I’ve said it before. . .

. . .and I’ll say it again, why do people want me to be around their loved ones? Seriously. They volunteer themselves to arrive at the same destination as myself. What do they think is going to happen?

Nothing good most of the time, I can tell you that.

A guy I know wanted me to meet his girlfriend. I ask,

“Really?”

He says yes. I then ask if the relationship is strong. He says yes.

“We’ll see.”

We go to one of those bars with a billion beers on tap, a trillion bottles, and six cans of Pabst (to show their common man whimsy!). I’m sitting there, not talking (a very important fact I feel will hold up in court) while the people around me giddily ponder the menu.

While they’re doing that I watch a college-aged man try to maneuver the yard o’ ale glass clumsily to his lips. Whoops! I think. That was a miscalculation. But look at that! He’s trying again! OH! Now he knows what a facial feels like.

“Do you like this place, Chris?” I’m ask by the person I’m supposed to meet.

“Yes, it’s very nice.” I reply.

“They have sooooooooo many choices, don’t they, Chris?”

“Yes, they do.” I reply wondering why people often complete their sentences to me in the form of a question. I wonder if they think I’ll ignore them if they don’t.

I do admit they have a point.

“Have you been here before, Chris?”

“Yes, many times.” I reply wondering why people often feel the need to use my name when they’re talking right into my face. Maybe they think I’d fail to respond if they didn’t.

I do admit they have a point.

She begins to ask me questions about the various beers. Although I drink beer I don’t know shit about it. I don’t think people should know too much. It makes them know-it-all assholes who have to impart some random bit of information to dazzle you and prove their superiority due to all they hours they’ve spent learning all this useless shit because no one likes them so they have nothing else to fill those many thousands of hours a year they spend alone.

I tell her I’ve tried some of them but do not feel qualified to give my opinion for many reasons, lack of useful information one of them but also the fact that I just met you. Who knows what you like. All I know is you have shitty taste in boyfriends. But that’s a lesson for another day. When they’re alone. And he’s lost another bet that day.

But that doesn’t stop her from asking. Why? Why people? Why must you keep asking me questions after I’ve stated that I am not schooled in this subject? After a few, “Gee, no, I don’t know about that’s” let it go, move on, change the subject. But don’t stay mired in that field. I like to be helpful, and will, but if I’ve already said I am a buffoon in this realm, I am just going to. . .what’s the phrase I use?

Oh yeah – lose my shit.

My smile (held on by the narrowest of tendons when I’m actually having fun) will drop off like the GPA of a kid who smoked pot for the first time and found out he liked it. REALLY liked it. My mind will start sifting through the words you are speaking until I find a way to extricate myself from your space.

And all you have to do to avoid that is change the fucking subject! A new subject sets the scoreboard back to zero and we begin anew! How cool is that? It’s a do over.

But they never seem to take it.

“What about the Belgium wheat? What about the grottenbier? How’s the dunkel? Have you ever had a biere de garde? The doppelbock sounds interesting.”

Please, please, stop. I’m a patient man but have a do not resuscitate on my patient.

“Oh, Chris,” she continues. “Here’s a local one. Have you ever had pumpkin head?”

“Once but I got a seed in my urethra so had to stop.”

Oh, so now I’M the annoying one. I see how it is.

Advertisements

2 responses to “I’ve said it before. . .

  1. YEAH! Walk off home run my friend.

  2. Ha! Say. Chris, look at me when I talk to you. that way I can call you kid. Have you tried any of that new pot beer now legalized in your fine state? No, not your state of mind? Listen this gets you out fast, drink any 2 beers, put it on her tab, then split home instead of going to the men’s room.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s