Ah, the index finger. The most dangerous of digits, more so than the provocative second from the thumb? Key to your sister’s chastity belt? Grandmama’s IQ? That’s Why You Have Trouble Bowling, as we used to say at one of the countless grammar schools I attended?
Besides Friday the 13th, do you know what today is?
It’s National Blame Someone Else Day. That’s what Democrats celebrate instead of Christmas. Falls on the first Friday the 13th of every year, although, it’s been my experience that EVERY day is pretty much National Blame Someone Else Day.
There are just oodles of National Day Of-ses-ses. Supposedly, anyone can get the ball rolling to establish a National Day. You can bribe your congressman (possibly with the conversation starter: “Do you have any naked pictures of yourself with a squadron of vulnerable subordinates in the shower? No? Wanna buy some?). Your holiday can get thrown on as a rider to a multi-trillion-dollar defense bill or enacted by simple vote. These are for Official Holidays, with paid time off, like the 43,037 days off teachers and postal workers enjoy every year.
Boy. I’m telling you. Wouldn’t you just love to find out who the person was who didn’t give the rest of us paid leave for National Blame Someone Else Day?
There’s a way to celebrate. Make some mac and cheese, then take a moment to close your eyes and imagine wringing their neck. Then, eat the mac and cheese.
I’ve no idea how you create an UN-official Day Of, possibly just by getting on the Internet, issuing T-shirts and declaring it thus.
They don’t mean much.
Like my friend and editor, Tim Whyte, getting a certificate proclaiming him THE Best Newspaper Columnist in Santa Clarita, issued by state Sen. Scott Wilk.
I think the wackiest of these non-holy days of obligation scream volumes about both our wonderful American sense of humor and a richness of too much time on our hands. On Feb. 2 we observed Play Your Ukulele Day.
By the way.
Next year?
Don’t.
Coming up on March 21 is National Common Courtesy Day, a delightful 24-hour respite where you can just jolly well shut your pie hole as far as I’m concerned. March 23 is National Puppy Day.
Last year, a Vietnamese friend and I shared two for breakfast.
May 1 is Katie Hill Day.
I made that up.
May 1 is actually National No Pants Day.
May 30 is National My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It Day.
There’s a Joe Biden metaphor gently floating about, just out of reach, but one of us can’t seem to remember it.
And, of course, there’s today. National Blame Someone Else. How shall I celebrate? Stand atop the breakfast counter at The Way Station and scream: “WHERE THE HELL’S THE BEEF STEW & BISCUITS???!!!”
Which, in Spanish, is: “¿¿¿¡¡¡DÓNDE DIABLOS ESTÁ EL ESTOFADO DE TERNERA Y LAS GALLETAS???!!!”
I did a little digging. Seems this day of Teflon Personal Responsibility was started in 1982 by a Clio, Michigan, lady, Anne Moeller. Supposedly, on Friday the 13th, Mrs. Moeller’s alarm didn’t go off. She was late to work and that cascaded into an avalanche of calamities, all of which she delegated to other innocent people, objects and addendum forest deities. I’m not exactly confident that Mrs. Moeller is the perp. As a professional journalist, I did the least possible amount of research (Googled) and kept coming up with the same, exact cut-&-pasted paragraph on roughly 10 million web pages. I couldn’t find anything about the existence of anyone matching Mrs. Moeller’s name and address, although I did discover that our mayor, Cameron Smyth, has three teenage wives in Utah.
Trivia?
They’re all named Betty.
Clio, Michigan? About the only thing that berg is famous for is being the birthplace of Buzz Brainard. Like our own coronavirus/gout-ridden Carl Goldman, Buzz is a local radio personality.
Who doesn’t have gout.
Yet.
I’ve an experiment for you.
Is it possible to go through a day — perhaps even an hour — without blaming someone? The dramas we create, real and mostly imagined. How many times do we shake our heads at both dolts and innocents over our lot in life? Grocery store clerks. Family members. Bosses. Employees. The angry soccer mom who cuts us off in traffic (I ran her license plate through a friend at the DMV; it’s City o’ SClarita’s Director of Obfuscation, Kevin Tonoian, 661-309-4322).
Don’t blame me if they start swearing at you just because you inquired if they have Prince Albert in a Can.
I wish my mom, the indomitable Crazy K, was around to celebrate today. Amen boy howdy. There wasn’t an electron of self-responsibility in that woman. Mom was the high holy empress of blaming others and one of her pet phrases on those oft times when the gods of fluster visited was to snap: “WHY DID YOU MAKE ME DO THAT!!”
Usually, I’d say nothing, just sit there, innocent, methodically chewing my Cap’n Crunch cereal while staring off into space.
I’d wait until she stomped out of the room, then quietly reply: “Because — I’m evil…”
Today is National Blame Somebody Else Day.
Celebrate responsibly.
John Boston is Earth’s most prolific satirist. Don’t blame us. It wasn’t our idea to hire him.
