietly with my head on the table from then on. If anyone deserved a time-out it was me. But maybe no-one took any real notice. Or, better yet, maybe they were all a bunch of huge, horrible, anti-semites themselves! Yeah! Maybe!
Soon the food came and it was delicious. I forgot my little faux pas as the yummy home cooking filled my belly with love. They may be thievin' lil bastards, but them gyps sure can cook, I tell ya whut!
It is Friday at last and Boob Week finally draws itself to a close. While I can't say I've really enjoyed sharing these blunders with you, it has certainly been enlightening to me to see a whole bunch of them lined up like this. I would urge anyone who is reading this to keep in mind that these things, especially the epithet-based events, embarrass me as much as they should and that I have learned a lot from my being a huge, bumbling jackass.
I don't for a minute think I won't be doing more of these moronic things, but one can hope that I just don't repeat them. I hope that I will be going in for completely new moronic things. It's the optimist in me, I guess.
I'd also like to thank all those I've offended along the way. You've been real sports. And so, without further ado, here is my final boob moment for the week of April 26, 2004.
Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire
When I used to work at the airplane factory a few years ago I had to travel a lot. One time we left Toronto extremely early, travelled to Atlanta, GA for meetings and coordination and to pick up our aircraft and crew. We then flew out to St. Augustine, FL for more meetings and more coordination with yet more crew and another aircraft (we wanted to do an air-to-air shoot over water). It was an exhausting day in an exhausting week and me and my brain were getting quite tired.
St. Augustine, however, is a charming little place and at about 9:00 at night we had a bit of a chance to drive through it looking for a place to eat. I was with my photographer and videographer, a rep from our client's airline, and two flight attendants, whom I had just met that day. They were all very nice. We decided to go to a restaurant called "The Gypsy [Something or Other]" which was a family-run business. We sat down and ordered and as we were waiting it was now time to make light getting-to-know-you informal conversation. We were talking about something or other and I thought it was time to chime in with an anecdote of my own.
While I cannot remember what story I was telling, I do remember how it ended. It was a story of some small inconvenience I had encountered. At the conclusion of my little tale I meant to say "but I got gyped" (even though I haven't used that phrase since I was a little kid and found out it was a slur).
I don't know if this has happened to you or not, but I heard the sentence in my head a split second before I was going to say it and realized it was the absolute wrong thing to say. I tried to salvage it at the last moment and the process went a little something like this:
"...but I got g [what are you saying? For once there may be actual Gypsies around who you would insult. Abort! Abort!] gyy [shit! You've already started with a 'g' sound. You've got to come up with something better that still starts with that sound! C'mon! Time's running out!] ewed [WHAT?!! "Jewed"?!? I said better you idiot! What in god's name are you thinking?!! How is that better?]
I sat stunned for a moment and marvelled crazily at my own words. It was like I suddenly had Tourette's Syndrome and I couldn't trust myself not to shout out "CUNT nigger ballSACK!" at any moment. My client blinked a couple of times at me and then looked away. I stared helplessly at the photographer as my not particularly interesting story petered out shamefully, and he jumped in and politely changed the subject.
At that point I seriously considered divorcing my brain. I kept praying that none of the good people at the table were Jewish, although that hardly matters. "They think I'm some huge, horrible anti-semite" was all I could think. I was particularly obsessed with the fact that I drew out the word, too. "Jeeeeeeewwwwwwed." I'm not convinced I didn't have a drawl when I said it, either.
I wanted to sit quietly with my head on the table from then on. If anyone deserved a time-out it was me. But maybe no-one took any real notice. Or, better yet, maybe they were all a bunch of huge, horrible, anti-semites themselves! Yeah! Maybe!
Soon the food came and it was delicious. I forgot my little faux pas as the yummy home cooking filled my belly with love. They may be thievin' lil bastards, but them gyps sure can cook, I tell ya whut!
posted by Alanis at
9:51 AM
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