I’ve been annoying people, if that makes you feel better.
A friend of mine came by work. I see the guy once, maybe twice a year, but whenever he comes by he always brings me beer (something I wish would catch on with all others) and someone new for me to meet. I think he brings them because they don’t believe the stories he tells of me. He brings the beer because I talked him out of killing himself year ago.
If I’d only known then. . .
I’m relating a story about this hypochondriac who whines about something new wrong with her every month. The problem with me (let’s just talk about this one problem right now, okay?) is when people prattle on I don’t listen. The best I do is nod and listen to the rhythm. You can tell when to nod or grunt using just cadence of speech. And I do.
My bigger problem is I pick out snippets of their rambling to entertain myself. I half heard this woman mention Sheryl Crow and what a bastard Lance Armstrong is for leaving her.
After mind humming a Crow song or two I start to think about Armstrong. More specifically, his balls. Which leads me to Tom Green’s balls but, fortunately, I snap quickly back to Lance’s lonely lump.
It’s at this time in my mind shower I forget people are there. It’s not that I care if they’re there or not, it sometimes surprises me when I have an incensed person in front of me. I didn’t even know they were there.
“Yeah,” or something to that facsimile, I say out loud. “I just went to the doctor. He said I have testicular dancer.”
I see the woman try to figure out 1) if she can have it too and 2) if I said what she thinks I said.
I notice this and, as often happens when I find myself sucked back into the real world after some idiotic phrase has just popped out of my head, I know I have to complete this idea.
“Yeah, the doctor said it wouldn’t have been bad if it was just the fox trot but I have those river-dancing bad boys. All that stomping! And the music! I think that’s more annoying than the constant throbbing.”
The woman gets all pissed that I’m not taking her twelfth illness this year seriously. Yeah, well, she got me there.
I’m telling this story and my pal laughs which validates the reason for my telling it. His friend, on the other hand, didn’t find it all that humorous.
“Chill out, Patty O’Humorless, I’m part Irish too.” I look at him with half an Irish grin and a full set of ‘fuck you’ twinkling in my eye. “Fortunately, not the small dick and rhythm-less part.”
I’m like an ambassador of good will! With tourette’s and a short time to my pension.
I go back to work and read an email from a friend who tells me my Densa page has been mentioned in the wikipedia. Cool. While I’m reading the page someone walks in dressed in her Sunday goin’ a prayin’ best.
I don’t know what it is, but even people who’ve never had the misfortune of dealing with me (see above) find me objectionable. Maybe it’s my clothes. But for the life of me I can’t understand why she’d have a problem with this shirt:
But, she did. People are too sensitive these days. I mean, sheesh, I have many more objectionable shirts to choose from!
She’s talking about finding the Lord as my Saviour. That the Lord is my one and true Saviour. That the Lord will save me when all hope is lost.
“So, this Lord guy, he’s like a celestial lifeguard, right?”
I don’t know if it was the cut of my gib (I’ve got to get a better gib cutter) or she didn’t like the image of the Lord in a speedo but the veins in her eyes throbbed as she says,
“Joke all you want, but do you know what the Lord says?”
To which, because I knew this one, I answered,
“Book ’em, Dano!”
All this and I’ve only been at work for an hour.