I couldn’t help getting a very strange feeling when I arrived last night at my dear sister Rose’s home. As regular readers of this Web log know, due to the mortgage crisis, Rose’s large and loving Catholic family has been host to her husband’s brother’s large and loving Catholic family for quite a while now, which resulted in a house where the pitter-pat of little feet has come to resemble the thunder of bison herds that once shook the Great Plains. Then, as I stood, holding two brimming shopping bags, my feet absorbing that thumping, rolling rumble from the floor boards, my ears assaulted at about ninety decibels by the jubilant noises of children, so exuberant in their fleeting youth, it hit me – other than Yours Truly, who had just arrived moments before, there were no adults anywhere on the premises. Yes, I assured myself, it’s true – nobody over the age of eighteen anywhere – not even, I further noted, any of the older kids, like Hank Junior, who’s at least close to eighteen. No, I realized to my horror, the oldest child there at the moment was barely fourteen, followed up by her twelve year old cousin and eleven year old brother. Clearly, something was wrong.
The twelve and fourteen year old kids, however, quickly supplied a reasonably believable explanation as they approached me, smiling, waving their cell phones like magic talismans. Rose, Hank’s brother, and Hank’s brother’s wife were all supposed to be here, I was told, bringing the infants and pre-schoolers with them, and the older kids like Hank Junior were on orders to convene at the house by dinner time, using their own transportation. But Rose, I was told, had called to tell them that she was stuck in a traffic jam at the American Legion Bridge, while her in-laws had likewise called to notify the children already at home that the family SUV had run out of gas on the George Washington Parkway. Would I, then, they (i.e., Hank’s brother and his wife) had requested, (or so I was told, anyway) please provide cookies and milk for everyone and mind the kids until either Rose or Hank’s brother and his wife arrived?
I certainly had no trouble believing that Rose had found Route 495 to be a parking lot, nor that her brother-in-law, who, like her husband, is, after all, Polish, would have any problem forgetting to put enough gas in his oversized ride to get all the way home, but that part about the milk and cookies sounded a bit suspicious. These kids were, I knew, supposed to be prepared for consumption of mache, shallot and vine tomato salad with Breton grey Atlantic sea salt, Tuscan olive oil and balsamic vinegar of Modena; rosemary roast chicken; home made semolina macaroni and Cotswold cheese; organic French green beans garnished with goat butter; and broiled purple Peruvian fingerling potatoes in a deglazed roasted chicken giblet Chardonnay, leek and caper reduction (the raw organic ingredients for which were delivered for preparation by the ladies of the house, along with detailed instructions, courtesty of Yours Truly) in less than two hours, and I could hardly imagine either mother recommending that Tom feed their ravenous broods, or even parts of them, my bodacious, unforgettable, world-class cookies, with or without milk, pending arrival of one or more responsible parents. I even suspected that the part about the milk had been added to the request, with typical children’s guile, to lend an air of veracity to what otherwise would appear to be a blatant ploy to obtain access to some virtually irresistable sweets before dinner.
I verged on refusing, but when mention of the supposed parental directions raised continuing chants of “Cookies and milk!” from the rest of the crowd, I quickly changed my mind. There’s something about sixteen kids screaming for something they want that melts my bachelor heart – I think it’s that ringing in my ears that does the trick.
Alas, that amoral troupe of diminutive sybarites knew, on the basis of historical precedent, that, along with the ingredients for that wholesome gourmet dinner they were expected to consume within the next two or three hours, I was also packing about two pounds of raw, home made, gourmet chocolate and butterscotch chip, pecan, walnut and Reese’s Pieces cookie dough, intended for disbursement to Rose and her sister-in-law, for freezer storage and subsequent preparation in small batches with judicious use as part of the positive reinforcement phases of their ongoing childrens’ behavioral improvement program. So I agreed, and about fifteen minutes later, my spineless capitulation to a raging mob of tiny sugar fiends was duly rewarded with a gratified silence, broken only by the crunching of delighted, if decaying, baby teeth and the vigorous slurping of milk by the older children, who made a great show of consuming it, presumably for my benefit.
Knowing, however, that, under the circumstances, such quiet could not endure indefinitely, I used a tactic often employed by single adults in charge of large groups of other people’s children. I began a conversation – one which I would moderate and direct, and, if the gods were kind, successfully extend into a session of engrossing activity until rescued by the arrival of reinforcements.
“So,” I ventured, “what’s new and exciting with the two Palikowski families?”
“Dad and Uncle Henry,” the eleven year old replied without a second’s hesitation, “had a big fight about somebody named George Carlin.”
“Oh, well,” I observed, “George Carlin was a controversial figure, and he did pass away this week, so no doubt one of them mentioned that, and the other made a comment about George Carlin that wasn’t appreciated…”
“… and they yelled,” said the five year old, as she placed her hands over her ears in pantomime, “and yelled, and yelled about it for hours!”
“Really?” I feigned a bit of surprise for the children’s benefit. But actually, since Hank’s such a loyal conservative Republican, while his brother, if not a liberal, is at least some kind of Democrat, I would expect them to argue quite vigorously over the value of Carlin’s legacy.
