Jason Fredric Gilbert
Pushing the boundaries of weird since 1978
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Please forgive me…

In step with the season of atonement: a collection of apologies, several of which are actually sincere

Love is never having to say you’re sorry. Bullshit. Love is always having to say you’re sorry. Like every day. Sometimes more than once a day. Like for that blog I wrote. Or for not sending you flowers like I did before we were married. Or for getting fat. And lazy. And irritable. Or for not saying I love you every day. Or good night. Or missing the toilet when I pee first thing in the morning. Hey babe, it’s harder than it looks. No pun intended. But ‘tis the season to repent so I’ve gathered up some of the people to whom I’d like to apologize. Here goes:

Bashar. I’m sorry dude. I’ve been having some strange, inexplicable erotic fantasies about your wife in recent years. She’s one helluva MILF, bro. OK, so I know you’re one loco mofo and you wouldn’t hesitate to sarin gas my whole block but I just had to get this off my chest. Ever since I saw her on the pages of Vogue magazine (before it disappeared in a Stalin like expunging of history) I’ve been secretly lusting after that exotic desert rose of yours. I can’t say why exactly I find Asma so enchanting. I think it has to do with her Britishness (I can’t resist that sexy accent) or her sophisticated sense of fashion. Or maybe it’s her devotion to you, a total megalomaniacal, ruthless mass murderer. I mean, how low are those standards, right? So dude, my bad. I know it goes against our code, bros before ho’s, but its Yom Kippur and I need you to forgive me.

My body. That’s right. I’ll start with you, my liver. I drink too much. My man Benny Franklin said it best: Beer is proof that God loves us. Or maybe he didn’t say it. But it’s true. And you, my lungs. I’ve been ignoring the surgeon general since I was like fifteen. I’m sorry. But you know what they say. Once you go black, you never go back. My teeth. You guys were pearly white once. Before my four-cups-of coffee-an-hour habit. Turkish coffee, Espresso, Americano and, when I’m really feeling queer, an ice café (you know, the milkshake kind from Aroma). Finally, you my knees. You’ve been carrying the heavy load my friends. If I keep binging on toblerones you’ll be buckling in no time under my oompa loompaness. So I’m sorry. I’ll try harder this year.

Every security guard at every mall, supermarket and bank in this country. You guys and gals are underpaid and have an extremely risky job. But do you have to stick your filthy, grimy hands through every compartment of my wife’s purse? Do you have to violate me with your metal detecting rod? And seriously, has anyone ever answered “yes” to the question: “Do you have a weapon”? If I had a weapon and intended to do you or anybody else harm my answer would inevitably be “No”. But wait, that’s no apology at all. You’re right. You’re just doing your job. You’re the last line of defense between us and a terrorist blowing stuff up. I get it. I’m sorry. You are not invisible. I see and acknowledge you and your sodomizing metal detector/BDSM paddle. Now let me into the goddamn superpharm so I can refill my prescription for happy pills.

The History Channel. I’m sorry for not watching more of your excellent programming on ancient aliens, obese pawn shop owners, illiterate swamp people hunting alligators (they’re speaking English so why the subtitles?) and Hitler, Hitler, Hitler. Jesus Christ, History channel, why don’t you just call yourself the Hitler channel? I get it. Its history and them Nazis liked to film. A lot. But ancient aliens? Seriously? Did I miss something in History class? I mean I know I was out smoking a lot but could I have missed an entire section on the time when alien astronauts visited earth and taught Leo DaVinci about building helicopters, airplanes and submarines?

Israel Hayom newspaper. I know you’re free and all but I just *gasp* can’t bring myself to read you. Granted, you’ve cornered the market on old retired people who wait on the corner every Friday morning like you’re handing out free crack. That devilishly underpaid red-overall clad pusherman gives them the dietary equivalent of white bread when we all know the entire country has a severe case of celiac. I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t normally turn down anything that’s free. Anything. Alas, my fingers long to be stained black as I flip through page after page of colorful advertisements and blatantly biased articles that support a rich prime minister and an even richer Vegas hotel owning tycoon. So please forgive me if I say no and, like my girl Dionne Warwick, walk on by. I need me some whole grain, whole wheat or gluten free news that supports the truth and nothing but the truth so help me God.

My son. I’m sorry D. for not spending more time with you on the floor building “Game of Thrones” style fortresses. Something happens to us as we get older and more cynical. We lose our wonderful, glorious sense of imagination. We replace it with excuses. We worry about “important” things like work and responsibility. No more, kiddo. You and I are going to take on the Lanisters with our little Lego men and ride elephants into King’s Landing. We’re going to pretend we’re sailing in far away lands looking for pirate treasure and battling dinosaurs. Indeed. Until I get that “urgent” phone call. Or I decide to check if anyone “likes” that picture (of you) I posted. Or I start to think about juggling the bills. Or when I’ll have time to get the car brakes fixed.

Finally, to you, readers of this modest blog. I apologize for offending you with my copious (and quite gratuitous) use of profanities. I’m deeply apologetic for taking up so many valuable minutes that you could have used learning a new language, curing cancer, masturbating or watching the History Channel. Or playing with your adorable child.

I also recommend that all you guys go out this moment and buy your wife/lover/girlfriend/boyfriend/tranny midget sex slave some Lilies or Lilacs or, if you’re completely lacking imagination, a dozen roses. Or tell him/her that you love him/her. Daily. And without expecting anything in return. Because you do. You love him/her hopelessly. And hopefully he/she loves you back. Love handles, bacne and all. And he’ll/she’ll continue to love you despite your extremely troubling fetish for the wife of an evil dictator.

(photo credit: AP/Hassene Dridi
(photo credit: AP/Hassene Dridi
About the Author
Jason Fredric Gilbert is a film and music video director, published author and acclaimed parallel parker; His Independent Film,"'The Coat Room" won "Best in Fest" at the 2006 Portland Underground Film Festival. He is also the author of two books of screenplays, "Miss Carriage House" and the follow up collection of screenplays "Reclining Nude & The Spirit of Enterprise" He currently lives in Or Yehuda and solves crossword puzzles in the bathroom. Please slap him in the face if you see him.
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