The Right to be Angry



We all have every right to be angry just not an unalienable one (i.e. not for aliens). This is the fault of one Ben Franklin who went all French on the junior delegate from South Carolina in the middle of the Continental Congress.

So instead of a right, we have a fear of being punched in the face (or clawed if you’re a women). This fear brings limitations. You shouldn’t be able to just fly off the handle after every bump on the subway or missing Netflix envelope. One should be able to controls one’s self throughout the smaller frustrations.

For instance, and this is purely hypothetical, let’s say your wife has a Sunday morning ritual of waking you up in the middle of an amazing dream just to kick your groggy ass out to the curb while she watches 90 minutes of Degrassi Junior High: TNG. This is not enough to make one angry, it is more of an awakening and 57.34% of the time your lovely wife being will make pancakes while you are gone.

Neither is it enough, if you forgot you sunglasses and the sun is bouncing like the flood lights of hell off the bleached molten concrete sidewalk. This is merely annoying.

It should not even be enough to draw your ire, if one of the more important items on your twelve item 45 minute shopping tour of North Brooklyn’s finest bodegas, “gardens” and delis happens to be the amazingly elusive ENGLISH MUFFIN. Which for some reason becomes the Dr. Livingstone of morning bread products among the flat bread and donut loving Polish- Domincan (not in that order) ethnic neighborhood of yours. This is simply inconvenience.

Your anger should not even be peaked when at the conclusion of your long safari (in which you’ve compromised taste of diet and settled for wheat bagels that no one happy about) you have to carry home thirty pounds of cat litter for your stupid fucking cats, who will most likely start pissing all over everything if you don’t bring it home. It’s bad enough the fucking layabouts don’t even have a job to help pay for their shitsand that you have to haul through the neighborhood on an ninety degree day while carrying at least 3 more bags of groceries to which you said fuck you, two liter of Diet Coke cause who ever would want that (me) can go fuck themselves. I’m sweating my balls off. NO. No you can’t be angry. It’s just duty. The cats will shit all over the place and you will die of Toxic Shock Syndrome like the jock from Trainspotting.

And when your wife looks at you with a sigh of exasperation because you missed a phone call plus two text messages about getting cigarettes and paper towels and she gives you the “it will be fine” routine and you KNOW it won’t be fine unless you go back out there. It’s your own damn fault for enjoying the vibrate option on your phone instead of endlessly deciding on cool, ironic or just plain excruciating cell phone ring tones.

So when you trudge back out and spend another twenty bucks you don’t have on carcinogens and paper towels you wouldn’t need if your wife would just listen to you and steal half of the Sham WOW’s from her friend who will never miss them cause you get like a hundred of them in an order, and when you sit down and bite into the uber delicious pancakes that your wife has prepared during your two hours of noon day shopping and its not really breakfast but what the fuck right, because this is really the only reason for any of this right? . And she asks from the kitchen, Why you didn’t check these paper towels? CAUSE THEY HAVE FUCKING MOLD ON THE BOTTOM!

This is it.  This is when you can be angry. This is what you and your Northeastern elite collegiate psych department colleagues refer to clinically as, “When the shit goes down.” Fire breathing, karate fighting, fucked up furious even. You can be filled with the kind of rage that JK Simmons would diagnose as defendably crazy during his four year run on up Law And Order, when at 12:25pm in Greenpoint you went back to that broke down Goya stand where you bought the paper towels from (that you would now assume were made by Vietamese ophans and pressed from the fallen wood of their childhood homes) and bludgeoned the owner with the arm of his screaming employee after he refused you a refund. So by law in NY and NJ and the last three Hawaii islands, you had to soak the floor with Colt 45 and burn the sad establishment to the ground.

No one would fault you. Unless of course, the owner of said sad establishment is nice and apologetic to the point of genuflection. And he explains that he too has been screwed by the man.  The man in his case being the previous owner who neglect the leak in the ceiling that and he’s really sorry and his employee is not screaming and equally apologetic and they just give you two new roles (mold free) and ask you to have a nice day.



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