The Smug Baldy Speaks

You’re at a party, and the lights are flashing, the music is pumping, and people talking, laughing, clapping, dancing, and then a rumor starts: somewhere, out of sight, someone might have puked. Like a wave it moves through the crowd, touching everyone as they consider, “Oh no, I may be next”, and they swallow nervously, not wanting it to be true, but with that tentative swallow, they know the truth: they could indeed.

In true whisper-down-the-lane fashion, everyone does their part to pass the rumor, but the details change and morph as it goes, and the rumor becomes more grandiose, more twisted. First someone simply puked in the kitchen, then they puke on someone in the kitchen, then they puke while dancing with kitchen knives, then someone is almost stabbed and pukes in self-defense, and then … It doesn’t end, but builds and self-organizes. The rumor becomes a living thing.

Then the rumor is on everyone’s lips, as they share their own distorted versions, and argue over the details that don’t add up. Witnesses to the event are brought in and consulted for historical accuracy, “No, there were no knives involved”, and “no, it didn’t really look like tapioca pudding.” But in the noise and growing hysteria, these observations are misheard or misinterpreted, and are then woven back into the narrative, giving it new life: “Yes, a witness just confirmed that it looked like some kind of awful pudding.” Someone else gags, and the crowd holds its collective breath, as everyone hopes to keep their bile down.

And then there’s the confirmation, indisputable evidence that at least part of the rumor is based on actual events: Someone finds a small, puddle in the kitchen that smells badly. It doesn’t really look like tapioca pudding, but there are little pearls in it that could once have been nourishing. But it’s strange, and maybe there’s too much of what was clearly someone’s salad, and there’s an overabundance of saliva.

Even after it is cleaned away, there’s a nagging odor in the air: it’s not quite vomit, but not quite not either. Like that odor, the fervor of the rumor wanes, but doesn’t quite go away as the unanswered question lingers in an otherwise festive night. Some ass drank too much, or too fast, and now we’re paying for it with our suspicion and doubt, and our own internal efforts to control the reaction we feel in the back of our throats. We accuse one another of being the perpetrator, start new rumors about someone else’s guilt. Fingers are pointed and voices are raised. How could you, or you, or you, be so inconsiderate? How could he, or she, or they not control themselves better? You’re disgusting. I always thought you were a pig too. Way to go, pal.

And feeling much better, the dog is back in the yard, eating grass again.