On Just Your Everyday, Regular Guys, You Know?

"I want to ask this question, but I don't want to- I know it'll make me- I don't want to sound like an asshole."

This is what a very dear friend said to me a few hours ago. It was somewhat leading, based on the conversation we had been having, but the question itself was in no way obvious from context. Given two normal, everyday people alone in a room, I would not expect one to know where this discussion was going more than, say, 30% of the time. It is precisely this issue that allowed me to know exactly what question I was about to be asked, because it's not normal and I've already wondered countless times, but I've never asked because it does make you feel like an asshole.

"'What the hell do normal people think about all day??'"

It was a good minute before I could hear anything but raucous, almost disbelieving laughter coming through the receiver in my cell phone–that and occasionally a few syllables of "DAA-AAAAVEEE!!"–but this was enough to tell me I hit the nail on the head. With a sledgehammer.

You see, there are two types of people in this world, as loath as I am to use that simplified stance on anything. There are people who with great consistency wonder what other people must think about at all hours, thinking, "Well I think of these things, but I'm considered weird, so normal people probably don't think that. Maybe they think about football? Or hockey. Maybe people think about hockey.It's already Fall. They play hockey on ice all year but I thought hockey season would be in Fall and Winter since they traditionally must have started when there was ice out. Crap. What was I thinking about? Oh yeah, 'what do normal people think about?'"

The other type of people are normal people, and I have no idea what they think about because as far as I can tell they're not inclined to ever wonder that. The only people who seem to ask that question are the type of people who ask that question. Somewhat circular logic, I know, but frankly you just have to split the difference when you can. Some people ponder how introspective other people must be, while other people don't wonder about wondering.

Which is not to say they're incapable of it. I avoid asking the direct question because I don't want to come off as a complete douche, but my friend Dean has answered once or twice. He seems to indicate that he thinks about whatever it is he's been tasked with doing, then maybe thinking about what he's going to do on the weekend or something. If he's at work and bored, he might check Facebook to see if anyone's RSVP'd to do whatever it is he wanted to do this weekend to spend the money he has earned by working. There's a correlation of thought processes.

I asked Dean once, "What do you think about when you're going to bed? Right before you actually fall asleep but the lights are out and you're actually trying to become asleep, what thoughts are going through your head? What do you think about, right then?"

Dean indicated that he didn't. He just goes to sleep. I asked if he thought about what he had done that day or try to plan out what he has to do tomorrow. He seemed to indicate more towards the latter, but it really petered out around 'go to work, have dinner with dad Thursday."

I'm always thinking. Weird thoughts, too. I cracked the meaning of Donnie Darko's time vortex in the shower. The Terminator time travel. I came up for a mode of faster-than-light telecommunication that is scientifically sound but can't possibly exist for at least 50 years, also in the shower. I do a hel of a lot of thinking in the shower. Before bed, my life tends to swing between feeling so contented in my nice cozy sheets that I drift lazily to the most restful sleep reserved usually for new-born babes and the cruelly, psychotically remorseless … or I just think about every mistake I've ever made and how stupid I am for it and why my inability to not fuck up will leave me forever ruined and without love. One or the other.

On the other hand, Dean has the most amazing ability to fall asleep anywhere, doing anything, and fight through every possible stimulus against waking. Last Sunday he fell asleep at the movies and a hard slap across the face only managed to wake him gradually.

So maybe he's not the best source to ask about pre-sleep thought patterns.

On Wrong Numbers - Bitches Be Trippin'

CG Cats is pretty hilarious sometimes.

While not the worst wrong number I've ever had, nor the most hilarious ("How can you be a man so heartless?" "It's pretty easy actually. You have a wrong number by the way. Who is this?" "Naomi." "Naomi, how are you?" "Um, alright….", this is clearly the douchiest wrong number I've received in a long while.



RECEIVED CALL: "BLOCKED" NUMBER

ME: "Hello?"

CALLER: "Hi?…Is Kenny there?"

ME: "No, I'm sorry, you have the wrong number."

CALLER: *click* (HANGS UP)

CALL TIME - 12 seconds


What a bitch. When someone tells you you have the wrong number, you fucking apologize for wasting their fucking time.


ONE MINUTE LATER:

RECEIVED CALL: "BLOCKED" NUMBER

ME: "You STILL have the wrong number." *click* (HANGS UP)

CALL TIME - 4 seconds


That's what you get, you discourteous fucking bitch.

Goddam! You have two options at this point. Either you got handed a fake number, probably because you're a complete bitch, or you're too fucking dumb to work an area code. Personally, I'm pretty hard pressed to guess which of those two it might be. I mean you can work a blocked call, but that could just as easily have been set up by calling the phone company and paying some guy $25 which, admittedly, you probably paid with your mouth since he was helping you set up you out-call only "therapeutic massage" service.

Since you don't understand a lot of things I'll say that again in smaller words:

You're a fucking whore.

On Telemarketers

So I yelled at a fireman today.

I feel pretty bad about it. I'm not one to support any sort of Brawny-Paper-Towel-Guy prototypical "manly" careers, chiefly because as a small, weak, brainy individual I'm sort of stuck with believing these jobs stress physicality over intelligence and that is horrible. Either that or I admit I'm a genetically less appealing specimen, and we all know that's not the case.

Anyway, the guy called about donating to the Fireman's Something Or Other, and there was a lot of noise in the background and I really wasn't having any of it.

The reason being, when this particular firefighter called I was mid-poop.

And I don't want to get too graphic, but when I say mid-poop, I mean right in the middle. Like the baby wasn't birthed yet, but he was crowning.

I had rushed out to phone in case it was one of my many ailing relatives of advanced age and was none too thrilled in hearing Mr. Fireman Guy on the line.

I had to interrupt to tell him that I was sorry, but my family does not donate over the phone. We give when the mailings come in but not over the phone.

He said that he just wanted to make sure we were still interested in receiving the mailing, which had to be a complete lie because why waste a phone call that will round up to the minute when you can waste a $0.00 postage exempt charity postcard?

Anyway I yelled, "SORRY, GOODBYE!" and hung up on him.

I felt really bad for the rest of my poop, especially because it really didn't take all that long. I could have pooped with him on the line, if I'd been a terrible person.

So yes, I yelled at a heroic firefighter today, a man large and strong enough to kill me if he wanted, but who has dedicated his life instead to the pursuit of saving lives.

And I'd probably do it all over again tomorrow. I'd rather the man hate me than tell him he caught me with my pants down.





Pooping.