“Tell Me Something Good”
Rufus
1974 — Rags to Rufus
((( or bad )))
Writing satire is not fun. Not anymore. It is not thrilling, mildly pleasurable, or good for cheap laughs.
It is not even close. Oh sure, I thought that this would be a cush job. Set my own hours, choose my own topics, I can use fuck and they’ll print it, and I get my name in the paper every week in big black letters. But no. My fantasies have been mercilessly shattered.
All I get are cards from faith healers promising me salvation if I recant every printed word, late-night phone calls from foreigners who swear that they “love my mind,” and critiques from a large assortment of those who feel a certain liberty to comment on my subject matter and style. My favorites are those who don’t sign their names. Steve Martin said it best — put a live chicken in your underwear.
I guess it all began back on the mayonnaise farm where I grew up. My mom told me I had a special destiny, a special journey. Then she started singing “Que sera, sera” the way Doris Day did in that movie with Jimmy Stewart: 1 didn’t know what it meant but it sounded meaningful enough. I began dreaming of business
I guess it all began back on the mayonnaise farm where I grew up. My mom told me I had a special destiny, a special journey. Then she started singing “Que sera, sera” the way Doris Day did in that movie with Jimmy Stewart. 1 didn’t know what it meant but it sounded meaningful enough. I began dreaming of business cards.
Somewhere between the farm and the future, I ended up in Hogtown – struggling to maintain some sort of dignity and normaley. I drive the speed limit, don’t torture kittens, pay taxes, don’t have purple hair, put my socks on first, then my shoes. I am not a Communist, don’t spend gross amounts of time masturbating, don’t park in the spaces for handicapped people, am not a devil worshipper and don’t have any communicable diseases. I am not a child molester, a reactionary or a castrating bitch. Honest. I give to the American Cancer Society, don’t litter and even help old people across the street. Some consider me a nice person. But I have my limits. Yes, those who scribble satire have their limits,
Primarily, I’d like to say thanks but no thanks to all of those out there who have taken an active interest in the status of my salvation. I’m sure God is tickled to know that I’ve got so many caseworkers. I receive a weekly onslaught of mail cajoling me to repent, confess and convert. My problem is this: you all need to organize when you decide my fate. Some say I’m doomed. Period. Some say I’m the person they know who is most-likely-to-end-up-in-hell-for-sure. Others give me a 50-50 chance. I’d like to get the final consensus so I can start making arrangements. I need to plan out my wardrobe, rinse out my lingerie and choose my interchangeable accessories. These things take time.
Seriously, the concern is appreciated, But, candidly, think Nixon needs more help than 1 do. What about Idi Amin.. The Shah.. Ted Bundy. Tina Turner.
Secondly, a bit of five-cent philosophy of those who demand to know where I get my ideas. I like to view it in these terms: ideas are like raisins – there are lots of them around and sometimes when you eat too many you get the runs. Or If you prefer, I can cite Kahlil Gibran’s in-terpretation. Ideas are like the shadows of the butterfly that walks peacefully with harmony on the sands of the love the gentle sunset brings with childlike serenity to the ebbing warmth of humanity. Take your pick.
So you think you want to write satire.. Well, think twice. It’s a jungle out there. They’ll shun you socially, persecute you privately, trample your self respect, destroy your dignity, attack your decency, challenge your credibility, castigate your motives and criticize your methods.
Oh, but what a way to go…
—30—
