Okay, NOW I’m worried!

tempermentally unfit

by Joe Buonfiglio

Some people say that the political atmosphere in which the current (at the time of this writing) presidential candidates battle is the stuff of terror dreams that keeps thousands of psychotherapists in a blissful state of rock-steady employment. However, I would contend that this metaphoric night-terror is not an aberration brought on by undue stress or even the overconsumption of deviled eggs left out in the sun too long at the company picnic, but rather an all-too real reflection of the state of the American people and their empire in decline. We’re merely getting the politics we, as a society, absolutely deserve for willfully shutting off our brains and welcoming the propagandizing, self-serving punditry to do our thinking for us. We are the Army of the Dumbasses and deserve to be treated as such.

Nevertheless, a new phrase has recently popped into the vernacular of the political arena within this current presidential campaign cycle:


Temperamentally. Unfit.

Okay, now I’m worried.

Look, I’ll leave it to those with cerebral abilities above my paygrade to decide whether the phrase is being properly applied as one candidate describes another as being “dangerously incoherent” and “temperamentally unfit” to be president of the United States of America. That’s not my concern at the moment. No, the more I heard the words “temperamentally unfit” come marching through my TV’s speakers; the more I was forced to ponder them in a blatantly egocentric fashion.

Am I … temperamentally unfit?

Now, I know I’m unfit in myriad other ways: physically unfit; psychologically unfit; hell, I’m even spiritually unfit. But temperamentally unfit?

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary has been around offering up the latest takes on the English language since 1828. It defines temperamental as being “likely to become upset or angry; unpredictable in behavior or performance; of or relating to someone’s usual attitude, mood, or behavior; marked by excessive sensitivity and impulsive mood changes.”

Holy shit! Is that me? I think that is me! It’s definitely me!

And with that deprecating epiphany looming over me as if a bucket of pig’s blood about to be dumped on Carrie, questions arise.

Am I temperamentally unfit to be a father? If leading by example is the pinnacle of parenting, will my son wind up being a professional slug?

Am I temperamentally unfit to be a husband? My wife might justifiably retort, “Do bears know how to wipe their asses with Charmin ultra-soft bath tissue?”

A writer? Oh my God, am I temperamentally unfit to be a writer?

No way! Sure, I wrote “Is that me?” earlier instead of “Is that I?” And while it calls into question my grammatical aptitude, it unequivocally has nothing to do with my fitness regarding my temperament as it relates to my literary abilities. Hell, being in a state of “temperamentally unfit” is almost the dictionary definition of “writer.” However, I am now stalked as if by Marshmallow Fluff crème in search of white bread slathered with peanut butter by one last question.

A human? Am I temperamentally unfit to be … human?

By the aforementioned dictionary definition of “temperamental,” I sure as shit should be declared unfit. However, as I look out across what passes for the sea of humanity adrift within its own wealth of personality inadequacies, all things considered, I’d say I’m doing just fine. In other words, I am no more “temperamentally unfit” than the rest of you emotionally unstable hairless apes, so fuck it; I’m doin’ okay in the “fit to be human” department…

… which is more than I can say for the politicians in this country.


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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