True, true, there are three-letter words, just as there are four-letter words, that delight, positively sing with vim and brio and panache: par, lit, pun, gay, tea, tee, zip, tit, wit, nap, hug. It's only fair. But still, you have to admit the fact that that venomous list of three-letter words back in that last paragraph carry as much negative weight, if not shock value, as any four-letter word you could hurl. Let's face it, those famous four-letter words (five of George Carlin's famous list of seven naughty words) are mainly just epithets, shock words. But it's these three-letter ones that really wreak the havoc in our lives, these little nuclear bomb words that cause us to lie awake at night cursing with four-letter words our lot in life. Now scribblers far more adept, and angrier, than I have taken on sin and tax to death, but today I'm focussing my ire on the biggest tiny word piece of bunk in the world--fee.
What a miserable excuse for a word, fee. It's like an amputation. It's a sound, not a word. And a pretty paltry sound at that, something you might emit, not even utter, Job-like, after you've just lost everything you've ever had in the world and you realize it's all one cosmic joke at your expense and you don't have any fight or bile left in you and you observe the smoldering embers of your life--"fee." It's the last fart of air passed from a dead balloon, an infant's utterance at best, and yet, there it is, staring us all in the face day after day with its niggling pawing at our purse-strings--"more."
I just bought a car, a process that in my world compares unfavorably to root canal. But, to be honest, with the help of Marcus, the experience was fine. And I'm very happy to be driving a car with modern amenities, to be driving a car in which the winshield wipers wipe, the brakes brake, the windows roll up and down (electrically, who knew?), the heater heats, the engine purrs not curses, the lights light, the radio (and CD player, what brave new world is this?) plays. The only negative to the whole thing was one line on the bill of sale: Documentary Fee. What, am I being filmed taking bruised used cars out for a test drive? Not coincidentally, my not-too-conpsiracy-theory-laden mind thinks, the Documentary Fee was exactly equal to the "value" of the car I traded in (not much, mind you [see above] [okay, I'll admit it, I was driving a car that brought a whopping $250.00 in "trade" {yes, the amount of zeros and the decimal point placement are correct; I wanted to peel off and keep my beloved "This Aggression Will Not Stand, Man" bumper sticker, but I thought such action might reduce the trade-in value by at least $100}], but still). Documentary Fee. From the looks of them, Michael Moore's made films for less money. Documentary Fee. I half-expected to open the glove compartment and find an original copy of the Declaration of Independence (the irony would have been worth it). Granted, to get out of the dealership and drive away in my new old car, I had to sign about forty-four pieces of paper, but come on, $250? Go to Staples and buy a ream of paper for $5.99. Documentary Fee, my ass.
See, that's the problem with "fee"--there's literally no accounting. The Suits just figure, we're not getting enough out of this deal with the advertised "sticker" price, so let's really 'sticker' the bastard with a fee, round it up, Jake, always up. I want documentation. I want an audit of every one of those 25,000 pennies. You see, as maligned as the word tax is, at least (thanks to those original [not the pseudo- modern day pretenders] tea partiers) there is representation with taxation. You see or hear the word tax and you obviously grumble, but deep down you know that at least there's a system and somehow it was voted on, approved. But with Fee, who knows? Just add it to the long list of itemized costs, Vic, and they'll never even notice, especially using such an inept, three-letter word like fee. I don't know about you, but I'd be much happier if they'd all (and it's everyone, not just car dealers--let's not delve into the abyss of banks and airlines) just be a little more honest (a tough task, admittedly) and jettison the non-word Fee and substitute a real word, a great word despite its meaning, a word with character and flair--Gouge. "And what's this $250.00 charge here?" "Oh, sir, that's our Gouge." "Oh, right then, where do I sign?" No problem, and being a five-letter word, gouge is above all scorn, right? Now if you look it up, (don't worry, I already did, for which there'll be a fee, but I'm coming to that), fee can also be a verb, but really who uses it as such, and come on, verbs are allegedly "action" words and fee just doesn't move, does it? But there has to be a verb for what these people do, right? Assessing fees (yes, some call it a fee, others fees, trying to make it a big bad four-letter word, I'm sure). May I then just coin (fee for that, too, naturally) a new verb--feeking. "What, just what are you doing reaching into my pants pocket like that?" "Just feeking you, sir." "Oh, of course." Feeking without representation, accounting, auditing, or documenting--that's what commerce has become in the 21st century.
I assumed the word fee had some nefarious origin, maybe coming from the word flea, another nasty irritant. Or maybe it's some cruel joke, a play on the word free, thinking the human eye, so primed to read free in anything, will gloss over the fact that the 'r' is missing (little boomerang-shaped whisp of a letter; maybe it's piratical in origin--"you thought the graciousness of our company was free, but we've taken the rrrrrrrrr, along with all of your booty--call it a fee!") But no, fee, quite appropriately, comes from fief, from feudal times. So, even in these enlightened times, we are all just lowly, forking-it-over subjects of the corporate fiefdom.
But, but, the lonely would-be insurrectionist, the Chinese man with the shopping bag stopping the line of tanks in me cries, but if feeking is truly wreaked without representation, accounting, auditing, or documenting, why the hell shouldn't I, shouldn't each one of us, raise a solitary fist (or some part thereof) of protest and start doing some frickin' feeking of our own? Be a feeker, dear reader! Who's to stop us when nobody, it seems, has the power to stop anyone else from feeking us to death? As of right now, I'm going feeking nuclear. Read my parenthetical asides, boom, there's a fee. Laugh at something I say, pay up (a tee-hee-hee fee; and, ooh, you hit your patella on that bon mot, that'll be five bucks--knee-slapping fee). There will be a listening fee assessed for all you windbags out there I have to endure, you elevator orators, long-line palaverers, adjacent urinal pontificators (zip up and pay up, buddy; I shouldn't have drunk so much coffee), and Deadheads (if you dare to tell me about Jerry's awesome solo on "Box of Rain" from the second Tulsa show in 1975, I'm taking your last 32 cents and your hacky-sack). And for you really insufferable nabobs of nonsense, there'll be a strict, graduated toleration fee--ten dollars for the first 60 seconds, thirty for the next 45, and so on. Time is money, so if you ask me what time it is, two bits, plus you have to listen to me sing a verse of Chicago's "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is," for good measure (you can opt out for a one-time three dollar fee). Call me Buddy, Boss, Guy, or Hey You? Fifty clams, minimum. Make a right turn in front of me without using your turn signal? Seventy-five bucks, plus I get to peel off one of your bumper stickers. And that's not all when it comes to my feeking. I'm also introducing an echo fee. If, within three seconds of assessing me a fee, I snap back, "Fee Fee!" you have to reimburse me 50% of the fee, argue and it's 60%.
God it feels good to join the feeking ranks. And what contentment. Usually it's mid-July before I decide on a motto for the New Year. Ten days into this one and I'm all set--Feeking: I'm Gettin' Mine in 2012!
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