How things get started

Years back, I did radio commercials for a car dealership with an Irish name. You probably don’t care, but since they paid me a hefty sum to make a fool of myself, speaking in an Irish accent, I do care. So There! The hook was, “You don’t have to have a pot of gold to buy cars at O’Brian.” Trust me on this, it’s a lie. Most of their inventory, would require two pots of gold, and several arms and legs to purchase. Or you can finance for twice as long as your house and still wind up in the poor house. Either way, I lied and cashed their checks. The money definitely helped overcome the guilt.

Two months into the campaign, I was called in to get another big check, because the people loved me. Was there any doubt? The thing is, I should have seen this for what it was; An indecent attempt to confuse me into doing something even more stupid! However, good sense failed me, and I went to talk to the place. They decided; Folks loved my character so much it should be seen on television. This meant make-up, and just a few other little changes. I agreed, and they made an appointment for me at some hoity-toity salon

Now, I had just spent three months growing a full beard so I could do a paid part at a local playhouse. It was perfect and I had the part. I could have done the part, wowed the critics, been shipped in a crate to New York, and right now be performing on Broadway after collecting several major awards. Most likely not, but it could have happened. Instead, I went to the salon appt and had my arms and chest waxed. OUCH! The lady, Amanda, also said they requested a beard trim. This was okay. What was not okay, and unbeknownst to me, but knownst to you because I’m telling you, she dyed my hair and beard the most unnatural orange to never have been seen on this or any other planet. Supposedly, it made me look like a leprechaun, when in fact it made me look like an alien from the planet Dweebus.

And where they end up

Apparently, the company considered this a minor alteration and not worth mentioning. The contract did say they might have to color my hair, or trim my beard, but it also stated most would be done with make-up. Yes I signed it before hand, did the job, and took the cash, but specifics would have been nice. When the director of the playhouse saw me, she laughed out loud. We tried to recolor the thing for the show, but everything we did just made things worse. The only thing I could do, to come out of this with at least a shred of dignity, was to cut it all off. Which made me ineligible for her part. So, in the end I made a little money so that I could lose a whole bunch.

The universe hates me. I should’ve seen it coming, hit the Panic Button, and stopped it. Sadly though, everybody tells me to just go with the flow, don’t panic. Do those stupid folks have any idea of why animals panic? It’s called the Fight-or-Flight response. Amimals are smart enough to know to get the hell out of there before something bad happens. Humans, supposedly smarter creatures, say “don’t panic” and end up creating AI machines which learn to kill the masters. Or else we make small pocket devices that we stare at for hours drooling, calling them phones, and saying they’re needed for safety.

Lessons from history

And it’s not just since we got superior technology. You may or may not have heard of Lady Jane Grey. It really doesn’t matter, because I’m going to tell her story, so sit down and listen. Sorry I didn’t mean to be so crass, “please sit down and listen.” Upon his death, Edward VI King of England in 1553, named fifteen-year-old Jane Grey his successor. She had no right to the throne, but she was protestant, and cute, and Edward liked cute protestants. I’m a leg man myself, but to each his own.

Now, there were lots of folks with a greater right to the Tudor throne, who by the way, were known for cutting people’s heads off. I guess every family needs a hobby. Either way, did Jane hit the panic button, and run? Nope! She said “Okay,” and took the queenship. Nine days later, some chick named Bloody Mary cut off her head. Look, when your rival is called Bloody anything, you shouldn’t mess with them. It just makes sense.

You may ask, “Mr. Ohh, how are you so brilliant, and know all this stuff?” Well, I am brilliant, but I must confess, I learned this because my college bound son is required to take European History this semester. Now, he’s a biology, and education student. What does British history have to do with any of that. When I heard about this class, I should have panicked and run. Instead, I asked him about it. I didn’t want to know what I heard. History is just an epic length horror movie, except there’s more than one monster, the scripts aren’t quite as formulaic, and the blonds aren’t all busty and half-naked trying to run away wearing expensive sexy Italian pumps. It’s truly amazing how many folks should’ve cut and run instead of doing what they did.

But don’t lose your head over them

There’s the saga of Henry VIII. He had six wives, unusual for the time, to be sure, but hey who am I to judge. My wife tells me I have a perfect marriage, so I’m not looking at women any more, as far as she knows. Anyway, two of Henry’s wives were beheaded, and one died under suspicious circumstances. Would any of you ladies marry a guy like that? I don’t care how big of a personality he has, and history tells us he had a big personality. Not me. No thanks. I’ll just be poor and alive. Thank you very much.

It wasn’t just the ladies which weren’t thinking straight. The second wife, Anne Boleyn, was not only beheaded, but everybody who looked at her sideways got the chop as well. Including her brother. Later Henry married Kathrine Howard. She was shortened, to the shoulders, along with four male friends. Guys, be smart. Don’t get friendly with the king’s girlfriend! Even if she doesn’t go down, you can still lose your head for losing your head over that pretty face. Of course, Charles III seems pretty sedate. You might be able to make friends with Queen Consort Camilla, and only get a stern lecture, but I wouldn’t take any chances. The tower of London still exists.

A Proud Nobody

Now, I don’t want to put the knock-on England. It’s just, they were very selective, and therefore scarier. Give me the French any day. If you were of noble birth, you lost your head. Simple. You knew where you stood in France. None of this namby-pamby “Can I get away with it or not?” English crap. Yup it’s sometimes okay to be a dirty, working-class mutt!