The art of the insult, the put-down, is being lost, people; and already I’m picturing the sorry day when someone says “You know, you don’t sweat as much as I thought you would,” and there’s no one there to counter it with something other than a scatological response.
Come on! Not everything is related to body functions! I mean, anyone can pull out the odd four-letter invitation to near-impossible physical feats. I, for example, am quite good at it. I don’t swear much in my blog because you just never know who you’re talking to, but in real life I’ve been known to push a four-letter word to hyphenated heights usually reserved for the married and those in the Armed Services.
And regarding the art of the insult, I’m not talking just any insult. Frankly, they’re tiresome and hardly worth the raised eyebrow and “aww, shaddap” that they deserve.
I’m talking about the well-placed barb lain on a field of truism (and served with a smile). There are not enough true practitioners – particularly those who never point it toward the unarmed – and I think it’s time something was done about it.
And who better than the citizens known for their love of words and communication to bring it back?
In case that wasn’t clear, I was talking about us.
See? That was a “slight burn”, as we used to say, right there. Not much of a burn, it’s true, but it’s there.
My brother, whom I refer to, with only the best of regards, as “Kiki”, called me – in a reference to racing great Mario Andretti – as “Mario Amphetamine”, as in “Whoa! Slow down there, Mario Amphetamine!”
Keek is a practitioner and deliverer of the First Degree Burn.
“You know, Mom bet against me, but danged if I’m not going to win this time! Looks like I will be able to walk by you with an open beer and not be thrown to the ground. You know, I was hoping I was right, but…”
Nice burn, but not great.
The most memorable burns are those that strike one as funny even when you really should be angry.
When we were teenagers, Keek used to “borrow” my car – and by “borrow” I am implying something just this side of “stealing”. He would take it at, oh, 10:00 at night and return it at 5:00 in the morning, full of bottles, beach sand, butt-shaped wet spots on my upholstery that would take days to dry.
Sometimes it would even be on “E”.
I was getting ready to go to work when he stopped me, one morning, on my way to the car.
“You know those two blown speakers you got in the Falcon?”
A sly smile slide across his lips. “You should get a couple more blown-out speakers, do it up right. You know, really rock that car out.”
Why you little...
Burn on me.
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