Joy And The Art Of The Apology

By: Randy Gillis

 

I was being rushed into position for my very first assignment in my new career.  On one side of me was a makeup queen direct from RuPaul’s Drag Race, slapping more foundation on my face than can be found under my house.  On the other side was my mentor, walking quickly, and stammering like a nervous mother advising her daughter before the wedding night.  “And never forget," he panted, "It’s not about the question, it’s only about truth…and truth is always subjective.”

 

 

Let me backtrack just a bit.  I was at yet another career crossroads.  I need steady work for at least 12 more years and I was looking for a change, something easy with great benefits.  It suddenly hit me.  A professional apologist!  How could I have not seen it sooner?  I’ve spent the better part of my life apologizing. “I’m sorry, I’m from the South.”  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see that baby.”  “I’m sorry, I meant ‘cunt-monkey jizz-bucket’ in the nicest possible way.”  “I’m sorry if the filthy, steaming hot gay sex that I practically never have offends your religious beliefs.”  It was getting to the point that I would answer the phone at my last job with “Emergency Room, this is Randy and I’m terribly sorry, can I help you?”  Couple my vast experience with our current social/political climate and I see a boon for Certified Professional Apologists.   

I applied for, and was accepted into the program.  Six days later, I graduated with honors!  And now, I was about to perform my debut dance.  Because of my scores, and the fact they needed a ‘fresh face’, I was being seated for my first assignment as part of a panel discussion on some cable access show.  Technicians were scurrying around, adjusting lights and makeup.  I looked over to my mentor who gave me a thumbs up.  “What show is this again?” I asked the makeup person.  He mumbled the name.  “What?” I gasped.  “AM Joy,” he repeated.

I turned my panic-stricken, bug-eyed face to my Mentor.  He gave me another smiling thumbs-up.  I turned back to the camera and tried to remember my training.  Then, I saw her.  Joy Reid in all her Joy Reidiness.  I took a deep breath as she tossed her first question.

“Well, Joy.  I didn’t hear the President say that at all,” I began.  “And you above all should know that ‘eye-witness’ testimony is the least reliable source of information in a courtroom.”  I was focused and determined to do well.  “I’m not saying that Senator Graham is lying, I’m saying that perhaps he heard someone make that statement who resembles the President.  Is that possible?  I think it’s very possible.  But what I find interesting is that no one seems to want to talk about the Great Chicago Fire, which, interestingly enough started the very day after the Clinton Foundation was denied a building permit.  Why aren’t we investigating that?”

Then it happened.  Joy did what Joy does.  She looked dumbfounded for about a second and a half and started putting me in my place.  This would be the most challenging test so far.  The last words I heard were her saying, “let me explain to you how this works.”  Her voice slowly faded into the voice of my Mentor, whispering into my ear.  “Look irritated,” he instructed.  “Now, shake your head.  Good.  Now, roll your eyes.  Okay, now, chuckle to yourself while shaking your head and rolling your eyes.  Perfect!” 

 

Joy’s pitch brought me back as she completed her verbal thrashing.  “If you want to answer the question, now would be the time,” she admonished.  “Why would Senator Graham make a statement confirming that President Trump did in fact make those remarks?”

“Perhaps Senator Graham misunderstood the President,” I asserted boldly.  “By all accounts there was no one in that room under 100 years old.  Maybe the President actually said ‘spit roll,’ or ‘hit mole.’  Is that possible?  I think it’s very possible.  My question Joy, is, instead of focusing on these ‘Trumped’ up allegations, why aren’t we talking about the San Francisco earthquake?  Which happened just one day after the Clinton Foundation was denied a building permit.  I see zero reporting on this growing scandal in the mainstream media.” 

Joy gazed into my eyes.  I peed just a little.  I had never experienced such concentrated ethics before.  She bore into my soul.  What happened next was told to me after-the-fact as I have no memory of the event as it happened.  Apparently, I collapsed into a sobbing mess, rambling, “DEARGODWE’REALLGOINGTODIEEVERYTHINGISALIEWECAN’TSURVIVETHISOURREPUTATIONISFOREVERRUINED!”  I then began channeling Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein.  “I DON’T WANT TO LIVE!  I…DO…NOT…WANT…TO…LIVE!  OH, MOMMIE!

 

Three days later I received my termination notice while in a facility for ‘a rest.’  I felt kinda bad about it, but then I got a muffin basket from AM Joy with a personally signed card from Joy Reid herself.  Am I sorry?  Never again.