In case ya’ll haven’t noticed, I’m on a bit of a hiatus for reasons I will explain in the the not-so-distant future. Until then, thanks for dropping by. -The RB
I get a lot of emails that aren’t quite hate mail, but are closer to “your opinions suck ass, please embrace and express mine instead” mail. The theme of these emails seems to follow a pattern, which is: ”You are callous and indifferent towards people”. In all fairness, I have to say that this does not sound like me at all. Hold on a minute…actually that sounds exactly like me. I can’t help it. I have been structured this way ever since I can remember, and that is to say I have the attention span of a teenage boy in a warehouse filled with porn. Small talk hurts my brain.
Nevertheless, there are times when my job is downright exhilarating, like two nights ago when I donated a portion of my life to share in a dynamic conversation between three fine men who were unearthing the timeless mystery of why some animals do not need an “s” on the end of their names to make them plural.
Genius #1: ”Seriously, like take deer for instance, man. Why aren’t they called deers?”
Genius #2: ”Yeah, or fishes. Wait…” (pauses while he tests the singular and plural forms of fish out loud to himself) ”The fish swam in the lake…the fishes swim south for the winter…”
Genius #3: ”What about buffalo? Is it ‘Flying Eagle kill many buffalos’ or ‘many buffalo’?”
Genius #2: ”I don’t know. That’s crazy-hard to remember, man.”
Though this 20 minute conversation went on for approximately 19 minutes and 60 seconds longer than it needed to, you can imagine my elation when they started debating whether the plural of “wolf” was spelled W-O-L-V-S or W-O-L-F-S. At this point I decided to do something a little more enjoyable so I grabbed a sheet of paper and began administering paper cuts to the underside of my tongue.
THINGS I WOULD RATHER DO THAN LISTEN TO THREE MORONS DISPUTE ANIMAL GRAMMAR
SAW BOTH MY FEET OFF WITH A SWISS ARMY KNIFE
HAVE MY ANKLES HOBBLED BY THE LADY IN MISERY
HAVE ONE MY MY TESTICLES CRUSHED IN A VICE
FORCE A 9-INCH ICE PICK DOWN THE SHAFT OF MY PENIS
What gets my engine really revved up is when someone presents me with a sentence that goes something like, “You’ll never believe how cool and wonderful and perfect my kid is.” This means I’m usually in for a treat, an out-of-this-world anecdote about how their kid got an “A” in jumprope, or whatever.
I am pleased they understand that it’s not only their invaluable drivel I look forward to listening to, but also the drivel concerning someone I’ve never met. Luckily, I am Ninja-awesome at fooling you into thinking I’m interested (or even listening) to what you’re saying by providing a practiced face of genuine interest. Like this:
WHAT I’M REALLY THINKING ABOUT WHILE YOU TELL ME YOUR KID GOT AN “A” IN JUMPROPE, OR WHATEVER
YOUR KID SOUNDS LIKE A TOOL
I’M HUNGRY FOR LEMON PIE
PLEASE ALLOW A PIANO TO FALL FROM THE SKY AND MERCIFULLY SQUASH ME INTO PULP
I believe I’ve revealed more than I should have, and now I’m becoming quite paranoid that baring my selfish soul to you will come back to haunt me. The only reason I can think of for why I did it is that it is therapeutic in some way. Supposedly, sharing dark secrets can release you from future heaviness and torment. I also think the charts and graphs are pretty sharp.
This, of course, is not fair to you, my guest, so the next time you come in, I will do my best to engage in pleasant and snappy conversation. Perhaps we can form an unbreakable bond that will stick like fairly adhesive masking tape, forever and ever, unless you talk too much.