Thursday, November 10, 2005

Fuckin' People

I hate a lot of things; this has been thoroughly established. But something new has been pissing me off lately. Well, not new, really, but apparently I have much less patience for it these days.

Have you ever been somewhere, minding your own business, when someone you haven’t seen in a long time spots you and decides to talk to you? Usually the reason you haven’t seen them in a long time is because you didn’t want to see them. Yet, for some reason, they feel compelled to approach you and make inane small talk.

“Yeah, since you last saw him, Jake’s lost, oh, I’d say fifty pounds. Well, maybe not fifty pounds, but he’s lost weight. Hey, remember that time a few years back? I think it was May…no it must’ve been July because, remember, Tom got sick from eating all those Fourth of July hot dogs…although, it could have been November because my Uncle Toby had that Veterans’ Day barbecue. Oh well. You remember that time right?”

Then you nod politely, slowly edging backwards toward the register at the market, just praying you’ll be able to get out of the store without having to exchange phone numbers with some peon intent on explaining the intricacies of your old pal Ted’s last colonoscopy.

This crap has been happening to me a lot lately. Not just when I’m out on liquor runs either, mind you. People I haven’t seen in years have actually just been showing up at my door. Did I suddenly become a jackass magnet?

For example, the other night I was sitting by myself drinking heavily when the strangest thing happened: my phone rang. I hate when that happens. When I answer, the voice on the other end is that of a slurring, drooling, shit-ass-drunk South-Pacific Islander I used to know.

“Heeeeeyyyyy man! Guess who zis is?”

I haven’t seen this butt nut for over a year and suddenly he’s calling me up in the middle of the night trying to be all friendly. This leads me to believe – and rightfully so – he needs something. Some shit never changes. He blathers on about what he’s been up to lately, and what the rest of the other guys I used to hang out had been up to since I saw them last. Try as I might, it is very difficult to end a phone call from a nostalgic drunk.

“Dude, let’s hang out, ok?”

Fucking great. Now he wants to hang out. Coming from him this loosely translates to “Can I come over, drink your alcohol, whine about stupid shit you don’t care about, piss all over myself, and then crash on your floor.” At this point, I could have just hung up on him, but when I heard a car door slam outside, I remembered he knew where I lived.

“Dude, I’m like, right outside.”

Goddamnit.

In order to keep this guy out of my house, I go outside and talk to him. He tells me this story about how he was driving drunk and crashed into a bunch of parked cars.

“That changed my life, man. I don’t do that shit anymore,” he said, wobbling drunkenly next to the vehicle he just drove to my house. Then he gives me the “Man, we should hang out more, man. Like old times, man,” speech. Yeah, that’ll happen. He finally left, promising to call me sometime. Thankfully, he never did.

Some time after that, I was out buying alcohol. Damn me for shopping at a store in an area of town I usually avoid. And damn that store for having Evan Williams on sale that weekend.

Suddenly, this old lady that says she knows my parents starts talking to me. She begins talking about a slew of other people my parents used to know and what they had been doing for the last twenty years.

“John Thomas, he knew your Dad from work, just got a promotion. Perfect timing too because his wife just got laid off from the greeting card factory. Well, their oldest son, Chad, recently got a degree and moved to Namibia to teach starving Namibians trigonometry. Oh! Do you remember William?”

No.

“Well, he’s doing great. He helped me program my VCR just the other day. Did you hear about his poor daughter?”

No.

“She’s in quite a predicament. It seems her husband Alexander is back on the crack cocaine. Lost another job too. She came home one night and Alexander was in a drug rage and he threw that antique radio straight out the second story window. Terrible. Terrible. She should have known what she was in for when she married a Russian. Proud people those Russians.”

What the fuck?

“Tell me, how’s Sarah doing these days?”

Who in god’s name is Sarah?

“Remember Sarah? You and Sarah used to play the Nintendo with Laura.”

I’ve never heard of any of these people.

“You three were inseparable. We used to call you three the Mario Brothers.”

That doesn’t even make sense.

“Speaking of Laura, do you remember Ling Liu? She’s a ballerina now. Look, I have these tickets for The Nutcracker. She’s in that ballet. Performing downtown and everything. The tickets are only eighty dollars. Why don’t you buy one?”

Why don’t I just give you five bucks to kick me in the nuts right now so I can save some time and money?

“You always were the funny one, you know? You should have been a comedian instead of a doctor. That’s what I always tell your Aunt Beatrice anyway.”

Ok, to be fair, this lady wasn’t really someone who I knew and hadn’t seen for a while, but she ran her mouth off like she was. I don’t know who she was, but her friends and family sounded nice.

A few days later, I saw a familiar face as I drove to work. It was Chester, the friendly neighborhood crack fiend. When I was thirteen walking through the neighborhood, this guy tried to sell me a boat for three dollars. I was pretty sure the boat wasn’t really his because he was trying to break into it as he offered to sell it to me.

