I Asked for the Time and Got a Colonoscopy Report. Also, What's With All These Hats?

There are two things in life I genuinely don’t understand. First, why some people cannot answer a simple question without providing a complete medical history, family genealogy, and a detailed account of something that happened to their brother-in-law in 1987.

And second, why does every man who reaches a certain age suddenly feel compelled to purchase a hat that makes him look like he’s either going fishing or investigating a murder?

Neither phenomenon has a reasonable explanation. Yet both are happening all around us. And frankly, somebody needs to say something before we’re all trapped in a conversation about prostate surgery with a man dressed like Sherlock Holmes.

Part One: I Asked What Time It Was, Not How Your Gallbladder Surgery Went

We’ve all encountered these people. You ask a perfectly ordinary question. Something simple. Something that should require no more than six words.

“Excuse me, do you know what time it is?”

And instead of looking at their watch or phone, they take a deep breath. That’s your first warning, the deep breath... Because what follows isn’t an answer. It’s the opening chapter of an autobiography nobody commissioned.

“Well, normally I’d know, but I haven’t worn a watch since my surgery.”

Oh, dear God. Here we go.

“See, back in 2016, I had this thing on my wrist. The doctor thought it was a cyst, but my sister-in-law Beverly, well, she used to work at a dermatologist’s office and said it looked more like what her cousin Sharon had before they removed her gallbladder.”

You’re standing there, smiling politely. You just wanted to know whether it was three o’clock.

“Of course, Sharon’s gallbladder wasn’t the real problem. Turns out she’d been eating too much cheese. You ever have that happen?”

No, sir. I have never had my gallbladder removed because of excessive cheese consumption. And I would very much like to return to my original programming if you don't mind.

But it’s too late. You’ve been selected. You are now the unwilling recipient of a complete medical documentary narrated by a man who has apparently mistaken the sidewalk for a gastroenterology conference.

“And speaking of cheese, my second wife couldn’t eat dairy. Terrible lactose problem. You should’ve seen what happened at our anniversary dinner in Branson.”

NO. I ABSOLUTELY SHOULD NOT HAVE! But he tells you anyway. In horrifying detail.

By the time he’s finished explaining the incident at the buffet, you’ve learned that his first wife ran off with a chiropractor, his brother owns a questionable boat dealership, and his nephew once accidentally set a riding lawnmower on fire with a bottle rocket.

And somehow, the lawnmower story also involves a raccoon. You’re not sure how. You’re afraid to even ask.

Meanwhile, the sun is beginning to set. You started this conversation at approximately 2:45 in the afternoon. It’s now entirely possible that you’ve missed Christmas.

The truly remarkable thing about these conversational hostage situations is that there’s no socially acceptable escape. You can’t simply walk away. That would be rude. You can’t interrupt. He’s describing a surgical procedure involving an organ you didn’t know existed. You can’t fake a phone call because he’ll probably ask who’s calling and launch into a story about his daughter, who hasn’t spoken to him since the unfortunate incident involving a pontoon boat. So you deploy the universal emergency phrase.

“Well, I better let you go!”

Notice the brilliance of that sentence. You’re not saying you need to leave. You’re suggesting that HE has somewhere important to be. You’re generously releasing him from the burden of your company. Unfortunately, this technique doesn’t work on professional storytellers.

“Oh, I’m not in any hurry!”

OF COURSE YOU AREN’T, CLARENCE. YOU’VE BEEN RETIRED SINCE THE CARTER ADMINISTRATION. And then he starts another story.

“I remember one time, back when I worked at the paper mill…”

At this point, you consider faking your own death. But you’re worried he’ll attend the funeral and tell everyone about his colonoscopy.

Eventually, through a combination of strategic backing away, excessive nodding, and pretending to recognize somebody across the street, you escape. You stagger toward your car. Your legs are weak. Your spirit is broken. You’ve learned more about Clarence’s digestive system than his own physician probably knows. And then it hits you.

YOU STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!

Part Two: The Great American Hat Crisis

Now, while we’re discussing inexplicable human behavior, can somebody explain what happens to men’s heads after the age of forty? Because apparently, at some point, ordinary baseball caps are no longer sufficient. You begin to feel an irresistible urge to buy headwear that suggests an entirely different occupation.

I recently noticed just how many ridiculous hat options are available to the middle-aged gentleman. And let me tell you, it’s a dangerous landscape.

Let’s start with the bucket hat. The bucket hat is essentially a small fabric lampshade with a hole for your head. What you wear underneath doesn't matter. Put on a bucket hat, and you immediately look like you’re either fishing for bass or supervising a summer camp where three children have already gone missing. You could be wearing a $2,000 Italian suit. Doesn’t matter... Bucket hat. You’re now the well-dressed assistant manager of a bait shop.

