Shit I Don't Understand

To my psychiatrist,

I’m having an episode again. I know you said that when I have these panic attacks, it is best to just wait them out, but nothing flares up one’s nerves like a big snowstorm and a lonely holiday season. I feel lost and hopeless. No matter what I try to tell myself, there are still so many things in life I don’t understand. For instance, these five things are just some of the mysteries that are currently afflicting my peace of mind.

Portuguese: I’ve been told Portuguese is not Spanish. I wouldn’t know. After all, if there’s one thing I understand less than why John Turturro continues to be casted in movies, it’s Portuguese. I don’t know where Portugal is per se, but Wikipedia says it has several species of diverse mammalian fauna. I assume that Spanish-speaking bears from Mexico migrated southward into Portugal and mingled with the native polecats, weasels and badgers to produce the hybrid Portuguese we all have come to know. Why should I alter my plans to learn Portuguese by spending Spring Break in Mexico? I don’t understand.

Fashion: Who are Estée Lauder, Giorgio Armani, and Coco Chanel? Strippers? These names carry no weight with me. Don’t get me wrong though, I’ve tried to become more fashionable. I’ve even started attending mass at Our Lady of Gaga because I hear Glam Rock is totally chic right now. Despite my noblest attempts, adequate appearance trend comprehension still evades my fleshy grasp. I don’t understand.

Why I Can’t Enter the Kumite: If I’m ever going to become the next Frank Dux, I need to establish myself on the global martial arts stage. At 6’3”, 83 pounds my reach-by-agility score is rivaled only by Manute Bol. I’ve been working on my crazy eyes, and I have procured a massive bearded friend to have my back. I may not be as popular as Brian Scalabrine playing 48 seconds of garbage time, but I am a ferocious fighter with a reverse Montreal Screwjob that will be the envy of all participants. Why haven’t I been invited? I don’t understand.

NFL Player Names: I know I’ve already written a Punchbowl column about properly naming a child, but someone needs to call out the NFL for allowing such weirdo’s to permeate America’s greatest sports league. Why does Lavontrell McCutchens have an Irish last name when he looks like this? Why is every safety named Demetriolus Smith or Tremonica Jackson? How did a man named Geranium Jean-Jacobin earn a first round draft pick? Does Parmoniah Bontu-Bontu speak a lick of English? These are all things I don’t understand.

Late Night Television: A question that has stumped theologians for centuries is what happens after you die. While I can’t answer this, I can tell you that when television dies, it goes to late night. Whilst the waking world slumbers, Craig Ferguson and Miss Cleo come out to play. Reruns of the Jeffersons and I Love Lucy abound as the rustic glow of Ethel Mertz emanates from the illuminated box in the corner. You desire to fall asleep, but you’re mesmerized by Winter X coverage of Shaun White double corkin’ off the money booter. Before you know it you’re dialing the number to purchase a Flowbee. How did you fall so far in three hours? I don’t understand.

With all these things that I don’t understand, it’s no wonder why I have these panic attacks. The world is an extremely confusing place, and sometimes I question why I don’t move to Bluffington with the Funnies. All I know is that there is nothing funny about the situation I find myself in.

Under understanding,
A.T. Piskai

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