So I happened to be in the park when Woody Allen and Mia Farrow made their joint statement, and I must say I was surprised by the defiant tone Woody struck. Using all those loaded words like “petting” and “intercourse.” I mean, how about some sensitivity? Later I was equally surprised when he sauntered into the grandstands where I was sitting.
I said to myself, “Wow. This is my chance to talk to Woody Allen.” So I yelled out, “Hey Woody! Why’d you molest your daughter?” Because, you know, just making conversation.
Well you should have seen the look on that guy’s face. I swear he tried to melt me with the hate rays shooting out of his eyes.
I thought, “Man, what’s this guy’s problem?”
So anyway I go back to talking to the guy next to me, and a few minutes or so go by, and then all of a sudden I feel something on my shoulder, like it’s raining or something but only in one spot.
I’m like, “What’s that about?”
Well, I look up and there’s this stream coming down on me from the row above and I’m getting all wet and the splash-back is getting in my hair. So I keep turning my head and sure enough there’s Woody standing above me. He’s peeing on me.
Now I don’t know about you but I’m not the type to take something like that sitting down. Nobody pees on me, I don’t care if they are a celebrity. So I jump up and start chasing him and pretty soon we’re running through the forest with him just out of reach.
You know Woody is actually a lot shorter than I imagined--he’s only about two feet tall. So anyway I start to catch up because his legs are so short that he can’t run that fast and the cloak he’s wearing isn’t helping him much, but he somehow manages to leap off this huge drop-off, and it looks like he’s in the clear. Still, I’m not about to let that sucker get away if I can help it, and as I follow him over the ledge I say to myself, “I’m too old for this s***.”
Lucky for me, my knees hold up after the fall and I’m on him a second later and I start walloping him like there’s no tomorrow. I keep on smacking him until he pees on himself, which I think serves him right.
After that I started yelling at him. “Listen. I didn’t want to do this. You had no right to pee on me. I was just trying to get to know you. I legitimately heard that you molested your daughter, and I thought it was an interesting conversation starter.”
Woody seemed to accept this. His expression softened and everything felt okay. We didn’t hug it out or anything. After that I opened my eyes and I was in my bed.
Who knows? Maybe it was a dream.
Anyway I read an article about the whole molestation thing in Slate and I went to the comments section and there were all these people defending Woody and trashing the daughter for making the allegations, and I thought to myself, “Oh, this must be where the child molesters go to hang out now.”
Maybe not. Maybe they just really liked Zelig or whatever.
Anyway, I really couldn’t say if the guy is a child molester or not, but it seems to me he lost plausible deniability when he married his daughter.
Right, I forgot he wasn’t technically her father. Let’s just call him the paternal figure who was married to her mother.
It reminds me of the time Michael Jackson went on television and did an interview with the little boy he was sleeping with at the time, and then he and many of his fans denied he was a pedophile, but I just kept thinking, “then why did he want to sleep with that kid?”
I don’t even want to sleep with my own kids. They’re always twisting and turning and jamming their elbows and knees into my back. The other night one of ‘em even peed on me.
The Daily Brass is an online periodical devoted to Poetry, Literature, Reviews, Essays, and Culture.