Right on, David Byrne! I don’t know why people feel the need to rattle off the boring nuances of their lives either. The problem seems to be people thinking they have something to say. What in God’s name makes you think that your co-workers give half a shit that your cat’s been puking lately? Like yeah. That sucks. Take him to a goddamn vet and deal with it.
Do you want sympathy? Is that it? You want someone’s jaw to drop a little, as though they’ve just been informed that eleven rodents tumbled out of their ass, and for them to become emotional on your behalf, holding your hand and muttering, “I’m so…sorry,” because what can you say to a travesty like that? I mean clearly there’s nothing they can do to fix any of the trauma that’s been done, all they can do is hold your hand through it, and give you hope for the future.
When I’m shivering in the broken down ghost town of a dining room before the sun’s even risen, the slimy maraschino cherry on top that shatters THIS camel’s vertebrae is when you (starring for us today in the role of Sharon, the waitress) ask me about my day in the cramped nook that contains the only three crusty coffee carafes and more importantly, the only heater; all the while with that cheery sneer wedged between your cheeks while pouring overstewed coffee into a mug with the awkward fifth grader attempts at smiling faces of your children stamped into its pixelated curve.
For future reference, a list of things that I couldn’t give two shits about, but smile and nod through because I see you, annoying coworker, more than the people that I’d like to see:
that you’ve been gaining weight; that you’re trying out this new diet that’s s’posed to be really good; that you just can’t resist the girl scout cookies on your way into the grocery store; that you find it a humorous anecdote that after the girl scout cookie excursion, you bought a bag of chips and ate the whole thing in one sitting; that you’ve been feeling self conscious when you look in the mirror lately and do I think you’ve picked up a noticeable amount of weight around the tummy?; that the children you teach at your day job are stupid fuckers – they’re in fifth grade and only you sound stupid for making fun of them, Sharon; that a friend of yours made a rap channel on youtube but the catch is he doesn’t rap very well; that you bought a new hair dryer and it has a funny smell.
Things I would love to hear you nonchalantly utter over bad coffee at 6am when nobody wants breakfast, much less breakfast in the frigid dining room:
that you stabbed your new husband with a steak knife last night because he thought the filet was a bit more medium well than he wanted, and can you stay at my place for a few nights because the police have already checked your parents’ house; that your nipples and taint are turning chartreuse; that you snorted blow out of a hooker’s ass crack last night, tapped her one the ass and made sweet love to her in the bed of a truck as it flew eighty seven mph down three oh one; that ever since joining that cult you’ve been having memory lapses and woke up at 3am last night/this morning covered in purple paint, cackling over the corpse of that guy that’s running for office; that one of the dumbfuck children you teach math to is an alien from Saturn and he revealed this to you frantically after the other children had left, because it’s your mission to bring his people to glory; that your cat is doing well. I have a heart; that you crowd surfed at a freddie mercury cover band concert buck ass naked and were so drunk that you pissed on the crowd, but they were so drunk that they just kept lawding you about until your bladder ran out; that you got a lift here this morning from a trucker that you met while hitching in Michigan and boy was it a long drive, especially since you rocked a humdinger on ‘im every third town; that you lost your savings, car and stamp collection in an underground russian roulette gambling ring; that you got the car back by agreeing to be the sole sled dog of a middle eastern man the first tuesday of every month – but it’s not that bad, because mostly he’ll just drive you to church and the grocery store for gogurt; that you’re worried about your growing adrenaline-addiction to eating massive amounts of prunes and laxatives before your state trooper husband gives it to you on Saturday nights at 7pm, because last night he tried to get creative and boy would there have been a mess if you didn’t distract him with oral sex; that you’ve finally reached your personal goal of fitting seventeen golf balls up your twat; that since somebody is above taking it in the ass from a man in a Winnie the Pooh costume, you have an opening in your posse of hookers, and would like to offer me the prestigious position of side bitch.
I mean, you don’t need to rattle off one of these verbatim, these are simply some examples from which you can construct more interesting waitress station dialogue. And I won’t walk away mid sentence, should you slip in a parable about the fulfillment you get from teaching the next generation of minimum wage slaves, from time to time. I’m one of those people who believes in second chances.