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Wednesday, June 29, 2011

No Apologies Accepted

*Señor Gusano

I think that I speak for many when I say that I’m sick to death of people begging for forgiveness. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid to say “I’m sorry” but the key is not putting myself into the position of making this a regular part of my life. It’s not really hard to pull this off, this fairly remorseless existence, yet it seems that a day doesn’t go by without some sorry-ass saying how damn sorry he is for being some sort of shit heel.  They usually go on and on about how they have let down their family and friends. Usually the Lord gets brought into it, like bringing along your big brother to a fight so you won’t get stomped, or at least perhaps not as much.

In most cases, saying that you’re sorry doesn’t even remotely begin to repair the damage you’ve done. And besides, there’s a huge difference between admitting to something you’ve done and showing repentance, and getting caught red-fucking-handed in some salacious imbroglio and then expecting people to forgive you for it because you made a lame, post-in flagrante delicto confession.  That’s like asking for a do-over or a mulligan.  It just doesn’t work like that, which is one of the main reasons why we build prisons.  I’m sure that a lot of convicts aren’t really sorry for what they did, but if they could trade their 4 to 8 year stretch in the can for an apology, most would try hard to feel a tinge of remorse for their crimes. They might even cry a bit, but any CSI team knows that you can’t tell the difference between tears of remorse from those of laughter. 

Even the most heart-felt, even the most sincere apology isn’t enough to un-fuck the coworker you were caught with, at least not in the eyes of your spouse—something you should have thought about while you were ordering the next round of apple martinis and making up excuses for why you didn’t need to go home any time soon.  Forgiveness comes from the person doing the forgiving, it’s not the result of the sales job of the person asking for it—no matter how smoothly you think you pulled it off.

And for Pete’s sake, even I know that in the digital age you don’t commit anything to the internet unless you are prepared to share it with the whole world.  It’s kind of ironic that I’m trying my hardest to get some sort of notoriety yet my work remains as obscure as some love-sick teenager’s diary hidden under the mattress.  Meanwhile, some elected official sends a picture of something we usually hide in our pants and he’s having his Andy Warhol 15 minutes.  This is why I have decided to post a picture of my penis* with this essay.  Unfortunately, I don’t have a digital camera which is why I was forced to send a drawing instead.  I’ll let you decide if this is a publicity stunt on my part or a desperate cry for help. I’d settle for either if I can end up on the evening news. I’ll even apologize if that’s what it takes.

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