Then Shall the Lame Leap as an Hart

It's official: I'm fucking lame.

I'm lamer than the lamest beggar, the lamest duck, the lamiest fucking lameoid lamehead lamerizer. Just call me Lameish McLamestein. You know, 'cuz I'm Jewish.

I know-- you're not surprised at this development. How could you be? You, who has suffered through 666 of the lamest blog posts ever penned by someone not wearing an ankle-mounted electronic monitoring device. By now, you know on which side your lame is buttered. You, who know me as someone obsessed with unattractive vehicles from the 1970s, operetta from the 1880s, and typewriters from the 1950s.

What, me lame?

Yes, I've always been so-- certainly. There was never a time in my life when I wasn't lame: we know this. I was never even nerd chic. Skinny pants and skinny ties and thick, chunky Peter Sellers glasses, platform shoes and artistic facial scruff just weren't my thing. Maybe if I could play more than five chords on the banjo and be comfortable wearing plaid... But, alas, no. I don't gel my hair in that sticky-uppy way-- or any way, really. I have health insurance and I cross my legs like a girl when I sit. I pay my mortgage early. I have a mortgage. And a used Volvo. And a wife. And two dogs.

I wear a woman's wedding band, for Christ's sake. That's how lame I am. My fingers aren't even thick or cool enough to necessitate one of those cool man-rings. A guy I work with has a wedding band made out of tungsten. I could wear this man's ring on my big toe.

But I am owning my lameness. I wear it on my sleeve, and pretty much everywhere else. I know there are other lamess bastardcakes out there who are self-conscious about their lameness, who feign more exciting lives either online or when conversing with others whom they perceive to be less lame. They confabulate, stretch the truth, exaggerate, even maybe outright lie about who they are so that the world entire might never know how lame they really are.

On New Year's Eve, Mrs. Apron and I cuddled each other on the couch and watched episodes of "16 and Pregnant". On Demand. On our asses. And, you know what? Best New Year's ever, man.

Put that in your hart's ass and smoke it, you big, bad world, you.