A friend recently spent a day cleaning out his music collection. He had thousands of CDs, and felt the need to cull hundreds from the herd. So he sorted through the discs and then called me over to pick through his discards.
“I’m offering them to you because I know you won’t judge me,” he said.
I picked up Barbara Mandrell’s Greatest Hits from the pile and gave him a sideways glance. “Why would you think that I’m not going to judge you,” I said. “You have an CD by Kevin Federline. You actually went to a music store and purchased it. Of course I’m going to judge you.”
“But you’re the least judgmental person I know,” he cried. “I thought my secrets were safe with you.”
“Well, you’re wrong. And, by the way, I’ve always thought it was creepy that you buy your mom pantyhose.”
“But she always chooses the wrong size and they bunch up at her knees,” he said, dropping his head into his hands. “How could I have been so wrong about you? You’ve been quietly judging me for years. You’re a monster.”
And, he’s right. I am a monster. Mainly because I make judgments about people in areas that they aren’t prepared to be judged on. So, I’ll never judge someone on their weight or clothing style or profession. But, if you use the word “penultimate” I’m going to call you out on it. I’m going to tell you that you are using it only because a.) it has become a trendy word in 2013; and b.) you feel really smart because it has four-syllables. Well you know what else has four syllables? “Second to last.”
As I’ve mentioned in a previous column, I belong to my local yacht club. I joined the club because they refused to accept gay members. So, I joined and told them I was gay after the fact. Because that’s the kind of idiot I am. I consider it a victory to pay a hefty annual membership fee just to prove a stupid point.
But in spite of the club’s narrow-minded views on the gays, and my general pettiness and hunger for revenge, it worked out for the best for all concerned. The club members love me and, as a result, have instituted a non-discrimination policy. And, now, we have a bunch of gay boy members who have taken over the entertainment and decorations committee. The club has never looked so good or been so much fun.
I’m now part of the membership committee and get to judge which applicants are worthy of joining the club. Yesterday, we were presented with an interesting case. A husband and wife submitted an application and we all voted it down, but for different reasons.
“They’re swingers!” said one committee member, who told us the story of how the couple tried to lure her back to their boat after the Commander’s Ball.
“They’re awful drunks!” said another member. And using the term “awful drunk” is pretty damning in this crowd known for it’s vigorous booze consumption.
Then they turned to me for my final judgment.
“I don’t care who or what they sleep with. And I don’t care if they drink rubbing alcohol straight from the bottle. What I object to is that during the interview, when I cracked that witty, little joke about Coco Chanel, the wife asked, ‘Who’s that?’ And then the husband said, ‘Oh, you know. That blonde who’s married to Ice T.’ My God! What is wrong with these people? Membership denied!”