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In Defense of Transgressive Humor
May. 18th, 2026 11:13 amAs loopy and long as it was, the hose turned out to be manageable. I gave the baby cukes, marigolds, basil, & chili peppers a good soaking, but at 10 o'clock in the morning, it was simply too hot to do any transplanting or serious weeding. Jungle heat is serious heat, and in faux-summer, the Hudson Valley is a jungle.
Shortly, I will toddle forth to water today.
This garden is a bit more of a commitment than my Hyde Park Community Garden plot because it's 12 miles away from where I live.
Fortunately, temps are expected to sink down to a far more seasonal 70° range by the end of this week, so I can finish planting the rest of the lettuce, spinach, radishes, beans, & tomatoes without courting heat stroke.
###
Other than that, I did 1,000 more words on the Work in Progress.
The Flavia character is in no way, shape, or form a fictional projection of me, so I can't lift passages straight from my diary. I worry that the serviceable prose I'm manufacturing anew is not very interesting to read. (This assumes that my actual diary is interesting to read, which may not be the case.)
I keep telling myself: That doesn't matter. Just write something that moves the plot along and relays the necessary character info. You can edit the damn thing later once it actually exists!
###
I also fought with Icky throughout most of the day. He was being a dick about installing the window AC unit in the Patrizia-torium. So, what's new, right?
I would have installed it myself except that (a) during the winter, the AC unit lives in a closet with a door that has no doorknob and thus is impossible to open without professional lock-picking tools, and (b) the goddamn thing weighs 50 pounds, and I can't lift it.
Icky had decided to spend the day on the phone, ranting about genocide. I couldn't tell by eavesdropping whether he was for genocide or against it, or whether it was a single long conversation with one person or multiple short conversations with many people, but at a certain point, after I'd asked him nicely five times in five hours—the Patrizia-torium hoards heat when exterior temps rise much over 75° and that makes working very uncomfortable—I remarked, "You know, for someone who professes to care about world injustice, you certainly care very little about helping people inside your own orbit."
This elicited an Icky temper tantrum, but fuck it. He did install the AC unit.
###
Since there is absolutely nothing new in the entire streaming universe, I have been watching Malcolm In the Middle reruns. The BoyZ and I absolutely loved this show back in the day. Brian Cranston is right up there next to Dick Van Dyke as a brilliant physical comedian, and the satire ranges from goofy to sophisticatedly transgressive.
In the clip below, Lois decides to get rid of her horrible mother by exploiting the horrible mother's racism. To that end, Lois recruits the help of her Black neighbors. The clip incorporates every trope in the racist's toychest of fears except maybe drinking from the same water fountain:
You absolutely could not script something like this in the current climate. Humor today is tightly policed.
Thing about humor is that when you get a joke, it is a moment of absolute enlightment, a flash of intuitive awakening, a satori. And quite frankly, everyone can benefit from laughing at themselves from time to time.
This is why, even though I agree with the progressive left on the majority of issues, I have a hard time identifying as part of that pack. I hate political correctness & identity politics—I am flipping my middle finger at yew-ww-www, Robin DiAngelo and Ta-Nehisi Coates—is the prime source of political correctness.
Shortly, I will toddle forth to water today.
This garden is a bit more of a commitment than my Hyde Park Community Garden plot because it's 12 miles away from where I live.
Fortunately, temps are expected to sink down to a far more seasonal 70° range by the end of this week, so I can finish planting the rest of the lettuce, spinach, radishes, beans, & tomatoes without courting heat stroke.
###
Other than that, I did 1,000 more words on the Work in Progress.
The Flavia character is in no way, shape, or form a fictional projection of me, so I can't lift passages straight from my diary. I worry that the serviceable prose I'm manufacturing anew is not very interesting to read. (This assumes that my actual diary is interesting to read, which may not be the case.)
I keep telling myself: That doesn't matter. Just write something that moves the plot along and relays the necessary character info. You can edit the damn thing later once it actually exists!
###
I also fought with Icky throughout most of the day. He was being a dick about installing the window AC unit in the Patrizia-torium. So, what's new, right?
I would have installed it myself except that (a) during the winter, the AC unit lives in a closet with a door that has no doorknob and thus is impossible to open without professional lock-picking tools, and (b) the goddamn thing weighs 50 pounds, and I can't lift it.
Icky had decided to spend the day on the phone, ranting about genocide. I couldn't tell by eavesdropping whether he was for genocide or against it, or whether it was a single long conversation with one person or multiple short conversations with many people, but at a certain point, after I'd asked him nicely five times in five hours—the Patrizia-torium hoards heat when exterior temps rise much over 75° and that makes working very uncomfortable—I remarked, "You know, for someone who professes to care about world injustice, you certainly care very little about helping people inside your own orbit."
This elicited an Icky temper tantrum, but fuck it. He did install the AC unit.
###
Since there is absolutely nothing new in the entire streaming universe, I have been watching Malcolm In the Middle reruns. The BoyZ and I absolutely loved this show back in the day. Brian Cranston is right up there next to Dick Van Dyke as a brilliant physical comedian, and the satire ranges from goofy to sophisticatedly transgressive.
In the clip below, Lois decides to get rid of her horrible mother by exploiting the horrible mother's racism. To that end, Lois recruits the help of her Black neighbors. The clip incorporates every trope in the racist's toychest of fears except maybe drinking from the same water fountain:
You absolutely could not script something like this in the current climate. Humor today is tightly policed.
Thing about humor is that when you get a joke, it is a moment of absolute enlightment, a flash of intuitive awakening, a satori. And quite frankly, everyone can benefit from laughing at themselves from time to time.
This is why, even though I agree with the progressive left on the majority of issues, I have a hard time identifying as part of that pack. I hate political correctness & identity politics—I am flipping my middle finger at yew-ww-www, Robin DiAngelo and Ta-Nehisi Coates—is the prime source of political correctness.
