Cursed

More and more I find myself living in a vacuum. Not a Hoover household appliance mind you, my life doesn't suck, it's just that I feel like I've isolated myself. I don't socialize much, I have good friends and I'm pretty sure they like me, but I don't reach out alot and if they're calling me they get a busy signal because I'm always on-line. I doubt that anybody sits around contemplating suicide because they don't hear from me, and as far as I'm concerned I don't think that I should have to call my friends on any
kind of regular basis just so they can be reminded that I still like them. The point of all this is that I rarely receive any kind of feedback on these articles that I write. Myself I think they're mostly pretty funny or I wouldn't still be doing it, but I'm floating in this vacuum here - just sorta writing about whatever I want. And I'm tellin' ya - nobody ever says anything to me about it, one way or the other. Which, for lack of a better system, I interpret as a good sign.

However, my wife (who never has anything to say about my little jokes either) pointed-out to me that my last article made people sad. She works as a hairdresser which is an occupation that puts her in touch with more information than Google, and quite to my surprise she unloaded a wealth of feedback data. Happily, most of it was favorable, but the consensus of opinion was that my little treatise on the American Health System did not amuse people, so much as it reminded them that they had good cause to be pissed-off and weren't happy to be reminded about it. So, I went straight to my computer pulled up zboneman.com, read the article in question and decided they were right - I'm supposed to be funny not informative. In the great "60 Minutes" scheme of things, I'm not Dan Rather or Paul Schaeffer, I'm the old guy that comes on at the end and complains. What's-his-name - the crotchety guy with the craggledy voice . . . he's was pretty cool. He made sure we got our full hours' worth.

Anyway so I've resolved to leave the news alone for a while and try to mostly just stick to the jokes and y'know the funnier comedy stuff. For what I get paid to do this, taking reckless shots at the Insurance Companies and the A.M.A. is probably not the wisest thing to be doing. And I worry, I should hope you understand that when I refer to the A.M.A. I'm not talking about your family physician, or Marty Nygaard who happens to be my kid's doc and great guy whom I'm am proud to consider a friend. The same thing holds
true with the Insurance companies - I'm friends with my agent, one of these days we're gonna go fly-fishing. The point I want to get across is that I
realize I'm not being in the least bit funny and I remember something about promising to be really funny. A Promise is a promise, damnit! So let's just get on with it. It's time to let the hilarity ensue. So strap yourselves in Ladies and Gentleman - the Bonemobile is ready to rumble. Expectant mothers? Sit this one out.

Who am I kiddin? I got nothin'. I kinda waited until the last minute on this one, and so far I got jack. It's well past the bewitching hour and I'm
just sitting here in my boxers staring at a blank screen like a deer in the headlights. It's like all the sudden I forgot how to do my job. Usually I
just start pecking away at the keyboard and 2 hours later - Presto. But this is just . . . starting to suck, I'm getting panicky - I seriously only have a few hours to come up with something. Most the time I just turn on the computer, the jokes fly outta my butt, I save it in Word, e-mail it to the Indy and "Bing" - Paycheck. Just like a job. I hope I haven't lost it, it's not like I can call in sick? I'm tellin' ya - it's this blank screen, it's
making me nuts. Blankety blank blank . . . I feel like I'm losing my mind - which is 'really' gonna make it tough - I use my mind alot for this.
Maybe if I just turn off the TV - it's not like Carson Daly is going to inspire me. That's better - now I can concentrate . . . on that blank screen
with it's little silent, blinking cursor that seems to be mocking me, "Whatsamatter funny-boy? Cat got your thumb?" Okay silence is bad, I'll crank up the iTunes just enough to drown-out the voices. But the cursor roared with cruel laughter at my silly solution and taunted me mercilessly, "The Almighty Boneman, at a loss for dirty words - who's the real 'cursor' now bonehead?" "NO, SHUT UP - I'M STILL FUNNY!" I shouted back. "STUPID
CURSOR!" Which thankfully snapped me out of my little psychotic episode - don't wanna scare the family. I typed in "by The Boneman," hoping that might get me rolling - after another moment I ran a spell-check on what I had so far. "At least I can still spell," I was thinking when the cursor whispered "Rub a lamp, loser." Oh my God this is bad - maybe I'll just take this month off - nobody'll miss it" "Sure take a month off wuss - all your adoring fans won't care if the Mighty Casey strikes out - who cares if there's no joy in Mudville?"

