The schadenfreude syndrome

R
ecently, a couple of emergency vehicles passed by the office. Their sirens were blaring, lights flashing, clowns throwing candy from the front seats, traffic coming to a complete stop to let these heroes pass. However, some people got in the way of the trucks and, by force, removed the clowns. Now that the public good was no longer concerned, the fire trucks and ambulance were allowed to continue on their journey to help out somebody in grave danger. I personally think the clowns could have been helpful. I mean, let’s just say it was a fire. Let’s also say that the firemen placed that big wrench on the fire hydrant, and it broke as they tried to open up the valve. Let’s further say no one else had brought a spare wrench. Okay, now I’ll wait while you go ahead and say those things.
…
Done? Good, then we can continue. So, the firefighters arrive at a burning house, and they have nothing to douse the flames with. What do they do? Of course, the answer is obvious. You grab the clowns by the ankles and beat the fire out with them. It is for this reason (one that I’m sure happens all the time all over the world) that clowns should be in emergency vehicles at all times. I’d hate to be a firefighter, get to the inferno and have no access to water. Add to that the added horror of no clowns to pummel on the flames, and you have a social catastrophe on your hands. As Peter Venkman so wisely observed, “Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, MASS HYSTERIA!”
Anyway, as soon as these vehicles screamed by, I grabbed my camera, my notepad, a pen, and followed them. What a scoop! The first reporter on the scene to get the story. I would be there first, to take pictures of the clowns being swung over and over on the flames (I assumed they had a spare clown or two in some compartment of the fire truck). I was ecstatic! I had yet to get a scoop on something big, and now was my chance. It was going to be my stepping stone to bigger things: Pulitzer Prize, Peabody, the Canon Media Award, the Darwin Award! Okay, maybe not that last one.
Imagine my disappointment when I got there and found out it was a false alarm! No photos, no story, no crispy clowns, nothing! Even the emergency crews were getting into their vehicles and leaving almost as soon as I got there. The only interesting thing about the whole experience was the dejected look on the faces of the firefighters who were not able to use their clowns in satisfying and violent ways.
By the time I got back to the News Letter Journal office, I was in a funk. And then it hit me and hit me hard. I was upset that there was no fire, no house burning to the ground, no resident being rushed to the hospital with third-degree burns, no gory pictures. Everybody was okay, and I was upset by that. What was wrong with me?
This is part of what I call the silly schadenfreude syndrome. “Schadenfreude” is defined as “pleasure derived by someone from another person’s misfortune.” Until a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t even know that term. It came up when I was talking to my brother, Robert, who lives in California. We were discussing Quentin Tarantino movies. Tarantino likes to explore the psyche of violent people. And I personally love his early works. “Pulp Fiction” and “Reservoir Dogs” are very satisfying movies to me, as are the “Kill Bill” movies. But when “Death Proof” came out, I stopped watching his films. That one crossed over the line. I had the same reaction to Stephen King after I read “Gerald’s Game.” It crossed the line. 
“You’re just having a schadenfreude crisis,” my brother said after I disclosed my revelation. I’ve been weeding out horror and graphic gore and suffering from my system, books, movies, clown corpses, almost all of it.  
“What’s schadenfreude?” I asked. 
He wouldn’t tell me. In fact, he got great pleasure at my frustration about not knowing what it meant. I looked it up in one dictionary. … nothing. Nothing in my other dictionary. Now, my laptop was put away, and I didn’t want to take the time to set it up while I was on the phone. I asked one more time what it meant, with distress coloring every syllable. Bob just laughed at me, and I became even more infuriated. Bob is like that. He loves it when he knows something others don’t. There’s a bit of Sheldon Cooper in him. Finally, I got out my MacBook and looked it up on the internet. And then I got the joke. My brother was practicing his own schadenfreude glee at my misfortune of trying to figure out what he meant, and not getting my answer.
But I think the ultimate joke will be on him, and I’m really looking forward to this next chapter in this process. I’m mailing a copy of this paper to him. You see, when I asked how schadenfreude was spelled, he told me. But he spelled it wrong. Bob is brilliant, and I mean really bright. So, imagine my silly schadenfreude syndrome, jumping up inside of me to the heights of glee I’ll get when he reads this article. Bob will realize his mistake. He’s going to feel like such a clown. I just hope there’s a fire nearby when this happens. The vision of him being used as a blanket brings me a lot of pleasure.