I guess he’s out of prison now, because he’s back in town riding his bicycle all over the place in search of rehabilitation, or more likely, crack. And while he managed to get a few more prison tattoos, he still doesn’t seem to have a shirt. He hasn’t really talked to me yet, and he probably wouldn’t remember me anyway, but it’s just a matter of time before he tries to sell me something really crappy so he and his old lady can get their fix.

I’ve run into a bunch of other idiots I used to know too, and it pisses me off. Doesn’t anyone die anymore?

13 comments:

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drunkbh said...

1- Caller ID. I never answer my phone.

2- "Me no speak English. I not him"

Victor said...

LOL this is how you get rid of people. Never answer your phone, i sure as hell dont. Only answer when certain people i like call. Your excuse to prevent a guy from coming in? ah my parents are visiting, or i got a girl with me so go away.

Willow said...

Your charming personality draws these people to you, Morb, and you'll have to develop a "death laser stare" that will stop them in their tracks, cause then to take some involuntary steps backward, and give you time to escape.

Or, you can tattoo your face, wear some wife-beater shirts, get yourself a mullet and some gold teeth. That way, only the crack Ho's will approach you to drink and party.

J Holden said...

yea, i hate that too

i just wanna buy my shit and go

badgerbob said...

Morb, you had me laughing through the whole post. Boy, can I relate.
I agree with willow.
I have stood on the other side of the door and ignored someone I didn't want to see. It's bad , because I can't help myself, and start laughing, and then I think they hear me, but I get over it quickly.
As for the phone, just let out a high pitched scream , when the caller identifies himself, and then slam the reciever down

morbid misanthrope said...

drunkbh - Caller ID doesn't work when there's a drunken 300 + pound Samoan outside your door. He knew I was home because my car was out front. Even if I didn't answer the phone he would have banged on my door all night or broken a bunch of shit. I didn't need that.

I could always fake not speaking English, but as someone who criticizes people in America for not knowing the language, I'd feel like a dick.

rude - Due to my lack of friends, the only people that ever call me are my bosses and telemarketers. And since my bosses can call me any time, I always answer the phone.

I've found that such excuses don't work on drunken Samoans. He's almost gotten me arrested a few times in the past so the best thing to do was just placate him until he got tired and went home. If only I would have had a coconut or some passion fruit I could have distracted him while I got my gun.

willow - My personality is about as charming as the inside of a port-a-potty at a Monster Truck Rally in Alabama, which is why I assumed I'd never be bothered by "old friends" stopping to pay me a visit.

Also, even with the sweet fashion tips you gave me I couldn't attract a crack ho. Besides, a guy I used to know dated a crack whore and brought her over once. She used my guitar strings to floss because the sides of her teeth were "all itchy," and she poured Listerine in her eyes because she thought it was Visine. Long story short: she passed out face-down in the pool and I had to fish her out with a stick.

j holden - Yeah really. You'd think people would be less eager to talk to a guy wearing a Goatwhore shirt buying a 64 oz. bottle of whiskey at 1:00 in the afternoon, but for some reason someone always bothers me.

badgerbob - I used to just tell people - on the phone or at the door - to fuck off. It worked pretty well, and every now and then I got to hit someone. Then again, every now and then someone would try to burn down my house.

I like your high-pitched scream on the phone idea. It won't cost me anything like a caller ID would, and it's much more annoying than, well, anything else I can think of right now. I believe the only drawback is having to punch myself in the nuts to achieve a sufficiently high-pitched scream. It would totally be worth it though.

Willow said...

Ouch. Even I, as a member of the female species, feel the pain of that remark. There's no need to do yourself harm down there, just in case you need them later. Try other alternatives. Stick a hot needle in your eye, or under your fingernail. I bet you'll scream like a schoolgirl over the phone and never receive a phone call again. Mind you a high-pitched scream runs the risk of also attacting a crack ho's - or so I've been told.

morbid misanthrope said...

willow - I won't need them in the future. The government already made me sign papers promising never to reproduce. They even gave me fifty bucks. Suckers!

If only they had realized my personality and bad attitude combined with some of my more misanthropic philosophies pretty much guarantee I'll never get laid, they could have saved the taxpayers fifty bucks.

While a hot needle to the eye or to the quick might make any lesser man scream, these minor tortures just piss me off and make me charge around like a rabid bull on PCP. Hey, instead of screaming myself, I'll just play a shitty Cradle of Filth CD over the phone. Problem solved.

Victor said...

LMAO i was just gonna say grab a coconut and make him fetch it lol

NewYorkMoments said...

People are annoying. It's one of the reasons I like moving to cities where I don't know any.

morbid misanthrope said...

rude - Even though he's not Hawaiian, I think he'd be pretty distracted by a big block of spam too. I saw that crazy Samoan bastard eat a whole live goat once. Crazy.

newyorkmoments - People suck. I'd move away, but I have some pretty sweet jobs here and the cave I live in is almost completely paid off. I'd be a fool to leave now.

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