Steve Martin is a Son of a Bitch!

That's a phrase we like to say a lot in my family. Sometimes we blurt it out in public with no apparent provocation. We enjoy it.

My husband and I like to yell it out at parties. It's always a conversation starter. Good times.

Steve Martin steals airport buggies from crippled old men. I know this to be true. Ask my father- he had to walk. Steve Martin did not have to walk. He said my father should get his own buggy. My father did get his own buggy. Steve Martin stole it. That is really very rude. Steve Martin is a son of a bitch.
Nov 13, 2003 2:18 pm

I posted this missive on the message board of the website SteveMartin.com one thick, dreary afternoon, an afternoon grayer than Steve Martin's hair. I was just a lonely soldier of fortune cookie justice, looking to exact rectitude from the man who done wronged my dear old Dad. I thought, "I know, I'll take my plight to the people! The people will understand. My Pappy will be vindicated!"

No sooner had I posted than it became clear to me that odd rumblings were brewing. The Jerk's work clearly was a foot. After one poster named "Stupid" waxed confused about the canine nature of Steve Martin's mother, others debated about whether he preferred to roller blade to the sites of his carnage or ride his bicycle. I felt I had not been clear. With a speck of reason and a little gentle guidance, I knew I could make them understand.

'Tis more true than I can tell you. He done run off with my father's airport buggy. Called my poor old dad "fella" too (as in "...get your own, fella!"). Oh, the humanity!
Nov 19, 2003 2:28 pm

Let me tell you a story…

Once upon a time there was a nice old feller named Bob. Our story begins one fateful December morning when Bob was driving his fabulously bright, sophisticated, aw heck, his downright cosmopolitan daughter and her hep-cat husband to the airport after a tidy Christmas visit. In passing, a reference was made to popular actor and comedian Steve Martin.

"Steve Martin is a son of a bitch!" hollered this fine septuagenarian. His daughter, yours truly, your faithful correspondent, began to wonder what the seizure protocol was for a victim doing 70 miles per hour in the fast lane of the 405.

But Dad was okay, he just had a story to spill. Oh, the story did spill.

One particularly ominous day, poor old Dad was en route to California from places far, via flights cramped, and his knees, which needed desperately to be replaced, were in shape more crippling than ever. And his layover was to be a tight connector in the dreaded labyrinth that is, gasp, Chicago O'Hare. But, never fear, there's nothing growing my old Dad! He just dialed himself up the fine folks at the American Airlines Admirals' Club and ordered himself one of those jaunty little buggies driven from terminal to terminal by the nineteen-year-old kids with their baseball caps on sideways and the vaguely lost looks on their faces.

Low and behold, upon landing in, gasp, O'Hare, poor old Dad came hobbling off the plane (that would be something like "step, 'oomph', slide, 'ow', step, 'oomph', slide, 'ow'"), only to catch that dastardly funky Tut monkey, Steve Martin, slipping nattily into his desperately needed buggy and informing the Clearasil refugee behind the wheel that it was time to "take off."

"That's my buggy, you son of a bitch!" sputtered the old man.

"Get another one, fella!" retorted sinister mister Martin and off sped poor old Pappy's last hope of comfort and style. Step, "oomph", slide, "ow" down the terminal he did limp. Oh the humanity, indeed.

Poor old pop just had his poor old knees replaced. I wonder if they could have hung on if he'd had his buggy transport. I guess we'll never know. Bye, bye organic knees.
Steve Martin is a son of a bitch.
Nov 10, 2004 3:36 pm

Odd things are happening on the SteveMartin.com message board. Debates about the nature of Mr. Martin's proclivity for stealing the airport buggies out from poor little old men's crippled legs have degraded to the point that they are now trading stories with one another about odd dreams they have had. Recipes must be next. Focus, children, focus! There is a life lesson to be learned.

Ah, there's hope! I just got called biotch! Now this stone's a' rollin'!

Bye, bye buggy.
"I'm a Hottentot. Get yer own buggy!"
Beep, beep.
Zzzzzzoooooooooommmmmmmmmmm...
Poor old limping Papa.
Nov 10, 2004 4:28 pm

Someone named "Twinkling" has just hopped in, admonished me for calling attention to the failings of others, scolded me for swearing, and then, it seems, handed me over to God. Perhaps some more creative approach is warranted. I think I will respond to the Twinkling one.

Twinkle, twinkle, Superstar
My daddy ordered an airport car
Without which he would despair
Of the ghastly distance at O'Hare
But a superstar, his ride did snitch
Oh, Steve Martin, that son of a bitch.
Nov 10, 2004 6:22 pm

Oh, dear, Twinkling seems to have had some sort of breakdown. Nine post in a row about the therapeutic nature of acceptance and forgiveness. She offered me some words to quell my ravaged breast. She is condescendingly confident that if I just repeat over and over that I feel betrayed and hurt, I will achieve transcendence. I feel a haiku is in order.

A Haiku for You

Hobble, step, hop, ouch
Airport buggy race away;
beep beep, #$&*! $@* &^@#!!

Hurry pops! Your connector is a waitin'!

Ah, Steve Martin. What a son of a bitch.
Nov 11, 2004 9:36 am

Some snappage in the Twinkling front! Ah, meat to fling, she's angry now! Several more consecutive posts appear alternately offering me counseling and the finger. Things are getting murky in the Wild and Crazy board. I think I'd better fasten my seatbelt. Suddenly Michael Jackson is involved. Can these people not stay on topic? Time, for a limerick. Odd, I hadn't realized there was such a time.

There once was a crippled old man
Whose knees barely allowed him to stand
His plane soon would depart
So he ordered a cart
But it was swiped, so he did limp a span.
Nov 11, 2004 6:53 pm

After much concern for the state of my father and bewilderment over the possibility of a Steve Martin impostor roaming at large stealing airport buggies and maligning his good name was expressed by posters of myriad temperaments and DSM-IV classifications, I decided that it was time to hang up my Steve Martin spurs. Ninety posts is a lot, after all, for one message thread to sustain. And thus, I left my final image, took my ball and went home.

Sometimes, when I tell my "Steve Martin is a son of a bitch story" at parties, people laugh and beer comes out their noses. It must be very uncomfortable to have beer come out one's nose. Is there just no end to the damage one man can do?
Nov 14, 2004 11:25 am

Oh, that Steve Martin… well… you know…