Christopher Saint's Humor Column

Today's column is about expectations.

For instance, since I claim to be at least a part time writer, you probably expect that I write things sometimes. HA! You fools! Er, actually, forget I said that.

You also probably expect that I am incredibly handsome and the life of the party...well, can't find anything wrong with that. You may by all means continue to expect that.

But, on a more serious note

****A MORE SERIOUS NOTE:

Everyone has expectations, and some of them can be clearly identified as (and this is the technical term) Stupid.

****END MORE SERIOUS NOTE!

SERIOUSLY...er...UNSERIOUSLY, WAKE UP! STOP DROOLING!

Allow me to present you with an example. The day-after-Thanksgiving is the biggest shopping day of the year. Every store and retailer has HUGE sales which you will be LOATH TO MISS! In fact, if you miss ANY of the sales at all, your first born will have three heads, and NONE of them will work! This, I suppose, explains the recent glut of three-headed children.

On this day-after-Thanksgiving everyone goes shopping. The sales are good, but the lines are ENORMOUS (note the use of capital letters for emphasis) and the traffic is HIDEOUS.

Yet people still get angry when they are not helped immediately with their hour-long search for the perfect TV, and they are indignant when they have to stand in line. In other words, they expect to get swift, efficient, and helpful service on the single WORST shopping day of the year.

This makes them IDIOTS. It is not only silly and ignorant to expect anything to happen quickly, but it's downright moronic. Observe the following scenario:

Irate Customer: I HAVE BEEN WAITING IN THIS LINE FOR FOURTY MINUTES! I demand to know why you people are such morons, and why I have to show you my ID!

Humble Employee: I'm sorry sir, but it's policy, you are using your credit card, I have to make sure that you have legal ID.

IC: I'VE BEEN HERE FOR FIVE HOURS! I want to get my batteries, just this one pack of batteries which I URGENTLY need for my pacemaker which, if not recharged within the next thirty seconds, will cease to function and cause me to DIE! (this is quite obviously untrue)

HE: If you die at least I'll have the chance to look at your ID sometime this CENTURY so I can help the other customers in line here and hopefully not get yelled at!

IC: NO! I refuse, unequivicoally, to show you my ID.

A tremendous snapping sound stuns all nearby into silence.

IC: WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?

HE (in a deadly cool voice): That, sir, was the sound of my sanity snapping like a twig being run over by a dump truck filled with nine tons of good top soil. Fortuantely, I prepared for just such an event by placing a fully-loaded Uzi in my pocket.

And the rest is (rather violent) history.

So you see that foolish expectations are the cause of much of the worlds termoil.

I expect that my computer will do what I tell it, but sometimes it WON'T! Because it's STUPID! And the piece of bleep who designed it should DIE, and I refuse to allow this thing to be so impudent to me!

Eventually, this course of thought results in the thrusting of a baseball bat through the screen, which results in me needing to buy a new monitor on the day-after-Thanksgiving, which requires me to stand in a line which is moving WAY too slow and this is taking WAY too long and I have a pressing appointment with a game I bought recently and you BLEEPS are not giving me service and SNAP!

BUDDABUDDABUDDABUDDA!!! (Okay, just so we are clear, that was not the sound of a worshipful Muslum, that was the sound of me spitting in disgust at the fact that the WORLD is against me and that this line is taking FOREVER and that I'm using too many CAPITAL LETTERS!

...

Alternately, I suppose it could be the sound of an especially large rabbit hopping especially quickly over an especially resonant bit of ground.)

Need I say more? I expect so.

**No rabbits, hamsters, hedgehogs, echidnas, or moles were hurt in the making of this column. I cannot, however, speak for humans as some of them may--despite my best efforts--read this.

***The facts and opinions presented in this column are strictly the opinions of the column itself and in no way represent the author's opinions or beliefs. Furthermore, the author cannot and will not be held responsible for any injury, physical or otherwise, that may result from the reading of this column.

****Keep out of reach of children.

*****Column may contain small parts which could, possibly, on a slight off-chance, be harmful if jammed up one's nostril.

******Warning, possible radiation. Your brain may be mutating even as we speak.


I had it out with my editor today. The moron kept changing my columns around so that they would be more "accurate" and "factual".

"Facts have no place in modern reporting!" Said I. "And besides, this is an opinion column!"

"I'm sorry." He replied. "But when you say that Portugal is the fifth largest country in the world and that Istanbul is in fact a way to cook chicken, something has to be done."

"Well excuse me!" I shouted back. "Those just happen to be genuine facts that I found on the internet, which as you know is the source for all truth!"

"You only found them on the net because YOU put them there! You wacko!"

"That's hardly the point!" I replied. "The point is that I'm just writing my opinion, and those facts happen to fit my opinion! I always choose the correct facts to fit my opinions, and just because my opinions don't happen to agree with YOUR facts doesn't mean they aren't valid."

"What?" He asked.

"I really don't know, that just came right out."

"Whatever." He answered irritably. "The point is that you're fired."

"What?!" I shouted. "You can't fire your only writer! I'm irreplacable! You editors, on the other hand, are a dime a dozen! So YOU'RE fired!"

A scuffle ensued, in which I clobbered him on the nose. That was when I realized that I was alone in my room, fighting with myself. Needless to say, I felt a certain amount of chagrin: similar to how you'd feel if you were driving to your job in New York one day and suddenly realized that you live in Paris, France, and that you are a street bum who doesn't have a car or a shirt even, and that your refrigerator box is leaking badly through a gaping hole in the roof.

This also brings to mind the street person who, upon ingesting a snail found on the side of a building, realizes that he has just had the equivalent of a high-class dinner at an exclusive club. He's reminded then of the fact that being a bum is often much less stupid that being a dandy.

I mean, let's face it: do you really think a street bum would have been fooled by the whole "Emperor's New Clothes" thing? I say no.

And on that deep and ear-shattering note, I say adieu, or actually, good-by, because I can't quite get the accent right with adieu.