And the award goes to…
The news is still trying to drag out the slap heard round the world.
It was the lamest smack down. But maybe that is how a broken man fights.
My feed is buzzing with friends discussing alopécia, anger management, and a dozen ways the slap can be sliced and diced. Was the slap THAT believable? I suppose I can’t be surprised anymore how hypnotized people are. More shiny news will come and heads will look at another direction. It’ll be like watching sports. People like to chase balls.
I didn’t get the joke. I thought the comedian was calling a beautiful woman a warrior. There are lots of beautiful women sporting short hairstyles. The joke provoked angry words… swear words from a husband making a stand for his wife. A line was crossed. He stood up, marched to his offender, and with the mighty momentum, gave a slap for the world to share.
But he didn’t deliver.
Let me tell you about MY slap. It wasn’t heard around the world like Mr. Smith’s but it was public enough; in a church hall with a bunch of kids and nuns. And it was my birthday.
T: “The cake smells amazing, JNET.”
Everyone started gathering and when you’re the birthday person, you take the cue. You go to the cake.
T: “I can’t wait. This cake smells so amazing!”
T was being annoying and loud as he always was. Everyone was used to him entertaining himself. But he surprised everyone when he took the moment to shove my face down into my birthday cake, ruining the party. He took his joke far. Everyone was silent.
T laughed alone. My silence wasn’t something he expected. I imagine the kids were staring between me and the nuns wondering how this would play out.
T: “It’s FUNNY! I’m sorry if you don’t get the joke. You can hit me if it makes you feel better.”
He didn’t seem very sorry to me. Friends quietly passed me napkins to wipe my face. T got annoyed that I didn’t feel like laughing. He got a chair and sat in front of me and goaded for my retaliation.
T: “Hit me.”
JNET: “Ask me again and you’ll really be sorry.”
T: Hit…”
I didn’t have the fighting words that Mr. Smith had. I didn’t have a length of space to build my momentum and strength. I was fifteen. Five feet tall and 90 pounds. And the annoying boy was asking for it. So I made it count. I slapped him so hard that I knocked him off his chair and left a hand mark on his face.
I didn’t get in trouble. The nuns took him away and my friends gathered to wipe cake off of me, give me a hug, and say I delivered an awesome smack down. A couple of boys asked if they can defend my honor and crusade against T. But that would be T’s last day to youth group.
MY slap was real.
The Hollywood one was a Hollywood one. The fifteen year old, little girl in me, watches the clip that is the current trend. The Oscars is sponsored by Pfizer, has medicine for alopecia in the wings... That slap was fake fake fake. The lamest smack down ever.
There’s a real war for the minds of people. I expect Hollywood to get Holly-weirder.
More shiny news will follow. Try not to fall for it.
JNET