Then there’s the flat cap. You know the one. That little rounded cap with the short brim. Put one on, and suddenly you’re a retired British detective who has come out of retirement for one last case. You don’t walk anymore. You stroll, thoughtfully. You don’t drink coffee. You sip tea while gazing suspiciously across the moors. You begin referring to people as “old chap.” And somewhere deep inside your soul, you develop an inexplicable desire to investigate a suspicious death at a country estate.

Then there’s the fedora. Oh, the fedora. The hat that promises sophistication but frequently delivers a man who looks like he’s about to sell you counterfeit wristwatches outside a casino. A fedora is a dangerous commitment if you want my genuine opinion. You cannot simply wear one casually. The moment you put it on, people expect you to know something about jazz. Or organized crime, possibly both. You walk into a restaurant wearing a fedora, and the hostess immediately assumes you’re either a saxophone player or somebody who knows where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.

And don’t even get me started on those enormous floppy sun hats. The ones with brims approximately the diameter of a satellite dish. These things provide so much shade that you could comfortably grow mushrooms beneath them. You see a gentleman wearing one at the beach, and you’re not sure whether he’s enjoying the sunshine or operating a mobile agricultural shelter. A strong breeze comes along, and the man is airborne. Last seen drifting toward the Bahamas.

But my personal favorite is the fishing hat with the little ventilation holes and the neck flap. The neck flap?? This magnificent piece of engineering announces to the world that you are prepared for absolutely anything. Sunburn? Not today, yellow scare ball! Mosquitoes? Think again. Unexpected expedition into the Amazon rainforest? I’VE GOT THIS, GENTLEMEN, HOLD MY BEER. Never mind that you’re standing outside a Walgreens waiting for a prescription. You look like you just returned from a six-month archaeological expedition in the Congo.

And here’s the thing. These hats seem to come with personality upgrades. Put on a cowboy hat, and suddenly you’re discussing cattle prices despite never having been within fifty feet of an actual cow. Put on a captain’s hat, and you begin referring to the family sedan as “the vessel.” Put on one of those little straw hats with the black band, and you’re apparently auditioning for a barbershop quartet.

And the really dangerous part? You start believing the hat. You look in the mirror and think, “You know, I could pull this off.” No, Dennis, you can't. You look like a substitute geography teacher who has been banned from three national parks. The hat isn’t helping. It’s making promises your personality cannot possibly fulfill.

When Two Disasters Collide

Now imagine the absolute nightmare scenario. You’re walking through the park, minding your own business, wearing your brand-new flat cap. You feel sophisticated. Distinguished. Perhaps a little... British. Then inexorably, a stranger approaches.

“Excuse me, sir, do you happen to know what time it is?”

You glance at your watch. It’s 3:15. A simple answer. A perfectly ordinary interaction. But then you hear yourself say:

“Well, normally I’d know, but I haven’t worn this particular watch since my gallbladder surgery…”

OH, NO!! It’s happening. You’ve become Clarence without even auditioning. And the flat cap isn’t helping. It’s making you look like a retired detective who’s about to explain his entire medical history to a bewildered tourist.

Suddenly, you’re discussing your brother-in-law’s cholesterol. You’re explaining why your second cousin doesn’t eat shellfish. You’re telling a complete stranger about an unfortunate incident involving a lawnmower, a bottle rocket and a raccoon. The poor fellow is backing away. He’s nodding nervously. He’s saying, “Well, I better let you go!”

And you hear yourself respond:

“Oh, I’m not in any hurry!”

SWEET MERCIFUL HEAVEN. THE TRANSFORMATION IS COMPLETE.

You’ve crossed over. You’re no longer an innocent bystander in the great human circus. You’re one of the performers. And somewhere, a man wearing an enormous fishing hat is watching the entire exchange while wondering whether he should intervene. He doesn’t. He’s too busy explaining to another stranger how his nephew once caught a thirty-pound catfish using a hot dog and a shoelace.

So here’s my advice... The next time somebody asks you a simple question, give them a simple answer. And the next time you go shopping for a hat, remember that you’re purchasing headwear. Not a new identity.

Because nobody wants to spend forty-five minutes listening to a man dressed like Sherlock Holmes explain the results of his latest colonoscopy. Especially when all they wanted to know was the time.

Which, incidentally, is now 10:01 pm... You’re welcome.

The Pompous Post - Because Somebody Has to Point Out the Absurdity.