I’m a bastard. That’s all there is to it. I’m a bastard. Although it feels good to say it, it doesn’t make me happy. It’s more a relief than anything else, and while it doesn’t get all these monkeys off my back, it does get them singing in tune for a moment, which is, I guess, an accomplishment. I’m not a malicious – well, maybe a little malicious – but not an “I enjoy pulling wings off flies” bastard. I’m more an “I don’t have time for your silly ass” bastard. I’m a sneaky bastard, too. But more than anything, I’m an impatient bastard.
There. It doesn’t mean I won’t be thoughtful or polite, but I hope it means that I will be a little clearer about the interests that I will be serving. Mine. And being a bastard doesn’t mean I have permission to be an asshole, as well. I think a bastard might also be called a rogue, but probably not a scalawag, and certainly not knave or scoundrel or asshole or jerk. Those guys will mess with you, unprovoked, but we bastards are karma in action. Our only real character flaw is a sense of pride that is disproportionate to our importance.
I think you need a certain degree of intelligence to be a bastard, so I’m not sure that sea creatures can legitimately be called bastards. With a little more brain power, a crab might be a bastard. I think blue jays are the bastards of the avian world, and I think cats are bastards, too, although I count some of them among my best friends, to the extent to which either of us are capable of friendship.
There are many varieties of bastards. I don’t think I’m a stupid bastard, or an ignorant bastard, and while I like the idea of being a lucky bastard, I don’t ever want to be a poor feckless bastard. I’m not sure what fecks are, but I like to think I have at least one of them. In addition to being an impatient bastard, I think I’m an uptight bastard; a modern, equal opportunity bastard. I’m as hard on myself as I am on anyone else.
There could be a self-help series. I’d call it “Embrace the Bastard Within,” and I would be its spokesperson. Why not? I’d talk about my latest epiphany, my realization that I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to be a nice guy, sacrificing my own interests, and, more to the point, building unnecessary but inevitable resentment within myself.
And here’s where my monkey chorus chimes in again. I think the monkeys on my back feed on the resentment one generates when one does what one has led oneself to believe one should do. I’m putting those critters on a diet, because being a bastard simply means that I’m going to do unto myself first. It doesn’t mean that I won’t drag you out of a burning building or push you out of the way of a bus, but it does mean that I’m not going to talk about a theoretical you or a hypothetical building or a possible bus, or how fast the bus might be going, or how intense the flames could get. I’m going to wait for the moment and see how I feel.
It doesn’t mean that I’ll pull out in front of you when I’m driving, either (I’m not an asshole, remember?), but I won’t worry about it quite so much when you do it to me. Most of all, it will mean that I won’t defer to you. That’s what nice guys do, and I’m now officially a bastard. It will mean that I won’t think that you’re worth one bit more than I am. It will mean that we’re finally even.