by
Al Butterman
So I
happened to be in the park when Woody Allen and Mia Farrow made their joint
statement, and I must say I was surprised by the defiant tone Woody
struck. Using all those loaded words
like “petting” and “intercourse.” I mean, how about some sensitivity? Later I was equally surprised when he
sauntered into the grandstands where I was sitting.
I said to
myself, “Wow. This is my chance to talk
to Woody Allen.” So I yelled out, “Hey
Woody! Why’d you molest your daughter?” Because, you know, just making conversation.
Well you
should have seen the look on that guy’s face.
I swear he tried to melt me with the hate rays shooting out of his eyes.
I thought, “Man,
what’s this guy’s problem?”
So anyway I
go back to talking to the guy next to me, and a few minutes or so go by, and
then all of a sudden I feel something on my shoulder, like it’s raining or
something but only in one spot.
I’m like, “What’s
that about?”
Well, I look
up and there’s this stream coming down on me from the row above and I’m getting
all wet and the splash-back is getting in my hair. So I keep turning my head and sure enough
there’s Woody standing above me. He’s
peeing on me.
Now I don’t
know about you but I’m not the type to take something like that sitting down. Nobody pees on me, I don’t care if they are a
celebrity. So I jump up and start
chasing him and pretty soon we’re
running through the forest with him just out of reach.
You know Woody
is actually a lot shorter than I imagined--he’s only about two feet tall. So anyway I start to catch up because his
legs are so short that he can’t run that fast and the cloak he’s wearing isn’t
helping him much, but he somehow manages to leap off this huge drop-off, and it
looks like he’s in the clear. Still, I’m
not about to let that sucker get away if I can help it, and as I follow him
over the ledge I say to myself, “I’m too old for this s***.”
Lucky for
me, my knees hold up after the fall and I’m on him a second later and I start
walloping him like there’s no tomorrow. I
keep on smacking him until he pees on himself,
which I think serves him right.
After that I
started yelling at him. “Listen. I didn’t
want to do this. You had no right to pee
on me. I was just trying to get to know
you. I legitimately heard that you
molested your daughter, and I thought it was an interesting conversation
starter.”
Woody seemed
to accept this. His expression softened and
everything felt okay. We didn’t hug it
out or anything. After that I opened my
eyes and I was in my bed.
Who
knows? Maybe it was a dream.
Anyway I
read an article about the whole molestation thing in Slate and I went to the comments section and there were all these
people defending Woody and trashing the daughter for making the allegations,
and I thought to myself, “Oh, this must be where the child molesters go to hang
out now.”
Maybe
not. Maybe they just really liked Zelig or whatever.
Anyway, I
really couldn’t say if the guy is a child molester or not, but it seems to me
he lost plausible deniability when he married his daughter.
Right, I
forgot he wasn’t technically her father.
Let’s just call him the paternal figure who was married to her mother.
It reminds
me of the time Michael Jackson went on television and did an interview with the
little boy he was sleeping with at the time, and then he and many of his fans denied he was a pedophile, but I
just kept thinking, “then why did he want to sleep with that kid?”
I don’t even
want to sleep with my own kids. They’re
always twisting and turning and jamming their elbows and knees into my
back. The other night one of ‘em even peed
on me.
The Daily Brass is an online periodical devoted to Poetry,
Literature,
Reviews,
Essays,
and Culture.
