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My Only Regret
2002-05-15 13:49:12


Bad People
 
You big dumb dogshit-eating extropian!
-- Ratsnatcher

 

I'm here to talk to you about regrets. You know, those things you wish for the rest of your life that you did or did not do. The things that create Sour Grapes. The things you KNOW would've turned out perfectly the way you wanted them to, but you justify your choices by imagining that not making them would've ruined your life as you know it. I'm lucky. I have only one regret. And it haunts my dreams on a regular basis. Now that I am in love with that show The Osbournes, it's getting worse.

I regret that I didn't tell the guy I've loved since high school my feelings when I had the chance. He wanted to know. He asked me. But, I couldn't say. My feelings were too strong. I was too vulnerable. Plus, I had a boyfriend at the time and I had to break up with him first. By the time I did that, The Man of My Dreams went with the blonde sitting on the other side of him. He told me about it in a kind, compassionate way. So I didn't take it hard. But it's been a long, slow, lingering chisel at the base of my heart for many, many years. I see him now and then, at Hometown Social Functions and Get Togethers. He still makes my knees weak. And it's not because he's a rock star. In fact, I wouldn't have hesitated if he were, oh, say, a Dentist or a Caddy. But the whole rock star thing makes me shudder: Miss Conduct is nobody's groupie. So, I remain a quiet fanatic. I can barely listen to the radio these days. He's on every hour or two. I become a character in some True Love comic book. I enter this dreamy trance state as a big thought bubble appears above my head of him playing music, me watching. Another thought bubble appears above the thought bubble me, of me laying across him and his hands roaming my body as if I were the instrument.

My whole concept of how this might have been is changing, thanks to the Magic of Television. Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne are true inspirations. Sharon Osbourne, man she [bleeping] rules! She's Ozzy's wife, manager and sometimes interpreter. Although, he pretty much only says "[Bleep]." I get the impression that Ozzy wouldn't be able to walk if it weren't for Sharon. And he is so sweet with their daughter, Kelly. She sits on his lap and kisses his cheek before a promotional shoot. She reminds herself not to say [bleep]. I can't figure out their son, Jack's, accent. He's 19 and says he wets the bed. I think he has a band too. Ozzy and Sharon mostly like to sit and talk baby talk to their Shitsus and Pomeranian. At Thanksgiving, Ozzy made a ton of really good gravy. That's all he said all day, "[Bleeping] fabulous gravy." Each Osbourne flips off the camera in the family holiday photo. And they call Champagne, Piss Juice. Even Sharon.

So now my imagination transports me to a life somewhere between this and the film, Rock Star. I can see us now: living in squalid opulence, teaching our children the virtues of swearing and freedom of expression. Our son salutes us with a ripping belch every morning. Our daughter confesses to her father that she got a tattoo the night before, begging him not to tell me. He says he has to and calls me while I'm having a manicure. Our son sneaks young ladies into his room at night and lies to us about it. We hate the music our daughter listens to, commenting that it sounds good for getting your head smashed in. Our children wet the bed and possess nervous ticks from growing up with road stress. I dress my husband and shove him off to the airport while remaining at home to prepare for our daughter's seventeenth birthday party. He phones me from New York to complain about how [bleeping] tired he is of [bleeping] touring. And why can't I stop spending [bleeping] money so he can retire like a [bleeping] normal person. I say something like, "Buck up darling and get some rest. Love you."

The show is brilliant. It's surely going to provide Ozzy with that retirement send off he keeps pleading for. It's certainly bringing him and his family a great deal of press. Even for Aimee, the daughter who wants nothing to do with the show. I think she is going to become the most famous Osbourne of all. Meanwhile, I could be hanging out back stage with the Who this Summer. Excuse me, I need to reprogram the Holodeck.

Over.  End of Story.  Go home now.

kunst@pigdog.org


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