Things to Weep About


I dislike the phrase, “And Jesus wept.” It doesn’t help that I’m a flaming atheist, but even if I were to drink my wine kneeling, I’d have a hard time believing a supreme being would weep over his own creation. Seriously. If the dude is all-powerful, he should just stop the weeping and fix that shit. Unless, of course, he’s the depressed type who enjoys a good weep.

Do you cry over spilled milk? You might cry because my spellchecker won’t allow me to use “spilt,” although it would sound better. How about spilled wine? Red wine could yank a tear from your skull, I bet, especially if you’re wearing white. I knock shit over all the time, which suggests that I may be deformed–my fingers are ET-like. Cross that with my Italian heritage, and you’d better hide the crystal. If I were dating you, it could cause some weeping on your part if you mistakenly assume ET fingers implies elephant penis.


If I think about a dead pet, I tear up. In fact, if I see a cat, dog, or bird carcass freshly pancaked on the pavement, it makes me sad. Honestly, if it were a douchey biker in tights, not a weep would be wept.  I had someone weep next to me (more like complain) about a fruit fly in his beer. I thought, do you have any idea how many insects and rodents walked, shed, and defecated on the hops plant, beer glass, and bar? Don’t think about it, just drink up. Same weepage happens when people find hair in food or drinks. “You know what? It’s probably your fucking hair. Maybe one of your eyebrows committed suicide. It won’t kill you. Jesus. Pluck and flick if you don’t want to eat it.”

Speaking about weeping over hair, I recently saw the worst comb-over known to mankind. One crosswind and this fella’s flailing mop would have taken out a family of six. He could have won the America’s Cup, I tell ya. When I disposed of some wine, I glanced at my dome in the mirror. Nothing to comb-over. “Fuck it,” I said, “this shit needs to go.” So, when I returned home, out came the clippers and off came the nuisance. The pile of fur at my feet was almost worth naming. I didn’t have the balls to take it all off. Actually, I realized my sun-deprived noggin would resemble one of those helmets infants with misshapen heads wear. I left one-quarter of an inch. Then, I almost wept as I realized I just exaggerated my other cranial imperfections.

*sniff, sniff*

Jesus wouldn’t weep about much. If he plucked a nose hair, maybe that would garner a dewy eyehole. OK, maybe if he got hit in the nuts with a soccer ball. Nah. I’m sure he has a divine cup–a brass chalice of sorts protecting the nads of the holy. An under-nail splinter would make any being weep, even superior ones. I just dripped a tear on my keyboard as I typed this. So, unless you got a splinter … oh, Jesus … nails through the hands … fuck. OK, weep away and have a bad day.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.