Mz. Mannerz: The Fauxpology Prodigy

It’s time for another exciting installment of Mz. Mannerz!  Go put on a codpiece and brace yourself.  Like you weren’t already wearing one anyway.

The fake apology, or as it is often called, the fauxpology.  One of the more entertaining things a person can receive.  You could write it out as “Faux pas-logy” but that’s just confusing, so just go along with me here.

As you know, I had many years of experience dating scumbag musicians because for some reason or another I used to think I was worthless, so I’ve probably received more fauxpologies than most people, including such golden hits as…

“Hey, you know what?  I’m sorry you had to pay to get the electric turned back on again, but do you even care that I finally beat Grand Theft Auto Vice City while you were at work today?”

“Sorry you’re all ‘boo-hoo sad’ with your trust issues because I haven’t told my parents about us.  I’m doing you a favor.  If my mother knew I was living at your house for the past two years she would think you were a tramp and weren’t good enough for me.”

“Well, sorry if you have to get up early for work, but I’m having a good time and I’m not ready to go home yet.  Go sleep in the car if you’re tired.”

And yes, I walked out to a bar parking lot alone at 1am to sleep in my car.  My car that I had driven him to the bar in, because he had no car and no job, yet he felt he was the person in charge of when we would be leaving the bar.  Feel free to mentally transport yourself to the past and punch him in the dick.

…so I consider myself to be somewhat of a connoisseur of the fauxpology.

Now that I’m away from that horrific horseshittery, I find these fauxpologies almost endearing in hindsight.  They really are the gift that pretends to keep on giving.

There’s really only one correct way to say that you’re sorry:

  • By clearly stating that you are sorry for doing the shitty thing.

That’s the formula, in case you’re taking notes.

My god, please tell me you’re taking notes.  This website could self-destruct at any moment and then where would you be?  How would you know that the preferred Sheen/Estevez is actually Judd Nelson?

Here’s what an apology is not:

“Sorry if there were hurt feelings.”

This is what I like to call a “non-ownership” fauxpology.  For one thing, you couldn’t even be sincere enough to add the “I’m” before the word “sorry”?  That’s red flag number one that you’re not even remotely sorry.

The usage of the word “if” is another good indicator.  When you’re apologizing to someone, that means that they DO have hurt feelings.  There’s no question as to “if” they have hurt feelings.

And who’s hurt feelings are we even talking about here?  Because you didn’t mention anything about them being mine!  What you’ve done is just semi-apologized to the air, on behalf of the air.  You somehow managed to remove both of us from the entire equation, and questioned the notion that there were any hurt feelings to begin with.  Try again, shitass.

“I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt.”

I said try again.  That means try something different.  Not try the same damn bullshit again.

“I’m sorry that you’re so sensitive!”

Here’s the thing.  Do you want to have friends?  Would you like for people to be genuinely happy to see you?  Then when you do something shitty to them and they say, “Hey, that was shitty,” whether you intended to be shitty or not, you freaking apologize to them.  This is not cause for a debate over whether or not you feel they had a right to be upset about something you said or did – something that has clearly upset them either way.  Just apologize.  It goes something like this:  “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”  <—— Don’t cost nothin’!  AND DON’T SNEAK AN “IF” IN THERE.

“I’m sorry you took it that way.”

This is most often said when someone has said or done something so egregious that it’s undeniable, and now they’re basically trolling you.  This is how someone fauxpologizes after you get upset when they tell you, “Wow, you’ve really packed on weight since the last time I saw you!” or “Unlike you, I actually clean my house.”  There’s only one “way” to take those statements.  They were meant to be insulting.

“I SAID I WAS SORRY, OKAY?!”

See, now you’re yelling.  You’re yelling at someone who you’ve already wronged once.

Sometimes you can do something so super shitty that no amount of apologizing is going to make it better.  Sometimes it’s a sting that will take time to fade.  Sometimes it’s something unforgivable.  If someone is still upset after you apologize, that is not your cue to yell at the person.  That is your cue to figure out what you can possibly do to make it right, if anything, or just leave them alone and respect their space.

And people don’t have to actually accept your apology.  It’s not just a given in the apology transaction.  When you apologize, you are asking someone for forgiveness.  You don’t get to demand it from them.

So!  To summarize:

Stop being a dick and just say you’re sorry.

“Well, when I was on the debate team in high school…”

I SAID STOP BEING A DICK.

Who’s Da Mooch Now, Bay-beeeeee

I wanted to be fancy a couple weekends ago, so Bobby booked us a table at the fancy brunch at Gulfstream Park so we could watch the simulcast of the Kentucky Derby while stuffing our faces with brunch food, the likes of which left me so full that I had to be rolled out of the parking lot afterwards and shot.

