A friend has insisted I write about the pansification of society. We’re all a bunch of sissies, weenies, crybabies and yes, pansies. Pansies equals pansification, I guess.
It’s been a weekly thing for a while. He storms into the RT office and barks: When are you gonna write about pansification?! What, you don’t have the nerve?
Maybe barks is the wrong word. I mean, these demands come from a man with not one, but two, poodles. Nothing against poodles, but if you’re gonna get all Clint Eastwood and John Wayne on me, you might hold off on showing me pictures of how cute they are. He drinks a lot of diet iced tea, too.
Not long ago, when he spotted me and the lovely bride on a bicycle built for two, he almost lost his mind. He demanded that I come out as a public pansy.
I’m already on record as being a weenie. I sometimes like my alcohol disguised in fruity drinks. And sometimes I leave the little umbrella in the glass while I drink. I fight to keep my pinky extending out.
But also I’m scared of things now that I never knew could scare you. Take the dentist. Plenty of people fear going to the dentist. The drill, the needles, the exposed nerves. Being a little apprehensive seems reasonable to me. But my latest fear? My need to swallow, (easy now, I’ve heard the jokes!). The dentist doesn’t want me to move, but I have to swallow. I have to friggin’ swallow. About every ten seconds. This claustrophobic-like feeling overcomes me. I’ve had the same dentist for years and he’s like — what the hell? You were never like this before. I see the bubble over his head: What a pansy.
The internet confirms that I am not alone in this crazy need to swallow.
My friend, the manly man with two poodles, asks me if I was one of those fathers who carried babies in front in one of those — what are they? — BabyBjörn things. I did not. He tells me this contraption is the clearest example of pansification.
I don’t take him all that seriously because he is a man with two poodles. I am afraid to ask but I suspect they have matching sweaters.
I don’t act all that offended when he wonders aloud about my masculinity lest he think I’m a snowflake. A snowflake, according to the Urban Dictionary, is a very sensitive person. Someone who is easily hurt or offended by the statements or actions of others. And this has nothing to do with politics. Snowflakes can be liberal or conservative. Oddly enough, it can be a compliment or an insult. I guess it’s a matter of context and tone.
I don’t know what he expects from me. I’m a writer — what’s more pansy than that? Though, just for the record, I type with a hammer and spit chewing tobacco into a cup (in this case, I don’t need to swallow).
I don’t want to name my Mr. Macho friend, but I figure some of you have seen him on the beach with his poodles or going into Spa Rockaway for a facial.BLOG COMMENTS POWERED BY DISQUS