Hi. My name is Larry, and I am a sarcastic. I don’t like being a sarcastic, and I’ve tried to change, but I am finding it, honestly, quite hard.
Both my parents were sarcastics, and I suspect their parents were sarcastics, too. My father was your classic closet sarcastic, outwardly funny and engaging, but inside – like all sarcastics – defensive. He grew up on the streets of Brooklyn, where being a sarcastic was an honest way of life. “Nice face ya got…I seen it at da zoo!” or “What size combat boots does ya mudda wear?” were as important as the first punch. No matter that all boys had to fight; not being a sarcastic with a fast mouth meant you were a sissy.
My mother was a sarcastic with high-brow pretentions. “Would you look at her hair!” she’d whisper. “Bronx renaissance,” she called my aunt’s living room décor. Naturally, my brother, sister and I all became sarcastics…research shows it runs in families. I was fat, so my older brother (an A+ Spanish student) called me “El Bloato.”
I suspect that as the Human Genome Project continues, the gene predisposing people to being sarcastic will be isolated and lead to diagnostic tools. In the not too distant future they will introduce a new drug therapy for sarcastics. I can see the TV commercials now, a pair of loving sarcastics finding tenderness in a bottle of Kindiva (seek medical attention for gentleness lasting four hours or more!). Oops…there I go again. I’m so sorry.
For many sarcastics, certain activities are triggers. For me, it was driving across town in my car. “Okay, lady, you gonna sit there all day? It’s a STOP sign, not the end of life!” or “Fine, people, let’s all slow down to five miles an hour and search for a tic-tac!” I’ve learned, at least, to keep my thoughts to myself while driving and not subject my poor, long-suffering sweet wife to an endless stream of on-road comments. Nowadays, when my first sarcastic thought arrives, I see it for the raw aggression it is, and purposely take my foot off the gas. “Breathe,” I tell myself, “Relax, be gentle.” I connect with my inner nice person. Really…I’m not being sarcastic!
One of the problems experienced by a recovering sarcastic is that others so afflicted, accustomed as they are to quick repartee and double messages, mistake sincerity for sarcasm. Sarcastics seek out other sarcastics, and to them niceness is betrayal. Sarcastics, you see, are easily hurt, and becoming a sarcastic is about avoiding emotional pain. Ironically, it is through transferring pain to others that sarcastics find relief, and that’s what makes it so dangerous. One sarcastic comment leads to another, and before you know it, you’re a full-blown sarcastic. The wife, the kids, the neighbor, the butcher…to the sarcastic they are all pawns in the great transfer of pain. And, if one of them becomes a sarcastic? Great! Like misery, sarcastics love company.
The first step in recovery, they say, is to admit you have a problem. Do you mutter while in line at the bank? Is everyone else doing everything wrong all the time? Are you hiding behind being “ironic”? Learn the warning signs – pay attention. Really…I’m not being sarcastic!
