Donovan Kelly

They who lived by the barbed word must expect to die by same. The putdowner becomes the putdownee. As I am now, and by a woman scorned.

Some there are who love to putdown. In the purest Olympic form of the sport, words and humor are honed in bouts of competitive verbal sparring until a final unanswerable stinging statement leaves the opponent stunned and speechless.

Olympic level putdown matches don’t try to be mean and hurtful, but sometimes it comes out that way. After all, putdowning is a form of pre-combat combat, like fencing or full-contact badminton.

Some Olympic level putdown competitions follow a classic standard form -- “Your mother is so ugly that . . .” wherein the combatants insert stinging new words of their own making into a prescribed formula.

Other events follow a more freestyle approach that seizes upon the opportunities of the moment. The so-called “Carpe Gotcha” approach.

As a long-time freestyler, I've won a few and lost a few, but since my big loss to Nan, I no longer compete professionally. Nan was executive secretary for my boss’s boss, a powerful queen who controlled access to the office king, yet never lost the common touch of the killer street bee.

In a preliminary bout, during a quiet luncheon with a group of the more prudish senior office staff, Nan loudly whispered across the table, “I found your other sock.” I almost choked on my soup, but managed to whisper loudly back, “The blue one or the black one?” The bout was declared a draw.

The big match snuck up on me. As Nan and I filled up our trays in the office cafeteria to take back to our separate but not equal offices, we exchanged a few mild barbs out of professional respect. The polite barbs continued on the elevator, mostly for the benefit of the strangers who shared the crowded elevator with us.

Nan got off on the third floor and I stayed on to go to the seventh floor. She suddenly turned back towards me as the elevator doors were closing, and said in a loud and angry voice, “I don’t care if I am pregnant, I am not going to marry you!”

The doors closed and I was left standing there. Riding alone for four long floors with a stunned pack of strangers staring at me. I thought of trying to laugh it off, to attempt some feeble explanation.

Forget it. She had beaten me fairly and squarely with the perfect putdown. There was nothing to do but bow to my opponent and quietly leave the arena, a humble putdownee. The elevator doors close. The words hang there, unanswerable still.

“I don’t care if I am pregnant, I am not going to marry you!”

Carpe Gottum

(Kelly writes from Hamilton, Va., where there are no elevators. Gentle people can reach him at donovan@donovanwrites.com.)