Amazing Graceless

I’m Saint Lazy Selfish Ethical Snarlcastic

Admitting broken rules, petty crime, and fake generosity is liberating

I haven’t always been a nice person. Patience may be a virtue, but I wasn’t willing to wait in line to get any. I’m trying, but it takes a tremendous amount of patience to be patient. “She does not suffer fools gladly, but she’s honest,” one friend told another when describing me.

Sometime during the Dark Ages of computers, a coworker presented me with a plaque — the early version of a meme.

“Just state your business and go away quietly so nobody gets hurt.”

Some twit didn’t get a good backup and performed a systems upgrade at an over-booked airport hotel. Nearly 800 guests lost data and the hotel didn’t know what rooms were occupied or how much the group of Montana Fetishist Fly Fisher people or US Governors for Mercury Expedition owed.

My group of nerds descended from three cities and took three sleepless days to fix the database and restore interconnected services.

The only clouds in the sky were throwing lightning bolts.

Before leaving, I changed the sys admin’s profile picture to the radiation symbol and put hair remover in his nap room’s shampoo bottles.

Did I say ‘twit’? oops. I’m a work in progress.

I haven’t always been the absolute charmer I am now.

Our dad was an ass. He’d hand out money with a smirk. You owe me and I’m going to tell everyone how generous I was.

As angry young teens my brother and I got into minor trouble. Little things, like joyriding and wrecking Dad’s company car — repeatedly. Using kids as indentured servants at your restaurant when there’s alcohol on the premises isn’t a good idea.

My big brother shouldn’t have taught me to drive at 12 and our parents would have been wealthier if they’d stayed home more weekends.

Sometimes it’s better to simply remain speechless than spin a tale.

When our mom asked, “Why are you wearing turtle necks in the summer and limping?” I sneered like James Cagney and ignored her.

There weren’t any active volcanoes in the area and no extraterrestrials had abducted us. Another fantastic lie would have taken far too much work.

As competing juvenile delinquents, my brother and I thought putting dark beer in the iced tea dispenser was hilarious. The clawfoot bathtub used for a salad bar required way more wine to fill to 3 inches than we drunk fools ever imagined.

Because I’m virtuous I gave the homeless free food and stale dark beer.

I admitted guilt whether I was responsible or not, just to muddy the waters.

My brother, the jock with the great reputation, loved me. He even paid our weed dealer in advance for my next purchase and took out two stop signs.

Making money meant paying taxes. For the past 30 years, I’ve taken a $438 charity credit for the ratty underwear I donate to the Goodwill.

In 1998 the court and a disturbingly earnest social worker suspected I was saintly. My daughter and I took in 3 orphaned Hellians who reminded me of myself at that age. Why take them?

Sometimes you look around and discover you’re the only adult in the room, and it’s on fire. Do you run out and hope the kids you love will be okay? I couldn’t do that and be true to myself. Whatever happened, I was going to have to look back on this someday and ask if I did the right thing.

I did it because my own kid sucked at cleaning the bathroom, I wanted to fire the maid, and sometimes I needed an extra passenger to use the carpool lanes.

Story details remain fresh and consistent because I’m honest, if not completely forthcoming. The story belongs to the kids who brought me Alpine high drama and bleeding ulcers.

I dragged the girls to Mexico for a school project so I could practice my Spanish and buy cheap benzos while helping build a Habitat for Humanity home. The teacher in charge was hot.

If Doctors Without Borders had been willing to give me triple points for airline mileage to Congo I would’ve been able to steal a prescription pad and save the gas. They probably found a last minute replacement with my rare blood type who knew Assembly language.

My boyfriend was working for the Red Cross. I volunteered to a) keep the bimbo nurses away from him, b) get invited to the ritzy dinner and steal the door prize, and c) get access to their computer system and finally remove my name from their blood donation list.

When I picked up my friend’s pain medicine I helped a young mom pay for prescriptions. I was having an “It’s a Wonderful Life” moment assessing my possible legacy and was trying to balance Kharma. My friend’s cancer wasn’t that bad.

Plus, the broke woman was holding up the line and her kid coughed on me.

I’ve read do-gooders are actually selfish people who give to charity and help others for recognition, or to make themselves feel good. Maybe.

With a couple of fifty dollar bills stashed in my wallet “just in case I see a cute outfit”, I paid so I could take my friend’s meds sooner. The grateful woman’s son cheerfully agreed to bag my groceries.

Angels witnessing others’ misfortunes play out can be a buzz kill.

Lying about your whereabouts, deeds, and motives takes imagination and a commitment to memory. Being forever altruistic, humble, and selfless is enough work already.

Acting ethically frees up energy wasted over worrying about punitive damages and will surely get me into the Platinum Level of Heaven.

I’m too tired and easily confused to expend the effort needed to remain deceptive anymore.

This admission surely elevates all the good deeds I’ve done exponentially. I wonder what the VIP Room in Heaven looks like. Will I sit next to Mahatma Gandhi or Mother Theresa? I’ve heard they’re mean.

Special Exalted Saint Patricia Jeanne has a nice ring to it, yes?

Thanks to editor Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier) for stitching my ouchies.

Thanks for reading!