Now that The American Way of Life has dissipated into “shittin’ in a bucket” and “posting warning signs amid the debris,” (i.e., blogging), I hope y’all don’t get ALL up IN my shrimp shack for failing to deliver a righteous, “I told you so” now “kiss my rod,” rant, because my dominant mood of anger has been momentarily exhausted, and I am suffering greatly from the previously suppressed and incompatible, yet competing bout of laughter now enjoying a post-inhibitory rebound of god-defiant vengeance.
It’s sort of like bursting out laughing at your father just as he doubles down on obedience training, insofar as you just can’t help your 10-year old self, even though such outrageous infidelity could well cause him to double down yet again. I mean, laughing at authoritarianism rising when they are laying down the law; either they laugh with you, or they don’t. Fortunately, my old man chose to laugh with me. He was cross-eyed-spelunkered, but he laughed.
The analogy extends to the fact that you don’t even know why you’re laughing in such an ill-timed manner. Maybe laughing in the face of death is a displacement behavior, a nervous tic, like ducks pulling grass before a big territorial brouhaha, or repeatedly tying one’s shoes after Bjarney of Hof’s sword really bites into your shield for the first time. Sure, you’d heard rumors of how he went overboard and killed all his relatives that one time, but when he took a large chunk of your shield in the first bite, your shoes suddenly felt insufficiently gripped to your feet. When Bjarney stops to tie his own shoes, as well, well, ya never know what goes on inside a man’s head. There’s a certain adjunctive excitement to confusion, but it’s a real head-scratcher for ethologists.
Good on you, Dad.