Okay, maybe not shot.  I mean, I complained like I had been shot, my abdomen riddled with BBQ brisket and mashed potato buckshot.

We were seated next to a large party of three tables of people who were already drunk when we got there, which is fine, except that they were already drunk and conducting themselves as the entire cast of The Jersey Shore.

In that they were clearly from New Jersey.

In a bad way.

That’s an inside Florida joke, by the way.  If you live in Florida, then 97% of the people you encounter from New Jersey are considered to be from New Jersey “in a bad way”.  It’s probably all the screaming, demanding, snatching things off store shelves, ramming into you with their shopping carts, arguing with every cashier, server, valet parking attendant, making store clerks cry and then bragging about it.  It’s a thing they’re kind of known for here.

I had a neighbor from New Jersey for years who threatened to kill me on a weekly basis for any number of reasons he’d invented, and always included “You know I’m from Jersey, honey?!” as part of his threats.  He routinely yelled that he was going to come over to my house with a machine gun if I didn’t cut down literally every 200-year old pine tree in my yard to keep pine needles from getting onto his screened-in pool enclosure.  The pool and enclosure that he had only recently installed directly under my 200-year old pine trees.

So, to summarize, the people we were seated next to were not my type of crowd.  This is not the most remarkable thing about them, as I am a pissy little so-and-so, and most people are not my type of crowd.

We sat next to The Jersey Shore for several hours’ worth of horse races.  The truly remarkable thing about them was how they seemed to pick the winning horse in every single race.  It was bizarre.  Any time a horse would cross the finish line, they would come leaping out of their seats, banging on the windows overlooking the track, screaming at the top of their lungs like they had just won a million dollars.  Every race.  All day.

Nobody’s that lucky – especially with those haircuts.

I took particular notice of a younger gentleman I’ll call “Da Mooch” whose celebratory screaming included him repeatedly yelling across the entire restaurant, “WHO’S DA MOOCH NOW, BAY-BEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

Did I mention this fancy brunch was like $75 a head?  It wasn’t Shoney’s, is what I’m saying.

My personal favorite was when he jumped up from his table, pointed his crotch at the faces of the other men at his table, made a repeated chopping motion at his groin and yelled, “WHO’S DA MOOCH NOW, BAY-BEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

I was so intrigued by this, trying to figure out who Da Mooch currently was, who Da Mooch used to be, when the whole argument over the identity of Da Mooch got started, what Da Mooch’s favorite character is on Game of Thrones, that I nearly missed it when Da Mooch’s own mother said that his wife had “a golden twat” and that she should “sit on his tickets for good luck.”

Good lord I wish I were making that up.  Even I, a filthy-mouthed heathen demon woman, don’t use the “T” word.  If you want explicit content, apparently you have to go hang out with Da Mooch’s mother.

As it turned out, the reason Da Mooch and Company were winning every horse race was because they were betting on every single horse on the field to win.  In every single race.  So while they were actually winning one bet on a race, they were losing anywhere from 10-20 bets on that same race.  Huh???

After watching Da Mooch go completely hog-wild after winning one particular race, running table to table, red-faced yelling, veins practically bursting out of his forehead, and high-fiving his cohorts like he just won the Superbowl, when he cashed in his ticket, he quietly told one of his friends that he had placed $70 worth of bets on that race, to collect only $35 in winnings.  This ludicrous display of celebration was what him losing $35 looked like.

It was at that precise moment that I realized who Da Mooch was now, baby.

I’m just kidding. We’ll never know.  It could even be you for all I know.

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Reasonable approximation of Da Mooch

Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, Daddio

Hi frenz!  My micro-essay “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, Daddio” is up at Foliate Oak Literary Magazine today.  It’s a short humor piece about how I successfully tricked a local radio DJ into playing my favorite Starship song when I was a kid.

No, really.

You can read it here: Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, Daddio

Foliate Oak is the literary magazine for the University of Arkansas, and the irony that I did not attend a single day of college in my entire life is not lost on me here.  This is my first publication in a university journal, which basically means I get an honorary doctoral degree now or something, so you may now commence calling me Doctor Pissypants.

I have actually been to Arkansas, though.  Right in that area where you drive over the Mississippi River out of Memphis, Tennessee and you see that “Welcome to Arkansas!” sign in the middle of a corn field and say to the person in the passenger seat, “Uh oh” and then turn the car around and drive back to Memphis for more day-drinking.

Thanks so much for reading!  I’ve just been walking around all day lately not believing my luck.

And here’s your weird boyfriend Nicolas Cage, who is also my weird boyfriend, and the universe’s weird boyfriend.

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