The Dog that Ate the Homework

It recently occurred to me that excuses run almost every aspect of our lives. Actually, it occurred to me when I was thinking about that dumb cliché excuse used when a kid skips doing his homework to watch X-files instead. "The dog ate my homework." Who thought of that dumb line anyway? I mean, did that actually happen to anyone? How pathetic! But anyway, nowadays the very lucky teachers are not as likely to hear that excuse, as they are to hear the fresh one of the twemty-first century. "Something weird jammed up the RAM on my hard drive and the graphics card went berserk and I lost my work!" Now, I have no idea what I just wrote, but I imagine the modern excuse would sound something like this.

Anyway, we were discussing excuses. Think about it. We have become so used to pointing the finger at fate and at others that it seems unthinkable that we should actually say the simple truth. And this goes for all of society nowadays, it seems, including me of course, so don't think I'm being righteous or anything!

Take your messed up Honda to the mechanic, and chances are he'll ask you the following question (of course, with a look of total disbelief on his face) "Who the hell worked on this carburetor? It looks like somebody hacked it up with a chain saw." And there goes the finger of blame on the last poor guy who tried (to no avail) to fix the car. All this is done, of course, as an indirect way of telling you that you'll be paying through your teeth to have the car fixed.

Or take me, when I am late in handing my weekly article in for Outlook. I give Hussein, our super-patient editor, some really cool and convincing yarn about how I had to go to the hospital to get my eyes checked out because I woke up and saw purple spots and I was worried I would have dengue fever or something. And of course he just nods and accepts the story with a look that says, "If only you would spend your energy on actual writing instead of fabricating such fascinating excuses, we'd have something here." I mean, why can't I just tell him that I just didn't feel like writing, that I had a mind-block the size of Alaska? Beats me. Maybe I want to look professional or something. Although, had I coolly asked for an extension instead of making myself potentially ill with a tropical disease, I probably would have looked a bit more professional.

I find it's easy to blame fate for every wrong thing that could happen in one's life. Fate can't argue back. It just sits there taking the blame from all the people on the planet without being able to do a damn thing about it. Late to class? Blame it on the freak snowstorm over Beirut that hit your street only. Hairdresser daydreams about Pamela Lee while he cuts your hair and you end up looking like Mickey Mouse? He'll blame it on the distraction that afflicted him after his wife left him for his brother and his kid was hit by a motorcycle. The plumber breaks the water pipes and floods your house? He's going to tell you that a supersonic jet (which only he heard, of course) startled him and made him cut through the pipes.

Yup, that's the way life is, people. And I know, its human nature, and we all do it. But still, if you think about it, isn't it easier to admit that you made a mistake? I mean, nobody's going to get killed, right? Right . . .?

Well, look, Friends is on and I'm outta here. If the editor asks why this article is shorter than my usual ones, I'll just tell him the electricity got cut. Hey, it's Lebanon, right? The electricity excuse works here.