Old Geezers Out to Lunch

Old Geezers Out to Lunch
The Geezers Emeritus through history: The Mathematician™, Dr. Golf™, The Professor™, and Mercurious™

Friday, July 17, 2015

Mad Marvin, Episode 3

After his last essay, Mad Marvin fell silent for quite awhile, and I had hope that he'd perhaps gone back to his deep woods cabin to work on his manifesto once again. But late last week this piece arrived, which we now present to you in edited form—the editor

I'm Mad Marvin, dammit.

After two previous articles, each time you guys who read this site have implied, sort of, that I'm an out-of-control (rectum). And I have to tell you I've been hurt by that. Throwing hot coffee on a right-wing, Christian fundamentalist, gay-hating, stinky douche-bag? What's the big deal?  One or two occasional outbursts—which were really goddamn warranted, if you ask me—and you get labeled as some kind of psychotic anarchist. (Excrement).

It hurts for you guys think of me like that. Am I not human?  Do I not bleed? (Actually, because of the blood-thinners my dork-of-a-doctor makes me take, I bleed MORE than the rest of you). Yeah, I'm a little impulsive at times. And I bet you're jealous.

But I'm not the  out-of-control fellow, full of Tourettes-barking episodes, that you all think I am. (I now have a drug that helps that.)  To prove to you that I have much more self-control than you give me credit for, I'm going to tell you a bunch of things that I DID NOT say and do over the last few weeks.

• When some jerk waiting at the stop light threw his cigarette butt out of the window of his car, rather than into his car's ashtray, I DID NOT:   get out of my car, pick up the smoldering cigarette butt, and toss through his open car window, into his lap, with the words "Cigarette butts are not biodegradable, you stupid (euphemism for penis). What gives you the (fornicating) right to litter our streets with the trash from your filthy (fornicating) habit?"

• When a big blubbery man walking ahead of me out at Tractor Supply hit the automatic door-opener at the exit door—the one REAL disabled people are supposed to use— I DID NOT SAY "Hey lard-ass. Too hard to open the door yourself? If you did things for yourself rather than taking the easy way out, you maybe wouldn't be so (fornicating) fat.

• When a  woman passed by me on the street wearing skin-tight black spandex pants and apparently no underwear, I DID NOT SAY: "Christ lady, do you want me to take up a collection to buy you a mirror so you can see what you look like before you leave the house? Nobody in the this world wants to see your goodies."

• When my 75-year old neighbor mows the lawn in his bright red Speedo and wearing nothing else but a gold chain around his sweaty, wrinkled neck, I DO NOT SAY: "It's time to die, Fred."

• When trying to eat my Magnificent Seven breakfast at the Perkins restaurant off of highway 36 last month,  and the couple next to me began to change the shitty diaper on their slack-jawed two year old—on the table. I DID NOT: get up, open my fly and begin urinating in their orange juice. And I DID NOT SAY to the father:  "Christ almighty, you in-bred barbarians. Why the (fornication) don't you and your sister/wife pack up your 1993 mini-van and go the (fornication) back that Podunk in Arkansas where baby shit on the dining room table is normal?

See, I am perfectly capable of restraint.


  1. Mr Mad Marvin-I applaud not only your restraint and self control, but also your (copulating) great sense of humor and wonderful ability to turn a phrase. You make Lewis Black look like a cub scout.

  2. Capable? I think you're the finest (fornicating) example of restraint on the planet!

  3. Huh. Ok, well my assumption has been that this is simply one of you doing a little exercise in writing, still would be my best guess. I haven't been able to look at writing styles to see if there is some connection with each of your 'handwriting'.
    There is another blog out there that could have written this, perhaps, were they a bit better writers.
    Anyway, I got through this without one (unprintiable) adverb.

    1. and, I can't spell unprintable!!!

    2. It's possible you're picking up on the level of editing necessary to print Marvin's pieces. It's said that it was Maxwell Perkins prodigious editing that turned Thomas Wolfe's unruly manuscript into an American classic, "Look Homeward, Angel." Similarly, your prodigiously talented editor here is the force that manages to make Mad Marvin understandable to a gentle reader. By the way, the same editorial voice filters all pieces published here—though in other cases, where the writers are substantially more civilized, far less editing is necessary. The Professor, for example, is very lightly edited, if at all, and a couple of guest pieces from Sehr Wenig, the only contributor from the fairer gender, required no editorial pen at all.

      My process as an editor is to do a digital red-line edit on the pieces, then return them to the writers for comment and to get either approval or their outraged fury. Oddly,given the very aggressive editing, Marvin NEVER has any problems with my translations. So what you get here is Marvin's essence (I hope), filtered through my attempt to make him legible and understandable.

  4. Someone get Max a bandaid before he bleeds off my screen and down into my keyboard

  5. Marvin, your restraint is admirable though unnecessary in each of the case studies you enumerate. Try to let your inner self flow once in awhile. Those (fornicating) creatures need your controlling influences.

  6. Dear Mad Marvin dammit,

    I commiserate. We suffer, with every cigarette butt blubbery spandex woman named Fred with baby shit on the table, decidedly we suffer. Sometimes I just leave my glasses at home.