Douchebag In The Elevator May 13, 2009

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR KID'S SOCCER GAME!

Because, goddamn it, I want to know! When I said “What’s up?” to you in the elevator ten minutes ago, I certainly didn’t mean “What’s up?” as a convenient and all-but-universally acknowledged euphemism for “I know you and must acknowledge your presence but I have no actual desire to talk to you and/or hear about what has been happening in your pathetic joke of a life.”

No siree, I asked you that obviously heartfelt question with genuine interest and a burning desire to know what you, that wooly mammoth wife of yours, and those just-as-dumb-as-they-are-ugly kids of yours have been up to. And I was especially hoping that you would be kind enough to share a George Michael Sports Machine-type recap and analysis of nine-year-old Taylor’s latest adventure in the world’s least watchable sport.

And you were definitely hip to the excited subtext that I was laying down. Most people would’ve responded to my seemingly innocuous query with a simple, “Hey,” or perhaps a perfunctory “Not much,” in some misguided attempt to abide by the unspoken rules of workplace conversation.

But a guy like you isn’t constrained by such generally agreed-upon social conventions. No, you’re too much a maverick to play society’s little parlor game. And for that I salute you. When someone asks you “What’s up?”, by golly, you’re going to give them their money’s worth!

Or perhaps you’re just a raging egomaniac who has convinced himself that whatever happens to him and his physically repellent family must surely be of interest to others—even when those others have easily discernible bags under their eyes, two days of facial growth, and several other unmistakable indicia of the severely hungover and thoroughly uninterested.

Whatever the reason, you jumped at the chance to give me an excruciating little summary of your family’s weekend. As a result, I am now the proud owner of way too much knowledge regarding the following events:


I'm just saying, 'What if?'

1.) The Sears run you made on Saturday to get a replacement filter for the air conditioner in the den. That was some fascinating shit. That part about how they didn’t have the right one for your exact model so they had to order it? Ri-goddamn-donkulous. I’m amazed you didn’t kill yourself right then and there. You might actually want to think about that. Seriously.

2.) The “little one’s” Sunday morning swim class. Words can’t begin to express how little I care about that or how much I’d like to douse your genitals with hot coffee.

Quick question: what would happen if one of the kids at the swim class drowned? Say, for example, your kid? Would they cancel the rest of the class that day? Would the other kids get a partial refund? I bet if your kid drowned – or ended up dead some other way – you would have to miss work and wouldn’t be able to tell me what’s been "up" for at least a week. Interesting.

3.) Taylor's soccer team's thrilling 1-0 victory over the Lions. By the way, “Taylor” – is that a boy or a girl? (I guess I never asked because I never really gave a shit.) A boy, huh? Nine-years old – has he come out of the closet yet? What am I “suggesting”? I’m not suggesting anything, douchefuck. I’m straight up implying that your son is gay. Newsflash: when he asked you after the soccer game if he could go over to Todd’s house to watch movies, he was really asking if he could go and smoke Todd’s pickle. And Evan’s. And Jacob’s. And Todd’s grandpa’s. Seriously, I read all about it on gaysonsofguysIwanttokill.org. Hey, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but that’s “what’s up” with that kid.

Okay, you got me – I’m not all that sorry to be the one to tell you that your son’s gay. In fact, I enjoyed it almost as much as little Taylor enjoyed licking Todd’s grandpa’s wrinkled shaft.

Die.