Blame

by Regis Boff

I am about to release my new app, “Grievance Dot Com.”
This handy apparatus will locate the origins of what has figured into your life’s lackluster performance and instantly provide you with a historically valid excuse. You will no longer have to rely on the broad swaths of religion, skin color, nationality, and sexual identity.
Now you will have specificity.
To be candid, only an insufficiently disguised baboon would find one percent Hopi Indian blood enough to dazzle their friends. I watch these people on TV feigning seeping joy over the hint of an ancestor that in my day would have been shaming at the very least. Hell, in my neighborhood, we couldn’t marry a girl that wasn’t blond.
But what if you could connect yourself through DNA to unique misfortune, incidents that would precisely account for your being a bum today. What if your great Roman Aunt was a victim at “The Rape of the Sabines”? Now that would leave open mouths at any StarBucks.
I’ll say no more, but please send for my app today.
Remember, nothing is more satisfying than assigning blame.
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