From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
Monday mornings, taxes, and Garfield movies: truly three universally despised entities. Perpetually looming, we exist in a state of dread, waiting for them to strike so that we can try to persevere and return to our lives with only minimal post-traumatic stress and consequences from composing and delivering threats against people’s lives.
We all realize Monday mornings are rough, but I believe that some people are blessed with either a degree of narcissism or adult autism that compels them to share the most mundane personal anecdotes from their weekend every week. All of us feign interest and empathize with their ramblings about they were upset that the car wash didn’t honor their expired coupon, but on the inside we’re all realizing how precious life is and that we’re now three wasted minutes closer to death. Frankly, it’s a sweet release when their jowls and tongue tire from spouting such inane stories and I can return to punching data into a machine
Marta, we get it; you’re your own biggest fan, but you don’t seem to realize that your gusto isn’t shared, and is genuinely abhorred, by everyone else in the office. We sit, disinterested, because social norms dictate that we don’t tell you to “kindly shut your pasty food chute before anymore of that linguistic garbage gets in my ears.” No, we are all cowards and have been tolerating Marta for too long to change anything now. It’s become like the constant threat of terrorism, rising gas prices, or Ellen DeGeneres—truly an annoyance we perpetually deal with now.
Strategically, I came in late this Monday and Marta was already into your tirade about an evening out. Three long faces of coworkers surrounded the overly excited Marta, faces like when they open one of those shipping containers filled with starved illegal immigrants trying to come to America. She sees me come in and says that she’ll start the story over so I can hear it all. Fantastic, now there’s blood on my hands. I’m now at fault in these coworkers’ eyes for subjecting them to a second hearing of a story that did not merit a first hearing.
Now Marta does her work on time and, judging by her personal photos, is well-loved by her friends and family, but I’ll be damned if every day her coworkers don’t fantasize about her being punched in the throat and never being able to speak again.
This story has started to drag before it’s even begun. She’s backpedaling with the details of setting the scene. She’s no Quintin Tarantino when it comes to non-linear storytelling, no, she’s just fucking awful at telling the story. Literally describing your routine to get dolled up to go to Chili’s are details that do not need to be included. Also, Chili’s does not warrant looking fancy—I’ve witnessed a man eat there wearing a shirt made from a burlap sack with a child wearing no shoes and nothing but an oversized t-shirt. You don’t need five-inch heels or a dinner jacket to go stuff loaded potato skins into your craw that’s already brimming with ranch dressing, Marta.
Why is she describing the weather and traffic patterns on her drive to Chili’s? This lack of narrative economy is infuriating and I’m just going to mentally check out and think about the effigy of Marta that I’m planning on running over with my car and burning later.
I check back in and she’s ranting about how nice the waitress was being to her husband. Ooof, now she had to bring her weight into it and turn this into a tirade about the unrealistic standards the media sets for women. Stop, just stop talking about your weight like it’s a disability your can’t control, and, please, stop comparing yourself to a civil rights leader again for speaking out on this topic—truthfully, I’m becoming embarrassed to even be associated with you.
I don’t think she realizes how a restaurant or flirting works. When the waitress gives your husband suggestions for salad dressing it’s generally not because she is trying to show him that she is the only one who knows how to satisfy him. And it’s not that she is trying to impose on your relationship built on “action movies, waffles, and quick sex in the dark,” as you so eloquently divulged.
Marta’s becoming animated now, she’s really trying to sell her rage at this “eighteen-year-old hussie who’s trying to turn my beloved neighborhood Chili’s into her personal sex brothel for married men.” I’m not buying Marta’s accusations that the waitress was trying to get her nipple to fall out, or that she was trying to give Marta food poisoning, or had any intent other than describing a specific entrée when she dropped the words “big meat.”
I knew I couldn’t keep listening; I was beginning to fear for the safety of myself and the others in the room. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do and just succumbed to the stress hemorrhage in my stomach before spitting up some blood, excusing myself, and retreating to my car to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.
Hey, quick question, Hot Dog: how can you tell if someone doesn’t watch any television? Actually, it’s rather simple; for you see anyone who doesn’t watch TV will assuredly tell you right away how they don’t watch TV.
They lay in wait, like a conceited mountain lion, waiting for a moment to pounce as soon as someone mentions anything they watched on the tube. From there it’s a downhill ambush on the, now one-sided, conversation. Incredible, how suddenly a pedestrian discussion about how racist or incompetent Terry Bradshaw has become or speculation about The Office’s Jenna Fischer’s belly button depth can be instantly derailed in favor of them filibustering about how “they don’t have time for that inane chatter.”
Way to steal all the fun out of the conversation, you little fun-burglar. Hey, buddy, at least TV taught me not to interrupt until the commercial break, but you come in, on your high horse, touting your anti-television gospel. It should be noted I’m taking the liberty of assuming you’re interrupting my conversation while you are literally on the back of some unfortunate, drug-addicted equine.
However, non-sober stallion or not, I thought in the spirit of manners you shouldn’t impede my stimulating discourse about what I think Matt Lauer smells like on the air. It’s quite rude, and, to be honest, you don’t see me trying to change the subject when your going on an on about the donation you gave to the Humane Society, the charity fun run for fat-orphans with low self-esteem and Lou Gehrig’s disease you’re setting up, or how you insist on paying a carbon tax on everything you buy.
Lisa Frankly, I think carbon can pay it’s own taxes and if I’m going to help someone, besides myself, on their back taxes, the list starts and stops with Wesley Snipes. Further, I honestly think these fat orphans are the ones who could benefit from running more than you and the others who want to pat themselves on the back. Do I air these grievances? Nope, you don’t see me interrupting; I just keep keeping my mouth shut and continue to fantasize about hitting you with my car.
How incredibly fascinating you are; boy, to go through life not doing something the rest of us do. Your time must be so freed up from not watching television that you’re able to find time to read all the great philosophers, travel the world, and achieve self-actualization. You don’t see the rest of us bragging about not doing things; I wasn’t vaccinated, but you don’t see me prancing around all smug, clamoring about how great my immune system is for keeping me polio-free all these years.
Seriously, have we become so boring that we need to talk about the things that we don’t do to make conversation? I don’t tell you about how I don’t exploit children for cheap labor. I don’t tell you about how I don’t shoot up Vicodin mixed with barbecue sauce because I’ve heard great things about the smoky, smooth, yet flavorful and relaxed high it provides. I haven’t even broached the topic about how I’m not using my neighbor’s name and apartment address to commit mail fraud. Why haven’t I told you about said lack of mail fraud? Well, because it would be a lie, since I’m about six months into my personal best mail fraud caper. Sorry, humble brag!
My tribe of one has spoken and the verdict reads: we like television and we don’t like you. Don’t try to convert me; I’ve seen your side’s zealots and believe me when I say that I don’t like what they’re preaching. This adult baby likes his mouthwash mug full and his TV on during marathons of circus or funeral accidents. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s just how I am. Don’t try to tell me how green the grass is on the other side; the other side does not have a video of daughter in mourning discharging a barrage of thunderous farts during their eulogy that end up overshadowing not only their dead mom’s funeral, but their dead mom’s entire life.
