“A little birdie told me……”
Ever heard that before? There are plenty of people who are flibbertigibbets. When one person tells another person something and changes a word or three, or possibly whole paragraphs. So by the time that same conversation reaches about the fifth or sixth person, the interpretation has been slightly altered in translation. Thus ends up as gregarious gossip. Just because someone’s attire was showing significant cleavage and whorish hemlines, or a prominent dentist was caught with spinach in his teeth.
Life just got messier. I have chocolate stains in my couch cushions, and just found out the Johnson twins are said to have studied pro al-Qaeda manuals. But word has it that they were seeking the information only in an effort to better understand their friend Leo’s concentration towards radical Islam. We all need a higher power of help hourly. “Dear holiness, sacred master mover and shaker. So far today I haven’t used foul language, been ornery, cheated, screamed at Fido next door, had terroristic thoughts, or spread any vicious rumors. But the minute I leave my satin bedding, who knows what direction I might take. I may change things up a bit and go for Tommy Hilfiger’s collegiate sheet collection if they’re on sale. But I will need all the assistance you can muster my divine Diety, if I shamelessly squander my best intentions when using the Bell system of reaching out to touch someone.”
Harold Lasswell, pioneer in propaganda studies, was ruled by the “truth” about conditions of harmonious human relations. He was highly regarded with his work World Politics and Personal Insecurity, obviously evoking some suicides, but more sanely, some angst. I’m sure Harold put busy bodies in the same league with adulterers, renegades, hotel towel swipers, and in your own kitchen cookie larcenists. Had he lived longer, I bet Harold would have railed against the propogandic nature of our current communication and been astonished by the likes of Facebook followers and those thriving on their continual “tweet.” The only tweet I remember has to do with a guy named Sylvester who was always remarking, “I tawt I taw a puddy tat!”
I want to believe that sunny days will always prevail, and that the Jean and Joe Schmoes of the world are not all wolves in sheep’s clothing. Not like the Gossip Girls and Desperate Housewives who need to figure out some sort of distortion control. Their time could be better spent tending to the never ending OM improvement projects, and being able to handle panting while pretzel twisting twenty three yoga positions and zipping those botox lips. My mother was wise when she said, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” That’s when I decided not to say anything bad about my brother when he threw a dart in my head. It was really the fault of his shoes. He stumbled in them while approaching me in our back yard sporting event, and the dart just happened to slip out of his hand that was aimed at me and by some unknown reason, adhered itself to my skull. I knew it wasn’t him. But I did burn his brand new sneakers.
One of my own confidantes doesn’t have much tolerance for those who belittle others and stands her ground if the opportunity presents itself. She has one elderly woman living in her neighborhood who has a problem shutting the old trap door. People in the community have listened to her blow by blow instead of ceasing the verbal venom. The lynch mob finally agreed on a plan to trespass into her danger zone. The next day, the snide remarking Stephanie Crawford found a sign planted on her lawn that read, BUTTON UP FOR SAFETY, BUTTON UP! SHUT YOUR YAPPER AND BECOME A ROLE MODEL! The day after that my friend went out and bought battle gear and a home security system.
So, about my massage therapists Uncle Marv’s real estate broker’s best buds peculiar rash problem. I will ask her later if it’s okay to tell people it’s really nothing, and about his silly conviction led by the self anointed monitor of spiritual morals blabbermouth and avid church goer Blair (quite possibly the head of the Blair witch project). Such a foolish felony. All he did was kill a song in the church choir. I’m sure he wanted to hire Electric Light Orchestra so they could belt out their famous “Evil Woman.”
Hence came the terms (not necessarily found in Funk & Wagnals) squealer, dirt disher, mocker, windbag, loudmouth, tattletaler, guru of gossip, king or queen of mean, and the ever popular Gladys Kravitz. I know I can suffocate any juicy tidbits of information before they hit the streets, AND stay steadfast with my conviction, both in one fell swoop. Which in fact, would be killing two birds with one stone. It may take saturating my tongue with peanut butter, but whatever works. It’s probably not in anyone’s best interest to go along with Paul McCartney when he chimes, “Listen, do you want to know a secret?”
This weeks forecast: Sunny with a chance of badmouthing brought on by slandering sinners, unless we can nip things in the bud.