Brain Farts Brain Fart brain farts brain fart brain-fart brain-farts brainfart brainfarts LEO Louisville Eccentric Observer parody lampoon satire Louisville Kentucky Kevin Gibson kgramone@aol.com  kgramone humor

Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer (LEO) from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.

Unless you're as bored as I am.

I stopped by my parents’ house the other day to pick up some envelopes (don’t ask) and to beg some narcotics from my father.  They asked the usual questions. “How’s your girlfriend?” “How’s work?” “How’s that crazy person who wants you dead?”

My parents are in their early 60s, and they are quite active and social people. My father still plays tennis weekly, they have a treadmill (or did they sell that thing?) and they have many friends with whom they interact regularly. In addition, they are members of their high school “reunion committee.”

Now, here is where any similarities between my parents and me end. Not only did I not help organize my last high school reunion, I didn’t even attend. And it was a pretty easy decision. Based on my high school experience, all I could ever figure from my parents’ involvement over the years in their reunion committee was that they were either A) Still trying in vain to get the popular kids to like them, or B) Planning some horrible revenge on their classmates that is taking a helluva lot longer than it should.

Luckily for me, during my visit I walked through their computer room, which is where I found the evidence I’d long sought. On the computer desk, I discovered photocopies from their 1959 high school yearbook (which was actually a year ahead of them; you see, by the time you get to your 40^th reunion, you have to start combining classes just to get a decent turnout). On the first page, I noticed that, over the face of one chubby young man, someone had used a Sharpie to make a definitive “X”.

I stopped. Being a morbid bastard filled with all matter of inner turmoil, the first thing I thought was that either this was a dead pool, or the reunion committee was crossing out every former classmate who had died. I picked up the packet and turned the page, and found two X’s over faces. Next page, two more. Next page, three. Naw, I thought. These are just people who said they aren’t going to attend the reunion. That must be it. Right?

“Dad,” I said, “what’s with the X’s?”

“Oh, we cross out the ones who have died, so we don’t waste time trying to contact them,” he said, in the same tone he might use if he were asking me if I liked cheese on my burger.

And now, finally, I understand. The years and years on the reunion committee? My parents aren’t killers, so they’ve used the last 45 years to watch with glee as each of their high school tormentors gradually dropped dead. With each passing, another redemption is chalked up. Another “X” across another bully or another cheerleader who told my dad he was a dork. (Although in those days it wasn’t “dork,” was it? So what was it? “Hodad”?)

I don’t know about you, but I’m going to classmates.com right now. I’m going to look up the football team, and that cheerleader who gave me the wedgie. See you at the reunion.

E-mail the writer at kgramone@aol.com. What room is study hall in, you unimaginable sadistic tyrants?