2009-09-05
I wanted to start this column by saying it
was "time to check the mailbag," but it's
e-mail: It doesn't come in a bag, it comes in a
deluge, with over 90 percent of it trying to
sell me things to make sure I'm enough of a man
for "her." (They often send along a picture of a
presumably underserved, and certainly
underdressed, woman, but she sure doesn't look
like any "her" that I know.)
But I do sometimes hear from readers, many of
whom complain that I write too often/not enough,
and that my most recent column is the funniest
thing they've ever read/incontrovertible proof
that I am an utter moron.
Last November, I told you how, once a year, I
become a snarling despot in the name of making
children happy. I run The Elf Room for a charity
that sees to it that hundreds of homeless
children have a holiday party, complete with
gifts. The Elf Room is where the gifts are
wrapped in what can only be described as
absolute chaos. (It's difficult to forecast how
many children will be homeless.)
Your response was one of the most heartening
experiences of my existence: Despite the dismal
economy, the charity received thousands of
dollars in donations from you. Many corporate
sponsors had dropped out, and my readers took up
the slack. What could have been a heartbreaking
choice — either turn children away or have no
gift for them — was obviated by your astounding
generosity. On behalf of those children and the
overworked elves in the Elf Room, thank you.
Recently I wrote about getting a flat tire,
and how utterly perplexed I was at the strange
hieroglyphics on the spare — they looked to me
like crop circles. I got a lot of e-mail
suggesting I am girly for not knowing how to fix
a flat. Apparently I'm really not man
enough for "her."
Here's an e-mail I felt compelled to quote
verbatim: "You only write once a week, and your
columns are so short you should quit writing!!!"
I suppose I should be gratified that my
correspondent seems to want more words from me,
but his solution seems sort of like fixing a
sore throat with a noose. I don't write enough,
so I should stop?
I often write about my parents, whose
conversations sound, to me, like the vocal
equivalent of crop circles. When a column on the
subject appears, I usually receive a few e-mails
that essentially say, "Your mother gave birth to
you and raised you, and I am sure she doesn't
appreciate being made fun of."
First, yes, my mother gave birth to me, a
painful event she has described to everyone who
will listen, including my prom date. In fact, to
hear her tell it, she's still having
contractions. And second, she loves being
made fun of. It's my children who detest seeing
their lives described in my column (though this
isn't exactly accurate since all three of them
refuse to ever read it.)
Quite a few people wrote to object to my
description of English cooking as food. Well,
all right, the objection was probably that I
called it bad food, but I have trouble
taking their affront seriously because so many
others wrote to tell me that the cooking was the
reason they left England. I do acknowledge,
though, that tastes vary among individuals, so
if you're from England and you love cream clots
with bangers or whatever it's called, please eat
all you want and don't save any for me.
By far the most e-mail this year, though, was
occasioned by my two-part column describing
being outwitted by a squirrel. There are
apparently several mechanical devices on the
market designed to keep squirrels out of
birdfeeders, including shotguns, which was the
suggestion of one fellow who disgustedly
volunteered to come over and address the
situation himself, seeing as I was such a girly
man who probably couldn't even fix a flat tire
without help from "her."
So here's an update: I've agreed to allow the
squirrel to eat from the birdfeeder, and in
return, he has lifted his economic sanctions.
And that's it for the (e)mailbag.
►J◄
►J◄
To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at
www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about
Bruce Cameron and read features by other
Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists,
visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at
www.creators.com.
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