“Oh, yeah,” one of the nine year olds assured me, “Dad was like ‘It was people like Carlin who stood up for free speech in this country,’ and Uncle Hank was like ‘He stood up for anarchists, acid-heads, flower children, Commies and Sodomites, that’s what he stood up for.’ What’s a Sodomite?”
“What are Commies?”
“What’s an acid-head?”
“Who were the flower children?”
“And what’s an anarchist?”
A zoo full of curious little primate faces stared up at me from the table, their bright, innocent eyes beseeching, cookie crumbs on their chins, tiny milk moustaches on their upper lips.
“Those are all… special subjects,” I declared, putting on my best fake disappointed voice. “You can only ask your parents about them, and don’t nag or make a fuss if they don’t want to answer, either.”
“That’s okay,” the other nine year old conceded, “we understand.” Little heads nodded gravely in agreement – a pod of diminutive dolphins bobbing through the waves of a mysterious sea. What a sucker they took me for. I knew what they were up to – none of them actually expected me to tell them about Ho Chi Minh, the Stonewall Rebellion, Owsley double domes, the Symbionese Liberation Army, or girls from the Haight-Ashbury who wore nothing but patchouli under their sun dresses. No, like all shrewd negotiators, these kids understood that you should always start out asking for something outrageous that you could never really expect to get. That softens up the other side, so that your adversary (i.e., me, in this case) is more likely to deliver on your subsequent proposals, the first of which, it turned out, was not long in coming.
“What about George Carlin’s Seven Words, then?” The fourteen year old inquired with the best disingenuous imitation of objective academic interest I have witnessed in quite some time.
“Yeah,” the ten year old interjected, inadvertently betraying some of the crowd’s true enthusiasm for the subject, “the ones they say you never hear on television.”
“Oh,” I sighed, pretending relief at having been asked about a trivial and uncontroversial subject. “There are, in fact,” I continued, “many examples. For instance, I assure you, no matter if you are watching the Playboy Channel on cable at three in the morning in Manhattan, you will never, ever read, or hear anyone say the seven words ‘Our producers apologize for insulting your intelligence.’”
The four year old gazed at me for a moment with an air of exaggerated skepticism, then asked, “Is that really what the seven words are?”
“Well, you see,” I explained, “there are plenty more. Take ‘This movie bombed at the box office,’ for example. There’s another seven words you’ll never, ever hear or see on television. Or how about ‘This program produced entirely with scab labor,’ ‘Arab villains created by Jewish studio executives,’ or ‘The products we advertise are Chinese trash.’ See? All of them are seven words, too, and you’ll never, ever see or hear them on television, either.”
“You mean,” the fourteen year old piped up, “something like ‘All New York locations filmed in Toronto,’ would be one of them, too? I mean, you’d never, ever see or hear that on a television show.”
“Exactly,” I confirmed, knowing that I could now move to the next step in my process of gaining and maintaining control over this mob of mischievous monkeys until help arrived – which was, to turn the conversation that I was directing into the premise for a game. “And now that you have the idea, while I put another batch of cookies in the oven, somebody get a pencil and a piece of paper…”
“I will!” shouted the six year old, running off into the family room.
“Great,” I remarked, “and when the paper and pencil arrive, you…” I said gravely, indicating the fourteen year old, “designate someone to write down what we come up with.”
And so it came to pass, Dear Reader, that I spent the next forty-three minutes overseeing a dining room full of cookie-crazed children participating in a sugar-stoked brainstorming session. The little ones looked up at the ceiling, sticking out their tongues, earnestly thinking of words as they counted to seven on their fingers, while the older ones bowed their heads in solemn contemplation, the tweens surreptitiously peeking at the early adolescents, checking their form against them, determined to appear as mature as possible while attacking a challenge rife with numerous semantic, linguistic and grammatical constraints and complexities. On and on they toiled, while the designated recorder (which turned out to be me) dutifully noted each successful effort, amidst cries of “I thought of that, not you!” “That’s eight words!” “That’s only six words!” “That’s two words, not one!” and, “That’s not a word! Is it, Tom?” invariably resolving the more intractable disputes by making up something myself.
Here’s what we got, and I’m sure you’ll agree that nobody will ever hear or see these seven words on any kind of television:
Our sponsors regularly hire undocumented illegal aliens.
The premise of this episode is ridiculous.
Our leading lady actress is in rehab.
Our next guest is a pathological liar.
Our writers recycle the same five plots.
Half our viewers have IQs under eighty.
This is an infomercial disguised as news.
Cast’s plastic surgery exceeds ten million dollars.
Our actors lip-sych medical and technical words.
Our parent company manufactures atomic missile warheads.
This entire sitcom shamelessly imitates “The Honeymooners.”
Concept based on a theme park ride.
Teleplay based on an antiquated video game.
Story based on a fictionalized, ghostwritten autobiography.
“Street” dialog actually stolen from other shows.
This person exchanges sex for acting jobs.
Episode written by director’s brother in law.
This actress used to be a man.
These actors playing cops have criminal records.
Corporate propaganda thinly disguised as a documentary.
