Cantankerously Yours
No one calls me a nice guy and gets away with it
By Wendell Abern
Dear Fellow Grumps,
Earlier this year, I wrote a few columns decrying disappearing forms of humor – including old-fashioned Jewish humor.
The backlash from those columns has been horrific.
One friend told me I was going soft. Another that I was starting to sound like a nice guy.
Well, no one calls me a nice guy and gets away with it.
Introducing my new friends, Eric and Joy.
Actually, Eric and Joy are new phone friends. They work for MyChart, an Internet tool created, I am sure, by Benny Hill before he died. The Cleveland Clinic and other hospitals use MyChart to help doctors inform patients without ever talking to them.
The real reason MyChart exists, of course, is to prevent phone calls from patients who have the gall to want to know the results of blood tests and other medical exams.
I signed up with the Cleveland Clinic, established a MyChart name and password, and last week sought the results of some recent medical exams. I went to the MyChart site, typed in my name and password, and a red sentence warned me I had given the wrong password. I tried again.
Same red sentence.
“Borbick, knock it off!” I yelled. (Borbick is the name I have given to the miniaturized terrorist who lives inside my computer.)
Cursing, I called the Cleveland Clinic. After three minutes on hold (during which a recorded message advised me on handling menstrual cramps), I was given the phone number for MyChart. I dialed.
Enter Eric, who, I later discovered, was clearly more pleasant and efficient than MyChart deserves.
“No problem” Eric said when I explained. He proceeded to give me a new password. I was in a hurry, couldn’t test it at that moment, but later that night I went back to the MyChart site. I typed in the new password and was informed, “Your session has timed out.”
“Timed out? I just got on!” I shouted. I went to bed, muttering expletives at Borbick.
The next morning, fuming, I called back MyChart and was pleasantly surprised that Eric once again answered the phone.
“Hey, Eric!” I said. “How the hell are ya?”
“Er … who is this?”
“Eric, bubbelah, it’s me!” I gave him my name and reminded him of the problem. “We’re being sabotaged by Borbick, Eric.” I explained who Borbick was.
Eric chuckled. “We’re not going to let Borbick run things here,” he said, obviously relishing the challenge.
He used the magic of electronics to suddenly manipulate sites and settings on my computer, his cursor running up and down my monitor.
“I see the problem,” he said. “Your Internet Explorer takes you to AOL.”
“Ah, that explains it. Borbick is on a retainer with them.”
Eric chuckles. “We’re not compatible with AOL, so I’m going to have another department contact you tomorrow.”
The next day, I receive an e-mail from Joy. Three pages long, when
printed. Then Joy phones me.
I thank her for the e-mail and ask her to de-active my account.
Then I tell her, “I have found you and Eric very conscientious and helpful. Now if I ask you a question, will you give me an honest answer?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Is there a statue of Benny Hill in lobby of your building?”
She answers quickly, “No sir.” But then I hear her giggle.
Introducing my old friend, Jerry.
I have written about Jerry previously. One of my oldest and best friends. Grew up with him. A charter member of my poker game, now in its 67th year.
Jerry was the first of my friends to point out that I am short, and has been needling me about it since history class in our senior year:
Teacher not yet there. Jerry yells from across the room,
“Hey, who’re you taking to the prom, a Munchkin?”
He has never stopped. We never have a conversation without the word, “short,” creatively injected.
Well, Jerry is fat. Big weight problem since he was ten years old. Every night for decades, Jerry eats a quart of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, right out of the carton. I told him he was a terrible role model for his kids. He said, “Maybe for a short while.”
Jerry started going bald at eighteen. By his 25th birthday, he was completely bald. I told him he looked like the hood ornament on a Dodge truck. And to top off his physical attributes, he has a very large nose. If you met him, you’d think Rodney Dangerfield had been cloned.
Needless to say, I have given Jerry a hard time for decades also.
And this year, we are roasting him.
I can’t wait. I have already bought him a gag scale. When you step on it, a voice says, “One at a time, please.”
I have also written a letter with a Ben & Jerry letterhead I created. It reads, “Dear Mr. G – it has come to our attention you consume more of our ice cream than our next three biggest users combined.
“So we have decided to honor you. Not with a plaque or a watch. But with a replica of your face carved out of the Vermont mountains, a la Mt. Rushmore. Construction will begin as soon as we can find an outcropping of rock big enough to serve as your nose.”
And in case you think I’m being unnecessarily cruel, remember: at the roast for my 60th birthday, Jerry read from a newspaper article, headlined, “Dwarf-tossing ruled illegal.”
Introducing Senior Sleaze.
That’s me! My new persona, courtesy of my daughter, Amy. I have now been a widower for about fifteen months and have just started spending some time with a few women.
“Nothing serious,” I told Amy. “Just some, ah … companionship.”
“Aha! My father! A senior sleaze!”
I love that moniker! Now, when I see on my caller ID that Amy is calling, I answer, “Senior sleaze, send a floozy, I’m not choosy.”
Or, “I’m not fussy, send a hussy.” Last week, I prepared a new one: “Senior sleaze, don’t need a sweet talker, send a streetwalker.” This one prompted a, “DA – a – ad!”
The desired effect.
I have a new mini-poem ready for her next call … one so salacious my editors will never print it.
So much for being a nice guy.
Sincerely,
Senior Sleaze
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].