The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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More than a few times, writing satirical pieces for this blogsite or the Crab Cracker, I’ve had to apologize for my so-called humor, dark as it is. Once I advocated for alpaca hunting and the owners of a fairly large herd of the cute little beasts threatened monetary reprisal for every one of their long-necked Bambis that were shot and killed by the over-eager hunters of the South End who might find their expensive pets easy prey. After over a decade I’m relieved to report that my attorney, Bubba Frisk the 3rd, hasn’t had to defend my meager estate from lawsuits over alpaca burgers at ungodly prices per pound.

Recently, however, I was forced once again to plead guilty to the charge of reckless endangerment with an unregistered pen to the folks who found my sadly wanting wit a bit much to endure any further. The owner of a South End mercantile (name withheld at the advice of counsel) called to tell me that his sense of humor had reached its entrepreneurial limit. “I’m trying to run a business here,” he told me, “and you’re giving us a black eye.” I wanted to respond with something sympathetic but self-defensive, like “gee, and I thought you were trying to run it into the ground.” Fortunately I held my sharp tongued humor in check.

In the end I said I understood. I said I apologize. I said it wouldn’t happen again … to them. He even suggested another mercantile, a competitor of theirs, that might be far more deserving of my barbs, I guess trying to be helpful. Believe me when I say suggestions for my humor are as welcome as demands for an apology. If folks take umbrage themselves for being the target of my mischief, why on god’s green earth would they think the competitors would be any more appreciative?

I want to offer ALL you readers my deepest and most sincere apology. I certainly didn’t intend lasting harm. Course the mizzus takes it personal … and when I even make sport of myself, I’m starting to get a little annoyed too. I blame it on Covid. I blame it on the partisan politics of our time. Okay, all right, I blame it on myself. Happy now?

Folks are just too easily convinced that when I make fun of someone, it might be them. Course you and I know, it probably isn’t. But that’s the trouble with shotgun humor, it’s imprecise. I was, rest assured, aiming at the neighbor.

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