Here in that bizarre level of consciousness called “Geezerville,” old age and general crotchetiness have rendered Halloween party costumes redundant, as most of us simply go as we are. Women identify as hags, while men go as zombies.
Just recently, I found out that I was considered a “zuvembie” or a maker of zombies. The discovery was inadvertent, as I simply overheard some loud gossip between a woman I used to date named Tara and her tablemate Lucy at the Geezerville Bistro. They didn’t notice that I had plopped my oversized ancient frame at an adjoining table behind a partition.
What I heard could have been considered rather offensive and insulting, had it not been true, and it was the beginning of the end of my career as a zuvembie.
My former date Tara said, “Oh my God, Gil Michaels just walked by! Don’t make eye contact or say hello, he might join us! He is the most boring person in Geezerville. When we went out to dinner, he talked non-stop about shopping for door-knob polish and denture glue. Then he droned on and on about how to poach eggs, and then he started reading this godawful poetry from a book he wrote called 50 Years of Bad Poetry, The Haiku of Gil Michaels.”
Tara didn’t stop there. Her rant continued.
“My God, I’m getting bored again just remembering it! Then, I swear to God, he pulled out some clippings! He passed me a bunch of cartoons from the New Yorker magazine. And then, just as I was ready to faint from boredom, he pulled out a little box and said, ‘My sainted mother left me her kidney stones. Want a look?’ I was preparing to jump and run as he pulled out his bank book to show me his deposits. Finally I said ‘Gil Michaels, you have almost bored me to death. I feel like a zombie.’”
Lucy spoke up.
“Well, Gil seems to be boring, but he’s not as boring as my husband, Walter.”
I took great umbrage at her remark and ended my eavesdropping and concealment. I rounded the partition and stood before their table, bellowing,
“Ladies, I am quite frankly appalled, offended, and genuinely miffed that you would entertain the idea of anyone else being the most boring person in Geezerville. If necessary, I can produce notarized statements from my victims stating that I bored them almost to the point of hypnotic unconsciousness. My 45 years of misanthropy and dullness have enabled me to perfect and enjoy boring others into zombie-like trances. I’ve made boring an art form, so there is no way that Walter is more boring than me!”
Lucy snickered, and then said “Well, that was some impressive rhetoric, but my Walter is more boring than you.”
“Prove it!” I barked.
“No problem!” Lucy answered smugly. “See that balding, skinny man in the baggy turquoise leisure suit, tapping and eyeballing the walls?”
“Yes,” I replied, with a hint of arrogance in my voice.
“That’s my Walter, examining the grout,” Lucy said. “He’s a self-proclaimed grout fanatic, and if I call him over here, he’ll spend hours telling you the history of grout, the nature of grout, and the future of grout.”
“Wow, that really is boring,” Tara exclaimed. “I think Walter’s got you there, Gil.”
“Nonsense,” I boasted. “Try this: ‘Man, you should have seen me bowling last night!’”
“Nice countermove, Gil,” Tara responded, “but it doesn’t beat the grout.”
I was starting to feel anxious when Lucy fired another salvo and hit the target.
“My Walter binge-watches ‘Gomer Pyle’ and ‘The Lawrence Welk Show,’” she added.
Lucy’s hit was catastrophically boring, so in a desperate attempt to save my reputation as Geezerville’s most boring man, I was forced to go nuclear. I pulled out my self-published book of 50 years of bad poetry.
“Lucy, try to top this!” I challenged. Here’s some of my haiku, which should bore you to tears. This one’s called ‘What the hell, dude?’” I read the poem aloud. “Just turned 70, and I’m in love. With a 30 year old. Where was she, in 1983? What the hell, dude?”
Both Lucy and Tara grimaced.
“You’re right, that’s really bad poetry, and terrible haiku,” Tara said, “but it’s not boring, it’s pathetic, and I feel sorry for you.”
Alas, my nuclear option had gone terribly awry, and to my horror, Lucy launched two kill shots.
“My Walter’s hobbies are going to the South Shore Laundromat to watch clothes dry, and then he goes to Safeway to look at eggs. He says it fascinates him.”
Oddly, I felt myself getting weary. I could barely keep my eyes open.
“What’s wrong, Gil? You’re looking kind of spacey,” Tara chortled. “Could it be that the most boring man in Geezerville has been out-bored, and has lost the war of the zombie-makers?”
I responded wearily.
“I concede to the great Walter,” I mumbled. “As I sink into my boredom-induced zombie stupor, I admit to being a rotten poet, but I hope to be a fine zombie.”
Happy Halloween.
Gil Michaels is always boring at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gil-Michaels.
