Is it just me, or do nice people chafe you like a cheap pair of undies?
They should be avoided like an Oliver Stone movie. Sure, hanging out with them seems like a happy place, where you can frolic through the proverbial, PG and free. But the minute you show your dark side, like a g-string riding high on the wind, you get the eyeball; an imperial look which suggests your place in heaven resides in the bum crack of a meat-eater.
Some guy at work today spoke for ten minutes about his sleeping patterns. At first it was a mutual conversation (if you call a jovial aside a conversation), but where it should have ended naturally, he just kept going. And going. My smile went from sincere, to frozen, to desperate, ending in limp defeat. He was blissfully unaware, speaking with a passion usually reserved for ones firstborn child. I felt like stapling a cork to my forehead.
Then there’s cult boy, who turns a funny conversation into a blueprint for workplace culture. One minute we’re joking around and the next, he’s wondering how our subject matter can translate into good employee management. It was like he pumped the brakes at 90 and left me with a rabid case of whiplash. What the?
Can’t you just have a conversation for the fun of it? What a Hymey.
I wish he’d grow some big fat ones and stop quaffing my cheese. Don’t stand up for the boss when he’s a chump and don’t tell me jokes about tomatoes that blush. I’d rather you pinch my ass with a live crustacean.
Nice suggests that we’re either light or dark, with no shadows in between; that there isn’t a place where compromise and conflict lie in wait (like Old Gregg set to pull you into the lake, intent on showing you his mangina). It’s a blanket of denial, fear that your dark side will override your light; that you’re Darth instead of Luke. The irony is nice makes me nervous (like a duck in the Chinese district), and I’d rather hang out with Melvin Udall, any day.
“People who speak in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.”