I always try to do the right thing in life like a good little boy. I follow all the rules and get in line like the next person, but the truth is, I hate doing it. Having good manners is annoying. It gets in the way of that thing called life.
“Go ahead, eat”
You know what would be cool? If restaurants would get their shit together and bring all the food to the table at the same time. One, two, three, bring it. Because now I have to sit here with a plate of steaming hot delicious food that’s getting colder by the second while I wait for your fucking food to arrive. And even though I tell you to your face that it’s totally fine, I don’t mind waiting, it’s no big deal – I’m lying my ass off. It’s not fine. I hate you right now with all of my heart and I’m full of rage. All I want to do is devour my food that is sitting right in front of me, beneath my nose, inches away from my watering mouth but I can’t do that because that would be rude!
“What the hell did you even order anyway?” Never mind. I don’t care. I’m not even capable of having a conversation with you right now. You can talk, but I can’t listen. All I can do is stare at the kitchen door and pray our waiter will come out already, bring over your dish and un-pause my life. “Is that him? Nope. FUCK!’” I don’t even remember what the friggin guy looks like. Every time a waiter comes through that door towards our table a wave of relief washes over me. ‘Wait…why is he walking passed us. We’re over here! What the fuck? NO! THEY WERE HERE AFTER US!’
I can’t handle this. Maybe I’ll just have one French Fry while I’m waiting. Just one. And the pickle. That doesn’t count as eating. It only counts if I take a bite of the hamburger, which I cant do because of YOU! Somehow I feel like you’re responsible. I mean, ?technically it’s the waiters fault, but I FUCKING HATE YOU. My fucking burger is going to be ice cold now. I’m never eating lunch with you again. WHERE IS YOUR FOOD?
“Wait, you didn’t order anything?”
“Do you want the last piece?”
Never ask. Just take it. Everyone wants the last piece. Especially the guy who offered it, he’s the one that wants it the most. This is America, you gotta grab it before someone else does, while it’s still hot. Whenever I eat dinner with my mother and there’s one piece left on the plate the conversation always goes like this (please use a thick Boston accent when doing my mom):
Mom: Take the last piece.
Me: No, you take it.
Mom: I don’t want it, I’m full.
Me: (lying) Me too. Just have it. I know you want it.
Mom: No, I don’t.
Me: Swear on my life?
Mom: I don’t do that.
Me: Yes you do. You won’t because you’re lying. You really want it.
Mom: I don’t.
Me: Swear then.
Mom: I swear.
Me: No, swear on my life.
Mom: I swear on your life.
Me: Fine. I’ll eat it.
You know what I hate? When you’re eating Chinese food with someone and they take their second helping before they finish their first. I’m scrambling to get through my first plate so I can get more before my “friend” does and this motherfucker has the audacity to refill his plate before it’s empty?! NO! NO! NO! That is bullshit. You don’t fucking do that. How many pieces of chicken did you have? That’s a new manner that needs to be taught. Put it on every takeout box: EVERYONE GETS AN EQUAL AMOUNT OF GENERAL TSAO’S CHICKEN!
Why does this get you off the hook from farting? I think everyone that farts should get punched in the arm. But if you’re a woman, you should get punched in the face – cause it’s grosser. Then if you meet someone who has a lot of bruises on their arms or a woman with a black eye, you would know immediately that they’re up to no good.
I like that in the men’s room there is no excuse for farting – cause you don’t need one! It’s nice to know there are places you can go where farting is encouraged. Next time somebody farts in a bathroom full of dudes, give ‘em a high five and say, “Isn’t this great, guys?!” That’s what I do.
“God Bless, you!”
Thank you, absolute stranger who wouldn’t cross the street for me if he knew it was the only way to save my life. You won’t say ‘hi’ to me but you have no problem shouting that from across the room freakin’ room. GOD BLESS YOU!!!! I don’t need your blessing, I need a tissue, motherfucker. Seriously, though, do have a tissue motherfucker?
And what if you don’t believe in God? What am I supposed to say then? The other day I was in an elevator with a Muslim guy who sneezed and I didn’t know what to say so I just yelled, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU HIDING BIN LADAN, YOU ARAB PIECE OF SHIT?!”
“Always hold the door for the next guy.”
I hold doors because I’m a gentleman and I’m strong. But I never know what the appropriate distance cutoff is for an approaching door user. Somebody might be five hundred feet away and I’ll feel obligated to stand there like an asshole waiting for them. I mean, god forbid I let the door go and the guy behind me has to open it himself. Then I’ll probably end up seeing him in my next meeting and he won’t want to do business with me because I’m the guy who doesn’t hold doors.
I like the people that run for the door. I appreciate that. They know I got somewhere to be and we don’t know each other. But in this instance, we’re like a two man relay team. He knows I can’t leave until he reaches the door. Oh, shit, he just dropped a bunch of his papers. Do I still have to stand here waiting or does the free me from my responsibility. FUCK! He just looked at me, now I gotta go help him pick up his papers. This sucks. I should’ve never held the door in the first place. DAMMIT!
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