It’s Hard to Not Ruffle Feathers

It’s easy to offend people these days. Everyone seems to be supersensitive to all kinds of remarks be they racial, ethnic, sexual, political, food-oriented (see Oprah and the Cattlemen’s Assn. of Texas), height, weight, hair color, speech pattern or shoe size.

As hard as I try not to, I, myself, have been known to ruffle a few feathers. I’m not nasty, as in “Are you actually leaving the house in that outfit?” or “You know, liposuction is pretty cheap these days.” No, my offensive remarks are more subtle, more intangible: I am (usually) innocent of intent to commit harm and don’t have a clue that I’ve said something horrifying until the manure connects with the tornado.

For instance, years ago at a party, I actually terrorized a man I had never met. A song had come on the stereo and I said to the people standing with me, “Wow, shades of Mimi Ballard!” Mimi was a singer in a band whose drummer I had once dated, and this tune was her signature song.

Well, a man behind me gave out with a shriek, fled to his motorcycle and roared away. I was later informed that, unfortunately and unbeknownst to me, the man was Mimi’s ex-boyfriend, and he had been so devastated over the breakup that attendance at this party was the first time he had left the house in about two months.

Even though this situation was completely beyond my control, I felt rotten. The guilt monster lived at my house for weeks. Things like that happen to me, even though it is so easy to outrage, and I do my level best to avoid being, well, incendiary.

I was doing pretty well until recently. I belong to an online chat bulletin board, a politically inclined one, but there is this subject titled “Bizarre News.” When I read in the paper that a rabid hyena had attacked more than 20 people in South Africa, I posted this information. Who knows, perhaps some of my online friends were traveling to that part of the world and would have appreciated the heads-up.

The first comment my post received was: “And the worst part is that mocking laugh. . . .” Well, I thought that was pretty funny. Sick, but funny, and I responded, “I wish I’d said that!”

Guess what? The next post was this:

“My mother grew up in India and when she was 15, she and her father were bitten by a rabid jackal. . . .”

Uh oh.

“They had to undergo a series of painful shots.”

Oh no.

“She and her father missed the ship back to America because of it. . . .”

Was that the furtive footfall of the guilt monster I heard?

“At least neither of them died.”

Oh, it’s definitely the guilt monster, and it was in mid-pounce.

“A rabid wild animal is no joke.”

*

The guilt monster was now perched heavily upon my neck, and it was whispering into my ear, “Blew it again.”

I found myself posting this pathetic, milquetoast reply: “I realize that rabies is a terrible disease. . . . I am in no way advocating being bitten by rabid animals. . . . Being bitten by a rabid jackal is so not a good thing. . .” and then I just sort of gave up.

I have decided that, paraphrasing Jim Morrison, no one gets out of here unoffended. Let the excoriations commence.