Being annoyed comes easy to me. In fact, if an emotion could become an actual character trait, then the furrowed brow and dark, angry stare that has become permanently embedded into my features is certainly part of who I am. I am almost positive that friends of mine, when pressed to describe me, would come up with one word: Pissed. Not funny or pleasant. Not attractive when drunk or good at math – but pissed.Which brings me to the point of this column.
As a young child raised in the seventies, I had to put up with a lot: Winnie-the-Pooh bell bottom pants, the Dorothy Hammel haircut, red shag carpeting in a Pepto-Bismol pink room, and of course the lamest of toys, the Sit-n-Spin. But nothing on the planet upset me more than the horrifyingly bland visage of one Jimmy Osmond.
My relationship to the youngest Osmond came in 1976, when I was all of two years old and already developing the pure and undiluted hatred that would come to define me as a human being.
Flash Back: There is a family story that has been told throughout the decades of a car trip to Disney Land from Northern Oregon where I, all of 20 months old, was put through the annoyance ringer by an uncle bent on pointing out EVERY SINGLE COW from McMinnville, OR to Anaheim, CA and, at hour ten, I turned to him, rolled my eyes and yelled, “I KNOW DAVID, I KNOW!” and gave out a sigh that only someone who has reached their thirties and wanted to kill themselves could experience. End of Flash Back.
My parents, having an unnatural, almost pornographic love affair for variety shows, were huge fans of the Donnie & Marie Show, which showcased the talents of squeaky clean Utah youngsters who sang songs and preformed comedy skits that rivaled those put on at the local Junior High School. They were peppy, they were cute, and for my family, they provided one free hour when none of us had to look at each other. In other words, the Osmonds were a gift straight out of Mister Joseph Smith’s hat.
Enjoying the singing and dancing, I would sit and smile at the television screen, lost in the world of soulfully empty white people prancing around between commercials for Alka-Seltzer and Dunkin Donuts. And just when I thought nothing could ruin the magic, out trotted a bowl headed twit named Jimmy who sucked the light from the room as well as my heart.
My mother has often described my transformation from contented toddler to homicidal maniac in regards to the presence of Jimmy Osmond like this:
“As soon as Jimmy walked on the screen, your eyes would narrow and a dark, angry, blackness would cross your face. If I didn’t know any better I would say that you had been possessed by the devil. Thank God you were too little to reach the knife drawer because you scared the crap out of me. The only other time I ever saw that particular look on your face was when Mary Lou Retton was on TV during the ’84 Olympics. ”
The reason behind this hatred is a mystery, even to me. I never had any personal dealings with Jimmy or his family, there wasn’t anyone sinister in my life that resembled him, nor did I experience any traumatic head injury that would cause me to want to tear his body apart and wear him as a coat.
So where did this need to destroy Jimmy Osmond come from?
Again I went to my mother, the keeper and instigator of all my emotional problems.
Me: Why do I hate Jimmy Osmond so much?
Mom: What are you talking about? You hate everyone. Jimmy was just the first person you wished would die.
Me: Really, the first?
Mom: Oh God yes, don’t you remember the album?
Me: What album?
Mom: Someone gave you Killer Joe as a birthday present when you were two or three. Why anyone would give a toddler an album is beyond me, but whatever. You remember, it had a picture of Jimmy Osmond on it in some retarded pose, and he did that cover of My Girl that made you cry until you threw up.
A vague memory bobs to the surface. Me, in a brown patchwork dress, huddled next to my father’s massive stereo system as a pre-adolescent boy warbles out a song called, “Long Haired Lover from Liverpool”. I was sickened by it.
Me: Vaguely.
Mom: After your birthday you threw the record away. It was the first time that I knew you were capable of hating something so passionately that you would destroy it.
Me: So what you’re saying is that the reason I wish Jimmy Osmond harm is because he butchered a Temptations song?
Mom: Yes. You’re a lot like your dad that way. He never forgot what the Captain & Tennille did to the song Muskrat Love. (My dad would play Willis Alan Ramsey’s album over and over while he worked on our house, he was in love with the original song called Muskrat Candlelight which America and Captain & Tennille covered) He hated them so much that he banned them from the house.
Me: So hatred of a poorly done song cover created my bloodlust against the youngest Osmond?
Mom: Absolutely.
Me: Okay then. Thanks.
The realization that my over thirty year hatred of Jimmy Osmond was based on something tangible soothed that part of my brain that feared that I was capable of committing murder for no other reason than I hated the way a person looked.
Of course I hated him because he ruined a great song. Why wouldn’t I? Genetically I was predisposed to react violently when someone lame vocally raped a beautiful set of lyrics. This is great! I am finally free to hate the little bastard because he offended my sense of music snobbery, not because I am some psycho who aches for blood!
After accepting Jimmy Osmond’s trespass against me, I am finally ready to forgive him and, in doing so, I will finally be able to say good-bye to a long, dark chapter of my psychosis. Farewell you little brat. You are forgiven.
Now if I could only figure out why I want to strap down and force feed Stephanie Myers body glitter until she chokes, I may finally have a chance at real happiness.
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