You can have my “Gift of Gab”

    I was almost fourteen when my mom put the curse on me. I was rambling on about something or other when I noticed her eyes roll back in her head and she announced, “Son, I’ll say one thing, you’ve got the gift of gab.”

    “I don’t want the gift of gab,” I protested. “I want a new bike or an A in Science or I tell you something else I’d like mom. I’d like to know if it’s just me or is there something going on with girls? Because I could swear there’s something going on with girls. Do you think there’s something going on with girls, mom?”

   “I think you need to get outside and play, burn off some energy,” mom answered in a tone that indicated I was approaching final jeopardy.

   “Well you can keep your gift of gab, mom,” I said making the zipping the mouth motion at her. “Cause from now on I’m studying the art of pantomime. That’s right mom, I’m going paint my face white and wear suspenders and act like I’m lifting weights or pulling on a rope. See mom, I’m pulling myself outside, on a rope, just inching myself outside, right now.”  I mouthed the last words several more times thru the bay window as mom glared at me.

   Then I was on my way.

   I had a paper due in Civics; I needed good reference material and a timely topic to see if my so-called gift of gab applied to the written word. If it did then I’d quit moaning about the new bike and count myself lucky.

   I scrounged around the library for hours thumbed through countless periodicals, dug deep into the vertical file and finally copied (in long-hand) passages pertinent to my premise.

   Now here’s where it gets weird!

   Back then, I had my own ideas about nuclear disarmament and the general state of affairs that was coming to be known as the cold war.  I know that’s strange. But I was trying to keep my mind off girls and nuclear annihilation worked like a charm.  I was also fascinated by international affairs. political intrigue and jargon like Sino-Soviet. So that report virtually wrote itself. I just sat their and watched the pencil move. The gift of gab did the rest, automatically, in beautiful cursive. It was a current events report miracle and I got an A plus on it! Mrs. Dodge even wrote a note across the top corner in red ink. She said I had a way with words then she wrote, “I look forward to your next essay ‘Scoop’.”

   Oh my god…My teacher gave me a pen-name. She gave me a pen-name, I’m Scoop!

    I am the Scooper!  The Scoop-ola. The scooper-dooper. The scoop dog.

    I’m Scooooooopeeeeeeeeeee Do.

   My fate was sealed that day as I was doomed to read and write for newspapers. The fact that I’m still doing it only goes to prove that we really do know everything we will ever need to know, by the time  we turn 13 years old.

   I did recently learn that gab means:  “to chatter, to talk at length about inane or trivial matters”  and that fact strips a lot of the glitter off  what I always thought was a compliment from my mother. It seems a lot of stupid people also get the gift of gab. In fact, trolls are known for their capacity to really gab it up.

    Dang it!  I knew I got gypped.

    But that’s okay because these days everybody is re-gifting everything and you better hope I don’t draw your name for Christmas because you’ll be getting my old worn out gift of gab.

    Or I could give you the useless book I read on understanding girls. I read it three times before I realized that girls do not care if boys understand them. Girls want boys who stand up for them. And some French girls enjoy mimes.

But that’s another essay.