Have you ever. . .

. . .met someone so obnoxious from the first minute you’re introduced you’re planning on which body part of yours to gnaw off to hasten your escape?

Yeah, me too.

I was introduced to this guy and you would have thought he was writing my bio. Where where you born? What were your parents names? What schools did  you go to? Just useless rapid-fire questions. I don’t know about you, but, when I meet someone the last thing I care about is what school they went to.

Unless they’re my doctor or plumber.

I know it’s hard to believe but I’m trying to be rude but I’m also trying not to answer his questions to specifically. So I can tell he thinks I’m being rude.

“Where were you born?”

“Massachusetts.”

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Massachusetts.”

“Where do you live?”

“Massachusetts.”

But you’d think he was a DA who was trying to break me on the stand because he just kept coming. I know the entire interrogation took less time  than it’s taking me to write it but it seemed as if I aged seventy-two hours in that time.

“Why won’t you answer my questions?”

“Massa. . .I am answering your questions.”

“Not really.”

“No, I am. Just not the way you want.”

“Can you at least tell me what you do for work?”

With that question I think I found my escape. The moment he asked that question the perfect answer popped into my head. I love when that happens. It’s an answer that will force him to recoil in horror. He’ll have to stop asking questions because, once the answer is out there, it can only get worse for Question Boy.

“I own a string of used porn magazine stores.”

He blinks disbelievingly. I can see him have to process if I really said that; if that had a shred of truth; if, indeed such a business exists. And in that time I made my escape.

All my extremities intact but another human beings soul was cracked. A perfect outcome.

From across the. . .

. . .twenty foot divide he looked like an epileptic mime. He may have been trying to communicate but his big boy words wouldn’t work. Once again, forgoing personal safety, I move closer. He watched my tentative approach never ceasing his rapid shuddering. For the third time I asked him what his issue was. But he never spoke. He just kept writhing.

I stood in front of him, silently, both of us, for a good fifteen to twenty seconds. His movements becoming somewhat less frenetic but they continued unabated. I marveled at his endurance. Flailing like a wind chime being battered by a breeze must be tiring.

Finally, the spasmotics ceased. He blinked a few times. I could sense a desire to communicate.

“Itch.” He croaked.

“Have you ever heard of scratching?” I questioned before turning back to what has sadly become the sanity of my world.

The best part of waking up. . .

. . .is going back to bed.

My first thought this morning at 5:30AM.

“Who do you think you are?”

That was the subject of a dollop of hate mail I received. It’s weird that people would send blanket hate mail. I can see if I made fun of a subject near and dear or if I’ve said something that offended but that’s not what this person did. They just decided I sucked so wanted to make me aware.

I don’t usually answer hate or angry or insulting mail. It would take all my time. Some time ago I wrote something that disparaged game night so got a scolding. Really? It may be a subconscious thing when I write bits that shouldn’t piss anyone off but does. That way I can see who shouldn’t be reading me so I can take the appropriate action (delete them from a list they requested to be included in). If game night riles you I have no idea how they’d handle my jokes about rabid babies.

I figured I’d answer the person who sent the email that began with “Who do you think you are?” because, after all, do any of us really know who we are? Here’s the email I received:

“Does anyone think you’re funny? This is the worst blog I’ve ever seen. Do you think anyone finds this entertaining? I don’t know why you waste your time. This is a terrible blog. You can’t write. You’re not funny. I bet no one even reads this. You’re the worst. You’re not funny. You just insult things because you’re afraid. It’s not funny. I hope I never see you again.”

That was a pretty pathetic list of things that are bad about me. I mean, they didn’t even get to the juicy shit. But, because I want people to like me (as a premise for this bit) I figured I’d try to bring him around! Maybe find one of the thousand things up here that are to his liking. So I personally sat down to try and answer his concerns.

“Who do you think you are?”
I am Christopher A. Zell. One day I hope to be Christopher THE Zell.

“Does anyone think you’re funny?”
I can’t answer that question only others can. It’s obvious you don’t so you have a lot on common with my girlfriend. Maybe I’ll send her your email address so you can start an anti-fan club for me.

“This is the worst blog I’ve ever seen.”
I know! The design is nothing to write home about but I think content (or as you’re likely refer to it: the barely literate typed things) is king.

“Do you think anyone finds this entertaining?”
I don’t think of it as entertaining as much as a guideline of people to avoid in one’s life. It’s a safety manual really. It’s my giving back to the community.

“I don’t know why you waste your time.”
You’ll have to be more specific. Are you talking wasting my time breathing or is it more practical like the hours I’ve wasted watching the Twilight saga?

“This is a terrible blog.”
Wait, have I been upgraded? A couple of sentences ago I was the ‘worst’ blog but now it seems I’m just terrible. You’re giving me hope.

“You can’t write.”
Then how am I communicating with you right now? Am I doing this telepathically? EXCELLENT! Look how much more time I’ll have on my hands to waste!

“You’re not funny.”
You know, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that I’d have enough money to have a personal assistant who’d be answering you right now.

“I bet no one even reads this.”
Then why all this concern on your part? If no one reads a joke does it matter if it’s funny? Pretty heady stuff, I know. Like the first time you got stoned and contemplated your hand for an hour.

“You’re the worst.”
Mom? Is that you from beyond the grave? Okay, seriously, how can I be the worst when I know people worse than me? I did it again, huh? It’s like taking the class, Blowing Your Mind 101.

“You’re not funny.”
You know, if I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that I’d have two more dollars right now.

“You just insult things because you’re afraid.”
That’s not how you conquer things you’re afraid of. The way I’ve found most effective is to sneak up behind them and shiv them in the ear. I find insulting them escalates level of fright.

“It’s not funny.”
I’m going into edit mode right here and assume you wanted to say, “You’re not funny.” because that way you owe me three dollars. I take paypal or you can send me a money order. No personal checks please.

“I hope I never see you again.”
Have you seen me in the past? Are you the guy I caught in the bushes the other week? Damn! That’s the last time I fall for the old “Sorry, mister, I was looking for my ball.” line.

But I will take a moment to explain that you are the only one who controls if you see me or my work again. Trust me, I’ll never seek you out. So, to accomplish your simple goal, all you have to do is stay out of my bushes and never jam my URL into your computer. Just think how cool that would be for you! You wouldn’t have to read a blog no one reads and you’ll never have to be tortured with my unfunny, poorly written crap. Man, I envy you. I have to live with me and if you think my writing sucks be thankful you don’t hear my thoughts.