Government whitewash presented as unbiased investigative reporting.
Principal action material developed from fairy tales.
Unsubstantiated urban legends presented as verifiable facts.
Producer reads on a fifth grade level.
All love scenes copied from cheap pornography.
Confusing dialog obscures incompetently executed story structure.
Loud music introduced to mask confusing dialog.
Production of this show involved considerable nepotism.
More than half the cast on steroids.
More than half the crew on marijuana.
More than half the writers on alcohol.
More than half the producers on cocaine.
Director on narcotics more than half time.
Assistant director on antipsychotics all the time.
Cinematographer on antidepressants time and a half.
No animals’ intellects were challenged filming this.
Philosophical points made not applicable to politics.
Political points made not applicable to morals.
Moral points made not applicable to reality.
Reality portrayed not necessarily applicable to you.
The word “drama” used only for description.
No entertainment guarantee expressed, offered or implied.
Foreign corporations control this television series’ content.
The director’s wife got him his job.
No expectation of plausibility should be construed.
Fictional competitive elements added to provide interest.
“Oreo” test was required for black actors.
No authentic Native Americans in this Western.
Correct pronunciation of legal Latin not assured.
Actual Federal Marshals nowhere near this courageous.
Actual FBI agents nowhere near this honest.
Actual homicide detectives nowhere near this smart.
Actual medical doctors nowhere near this competent.
Actual lawyers absolutely nowhere near this ethical.
Actual female scientists nowhere near this hot.
Actual scientific research nowhere near this exciting.
Real life computers operate considerably more slowly.
Digitally simulated fires, explosions, blood and gore.
Any resemblance to comic books is intentional.
Warning: one and two dimensional characters only.
Ethnic accents created by Hollywood voice coach.
“How about this,” the ten year old offered excitedly, “’Our reality show…’”
“Hello, everyone!” Rose stood at the dining room door, babe in one arm, toddler on the other, smiling cheerfully, looking at the cookies with barely suppressed, boiling, seething primeval maternal rage. “Where’d you kids get all those yummy-looking cookies?”
“Tom made them for us,” an angelic chorus proclaimed.
“Well,” Rose opined as she let go of the toddler and looked decidedly not so yummy daggers at me while placing her latest baby in my arms, “wasn’t that thoughtful of him? Now, Tom…”
“They,” I quickly interrupted, gesturing with my elbows at the two miniature confidence artists with their cell phones, “told me your sister-in-law said to feed everybody cookies and milk.”
“They did?” The tone of Rose’s voice immediately set the baby off crying, which I attempted my best to quell with the usual rock-and-coo routine adults who aren’t parents always try.
The Lilliputian miscreants, caught red-handed, first lashed out at their betrayer. “How come you had to tell her that,” the fourteen year old demanded indignantly, “when you could have told her it was your idea?”
“Because,” I frankly reminded everyone, “Rose used to be my big sister, okay?”
“I still am,” Rose stated emphatically as she grabbed the two oldest children’s cell phones, slapping each smartly upside the head.
“I’m telling my Mom,” squawked the twelve year old.
“Don’t bother,” Rose assured everyone within earshot, “your mother will hear all about it from me!”
“Hear about what?” Every head turned. There stood Hank’s brother’s wife, a toddler on each hand, surveying the cookies for herself.
“These two,” Rose sternly recited, gesticulating angrily with a their cell phones, “lied to Tom and said you told them he was to feed everybody cookies!”
Hank’s brother’s wife turned to me, her temper clearly set to explode. “And you believed them?”
“I’m no expert at this, like you are,” I wheedled, gesturing as best I could at the huge assemblage of children while defensively cradling Rose’s bawling baby. “And besides, I had no choice. I was isolated, outnumbered and surrounded.”
At that, the poor woman, who had no doubt been through an extraordinarily stressful day, and, furthermore, by the way, is also Irish, just like George Carlin, lit out on her kids (and Rose’s, too, for that matter) with a peppery expostulation which not only featured five of Carlin’s famous Seven Words, but was very impressively constructed as well, using, as it did, three of them as verbs in the past perfect, future subjunctive and gerund forms.
All the naughty children were sent to bed without dinner, of course, which, truth be told, was no great deprivation for the two valiant and overworked women of the house, who would, after all, have had to prepare it, and were, to be sure, both totally exhausted and probably looked upon opportunities to prepare only baby bottles and microwave dinners for the pre-schoolers as a blessing from Above. The little wags with the cell phones won’t be text messaging their friends for a couple of weeks, it looks like, and it goes without saying that it will be at least that long before any meals at the Palikowski home include a dessert course for the guilty parties. All the stuff I brought over for the wives to cook ended up in the refrigerator and, at Hank’s suggestion, when the older teenage kids showed up, we ordered Chinese, drank Red Bull or champagne as our ages dictated, and talked about life; including, as it happened, the recent passing of that comic genius, George Carlin. Sensing that this time, he was the one outnumbered and surrounded, Hank didn’t start any arguments about him, either. So, I raised my glass for a toast.
“Here’s to you, George. Wherever you are, it’s a sure bet you’ve got everybody there laughing – at themselves.”