A Sorry State of Affairs

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Seems like everybody's sorry for something these days. Sorry for having the same exact car as me and parking it in the same supermarket parking lot. Sorry for having the stun gun set so high. Sorry for naming their gay bar "The Crank Shaft," even though that sounds an awful lot like a bike shop to anyone who doesn't have a copy of the latest gay code handbook. "Sorry for breathing audibly while you were trying to urinate, Mr. Bricks. Thank you for pissing in the pocket of my good dress pants to show me the error of my ways."

Seems like we've got quite a lot of sorry sons of bitches in the world these days. If they're not sorry for mowing over the donuts I left out to cool on the lawn, they're sorry for misleadingly naming the town Hempstead despite their almost total lack of interest in hemp products. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't ride your bike on the escalator." The hell I can't! Did you see that wheelie?

And a lot of good it all does me. Why don't you shit out an apology onto a ten-dollar bill for me then, if you're so sorry? At least then I could put it toward a new go-cart to replace the one that was destroyed when you put up that new fence in your back yard without telling me. You could have at least painted it white or some color that shows up better in the moonlight.

But no, as usual, this world is all talk and no action. As if an apology is going to resurrect my streak of consecutive blocks driven without touching the brake pedal. And to be gut-wrenchingly honest, sometimes I doubt the sincerity of some of these apologies, or at least the degree to which they're heartfelt. Was that guy really sorry that his wife gave birth while I was trying to enjoy my McMuffin? I wonder. And I think I might have detected a hint of sarcasm coming from that blind lady when she apologized for blocking my view of that new Victoria's Secret billboard downtown. I don't know where she got off, it's not like I force-fed her all the cream cheese bagels that made her ass so freakin' big as to obscure a billboard. And I can't have been the first person to point that out to her.

I've been thinking about it, and I think I'm going to get myself a donation jar, like all the hard-luck cases and fast food restaurants have. Now put down your lawn darts folks, I'm not saying I'm going to go in and lift one that's full of dimes for cystic fibrosis or anything terrible like that. I'm going to buy one. Probably. I might have to ask some of these people where they shop at when their beggin' jar gets worn out, if there's some store tucked away somewhere I haven't bothered to look. And if there's more than one, then which one is the high-end jar store, since I want a pretty swanky jar so that nobody will confuse Omar Bricks with a common bum or street freak.

Once I get the right jar, then we'll see who's really sorry and who can put their money where their mouth is. If somebody's really sorry, they can hit me up with a ten spot or whatever they're comfortable with and I'm compensated. Bingo. If they're not, and they're really just being sarcastic, well then they're not very likely to pony up for the "Sorry Jar" since that's a level of extreme sarcasm you don't find too often in this country. You have to fly over to England for that kind of shit. Either way I win, in some manner of speaking.

So anyway, yeah, that's it. Sorry the column wasn't funnier. Ha, bet you wish you had a jar now, eh? Bricks out.

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