Yep, I twittered it a few weekends ago, and I’ve mentioned it before that. It’s time to let everyone in on the game (oh, speaking of, for those in the know… I just lost the game), the insanity that is my parents, and explain some of my own craziness at the same time by pointing at them and proclaiming, “See? They’re not normal… why the hell should I be?!”
The Feeb Count came about after my dad proclaimed someone a feeb. And as is the nature of our family, he then defined it, gave them categories, and provided more details than any normal human would. I heart my dad. “It was a game that has become tradition.”
A “feeb” is a noun defined by a question: “Why would someone, when given a choice, choose to present themselves this way in public.” The “count” portion is my parents’ weekly (Sunday) trip to the grocery store. If I’m at their house, I get told what they saw/found. If I’m not, I get an email. It’s a fun game… with rules and guidelines and silliness.
There is “feeb sign” outside the store, warning you that they’re present: overturned carts with hats on them, upside down bottles of beer balancing on things. Inside “feeb sign” includes frozen foods put in the cereal isle, open cologne (my parents call him Axe Man, as he’d gone down the row and tried on every version of Axe on the shelf… and then you could smell him 2 isles away for the rest of the trip. The girl at the counter laughed at them, “you wouldn’t believe how often that happens!”), etc.
Now, we’re not cruel. We’re not talking about old age or disabilities here. We’re talking about that woman with the bright red lipstick and her pajamas on, because she won’t leave the house without her makeup, but will go braless. We’re talking about the guy that should have found his way home drunk last night, but is instead sitting outside the grocery store, shirtless and looking confused.
My dad loves to share his feeb finds. Poor Bob was held captive for at least an hour as dad told him some of the great feebs of this century. Classic feebs that my father shares with people include such treasures as The Feeb Brothers. “I’m not sure whether they are artists or just drunk, cross-dressers or just confused. They all come on the bus together, sit outside for a while, go in and buy a few things, sit outside for a while longer. One wears a skirt over his jeans and a shawl in his hair. The second wears a beret and dresses to accentuate it. The third is the most normal in clothing and his headgear varies. They’re very aggressive with the check out girls. Their speech is slurred. They are in their 40s.” To which my mother injects, “You probably went to school with them… and I’m sure it’s a drug induced thing.” Dad’s response, “Artsy morons… like an oxymoron but not.” Of course, he has nothing against artists, but seems to think that these guys want to personify the art culture but don’t have a clue beyond the beret.
Mom giggles, “I like the guy that was huge. I was waiting for your dad, and here’s this huge overweight guy, walking from his car to the store, maybe 20 yards, and he can barely do it because he’s overweight. And none of this has anything to do with it, it’s that he was wearing a t-shirt that says carpe diem.”
Dad interjects, “Or the overweight woman that wore the skirt… Her lower legs were great, but the skirt was just short enough to reveal hanging cellulite. It was a choice. That’s the feeb, they choose to wear these things, to present themselves this way.”
In short, the feeb count is nothing more than a version of “flaptacular” (quick, Joe… pose!) outside of a convention setting (well, and many of the other things in the HFW Dictionary that year). And my parents, who have never been to a con, play the eye-bleach game like pros!
I told them they should have a website where people can post their feeb count for the week. Like a “texts from last night” kind of thing. Instead, we’ll just turn it into a coffee talk. OH! You sooo didn’t see that coming, did you? So what’s the best “feeb” you’ve ever seen? And no, the group that understood the term “flaptacular” is not allowed to cite that example, give us something fresh, someone new. What’s the worst case of “oh damn, why you leave the house looking like that?!” that you’ve witnessed? Regale us and we’ll all giggle together…
*fine print: Yes, I’m picking on humans. No, I’m not apologizing for it. If you go in public looking like that, we will point and laugh… hell, I come from a family that points, laughs and takes pictures before calling 911 when one of our own does something stupid—as proven by the SEAR PORTRAITS of me with two black eyes when I was three!!!