The above is sort of a dramatization of how weird it is to have a "joke job" and how deluded and completely out-of-touch I really am. I shouldn't
have to live in this sucky vacuum all alone? You could help me. I need help. Somebody needs to call me up and just lie to me - tell me that I made you laugh so freakin' hard you ruptured a gonad. The damn thing practically exploded! - I'll believe ya. Tell me you soiled your Dockers right at your desk. And you almost lost your job just because I'm such a funny son of a bitch. Would it kill ya? Support your local Boneman. Slip me a twenty. Beer doesn't grow on trees.

I guess the reason for my anti-social ways has alot to do with the fact that I'm not a stereotypical parent. I'm not like the kind of Fathers' who used to come home from work, have dinner with the family, kiss the kids goodnight and retire to my den. I pretty much hang-out with my kids 24-7. Quite honestly I wouldn't want it any other way - they're 5 and 6 now and they both have hilarious Cartoon Network vocabularies that totally slay me.

Just as an example, they're both onto me. They're little "Momma spies" on constant alert to make sure I don't try to sneak any contraband (beer) into the house. The other day I'd taken some ground beef out of the freezer to defrost so I could make a meatloaf; and just in case there might be a fly in the house I covered it with a hand-towel. Before you know it along comes the precocious Zoe, my youngest (a child so guileless and beautiful she'd melt the heart of an Orc) she was scouting around for a snack and noticed the hamburger under the hand-towel. After a quick peek and a moments' careful deliberation she turned and in a tone that suggested she didn't want to compromise what might turn out to be a much deeper investigation, she casually asked, "Dad, why are you hiding meat?"

Lennon will be starting 2nd Grade by the time you read this and she too is funny, but she's more serious by nature. She's got no use for her sister's lightminded frivolity. For example Zoe will come running into my little home-office with her plaintive (whiny) tone, "Daddy - Lennon keeps
destroying me - for some explanation." To which Lennon with follow on her heals roaring in frustration, "I'm not destroying anything you stupid twerp, I'm trying to teach you how to play Uno," and then punctuates it all with her trademark frustrated growl, that sounds a little bit like an agitated bull. She'll storm off, after she realizes that I'm not going to take sides and am therefore useless. Zoe, always up for a hug, will snuggle up to me and conclude, "listen to her Dad? I'm no doctor, but I know bad-cow-disease,
when I hear it."

I'll give you one last bon mot, just to make sure my wife doesn't speak to me for the rest of the month. As a family we make fairly regular runs to
Dairy Queen which I hate because my family is terribly, terribly challenged when it comes to ordering from the car. My wife and kids are "special order" nut-jobs (they have to re-invent everything on the menu) and this always causes things to go bung. Disappointed whimpering from the back seat, ugly words up front, things melting all over the place - I hate Dairy Queen.

Anyhow, the last time we went it was just for a treat (usually a much easier affair) and after learning that my wife wanted a small Peanut Butter Breeze, I figured I'd hurry and get that one out of the way. So I stuck my head out the window and loudly proclaimed, "Yea let me have a small penis butter, bree--" Let's just say that it was a while before decorum would be restored
to the vehicle after my little Freudian faux pax, and then comes Lennon's analytical voice from the back seat, "Dad - did you just say penis butter?" Whatterya gonna do - she watches Animal Planet - I guess penises come up from time to time in the wild. I suppose a good Christian father might have quickly thought-up a way to diffuse the situation, and handled the matter a little more graciously, but I was in no mood, "no honey," I told her, "I said 'small' penis butter."