Miss(ed) Manners

April 4, 2007

Asshole Hair

Filed under: Humor,Manners,Sanjaya — missedmanners @ 11:42 am

Pardon my foul language but I can hold my tongue no longer.

I’ve been noticing this guy around my gym the past few months and every time I see him I get all unsettled. At first I thought it was because he always wears the same outfit: Yellow trunks, black sleeveless shirt and these ridiculous gloves. I figured maybe it was the whole uniform thing that was throwing me off.

But that wasn’t it. Perhaps it’s the way that he likes to take a stroll around the entire weight room between each set looking at everyone for a millisecond too long. He’d obviously been attending for a lot longer than I and he’s got a pretty good body. Maybe he’s just parading around looking for some tail, I do belong to a Crunch after all.

It wasn’t any of those things, I realized.

It was his hair. He’s got Asshole Hair.

Asshole Hair is hard to explain with just words and I’ve had a hard time finding an exact picture of what I’m talking about. First off let me state that I’m not talking about hair ON the asshole, per se, but I’m thinking that would probably make someone a little more ornery than usual.

Nay, I’m talking about the type of hair that just screams, “Hey look at me, I’m a pretentious dick face.”

Here’s a loose example:

gallery_william_zabka_1.jpg

That’s William Zabka, 80’s bad boy extraordinaire. Notice the way he’s got that part allllll the way to the left and then the hair just sort of goes up and over. It’s like saying, “I’m gonna pulverize you, LaRusso!” Without actually saying any words.

More traditional Asshole Hair isn’t quite as beach blond or tossed about. Real Asshole Hair is meticulously parted just a millimeter past where a normal natural side-part would occur. The lion’s share of the hair is then pulled upwards and over just a little too high and a little too perfectly. There’s definitely some Aqua-Net involved, I’m sure of it.

Ah found a picture that’s close enough:

assholehair.jpg

Now, this is a little too fashioned and messy to be true Asshole Hair, however, it exhibits the all the necessary traits. Check this ginger twat out, does he not make you want to punch him, then a small child, then him again?

Asshole Hair is a self perpetuating phenomenon. We all know what it looks like, so people who consciously decide on styling theirs in such a manner are doing so for the desired effect that it brings. While they may think that it will emanate an aura of confidence, this assumption of the mantle of Asshole despite the negative social connotation of said mantle, I know that it’s the coward’s way out.

If you’re REALLY an asshole, picking the archetypal hair of the asshole to me is a cop out. It’s kind of like saying, “I’m too lazy to show my true asshole nature through my actions, so I’m just going to tattoo the word ‘asshole’ to my scalp.” That’s just plain sloth if you ask me.

If you want to be an asshole, be an asshole. Don’t give up your seat to pregnant women, say “Excuuuuuuse meeee” with that lingering tone of exasperated disdain, do that thing where you grab a person looking over a ledge suddenly and shout, “saved your life!” Then you can wear your hair however you want.

Asshole.

January 4, 2007

Chivalry Is Dead, #1

Filed under: Manners,Random,Relationships,Sex — missedmanners @ 11:16 am

I’m of the opinion that it never existed in the first place. Long ago when it became politically incorrect to just go around having your way with women, the men of the Medieval world found themselves having to work for pussy. Which is, as any modern man can tell you, a total drag. Today, customs that we assume are about respect and equality are attributed to this stirring concept of the preservation of the fairer sex; when in actuality it was really about trying to scam a hummer off of a visiting French Princess before she went off to her morning lute lesson or whatever.

Ladies First
Don’t you just get all warm and fuzzy when some burly guy takes the time to let you pass? Holds the door open, makes everyone in the elevator wait until you untangle yourself from the two dozen male occupants just so your dainty open toe shoed feet can be the first to hit that stock marble in the lobby?

We do this so we can look at your ass.

But you say, it’s a nice thing allowing a woman to go through a door first, shows you respect her authority or importance.

No, men respect ass above all things. There is no higher power, ask a Catholic. It also doesn’t matter on the size, shape, age, race or creed of the ass, it will be looked at and pondered. Wardrobe is a minor issue though. I’m willing to bet that women wearing long coats are allowed to go first fewer times by a margin of at least 15%. There’s simply nothing in it for the guy.

Furthermore, how does being allowed to go through a door first connote respect? You’ve been had, ladies. You have no fucking idea what could be on the other side of that door. There could be a pack of landwalking tiger sharks on the other side just waiting to devour whatever comes out of the door. If anything it’s misogynistic!

Why do you think we let the elderly go through doors first? No, not to look at their asses you sick fuck. Because they’re expendable and the Tiger Land Sharks love aged meat.

December 1, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: Meet and Greet

Filed under: Announcements,Funny,Humor,Life,Manners,Miss(ed) Manners,Ramblings,Random — missedmanners @ 1:21 pm

Goodness gracious folks, the holidays are upon us. Families are flying around the globe. Wayward sons are hitchhiking home. College co-eds are trying to figure out a way to explain their appearance on Girls Gone Wild. Cousins you didn’t even know you had are piling into their station wagon and coming to sleep on your couch.

Or maybe your going to your significant other’s family’s house. You’re looking to grab a hold of a holiday sweater and sit around and discuss Jesus with people you don’t know.

Either way it means you’re going to have to do a lot of greetings. I fucking hate greeting people. It’s one of the single most confusing social activities in the world today, barring baby showers, but that’s another story.

Do you go for the handshake? The handshake-hug? The hug alone? The cheek-kiss? The solitary hug? The handshake-hug-kiss? Who gets a kiss on the lips?

About two or three years back I ran into a client of ours after an event. I assumed she’d want to shake hands over a job well done, but she went in for the hug and kiss. I punched her right in the crotch with my extended hand. How is that a greeting? I think in some places it might be, but crotch-punching never really caught on in the States.

You know who needs to die? People who weren’t born in Europe but insist on doing the double cheek kiss. Die a painful death. I think people only do that so they can hear the homely, “Ooh okay!” that plops out of someone’s mouth like a gooey nugget of surprised manure when they realize they’re in the presence of someone so cosmopolitan that they deserve two kisses.

Air kissers also need a swift boot to the sternum. You do realize that an air kiss is like saying, “I’ll acknowledge your presence, but I’m not going to touch you because you have the scabies.”

Whatever happened to the awesome jive handshakes of the 70’s? There was a movie, Undercover Brother that had a lot to say about that. But I kind of glossed over it, which I think had a little to do with the point the movie was making.

The modern man to man handshake is no longer about greeting someone. It’s about acceptable amounts of pressure. You want to be firm, but not too firm. You want to make eye contact, but not for too long. You don’t want to go limp, or else you’re a nancy-boy. You don’t want to break someone’s hand or all of a sudden YOU’re the psycho. It’s ridiculous.

As it stands today, our options for greetings are varied, yes, but incredibly boring. What’s the point of even going through the motions of figuring out how to greet someone if you’re going to do the same thing to everyone else? How is that personal? How is that friendly?

All these reasons and more are why I’m initiating my new initiative for initiating social interactions, initialed: D.A.P.H.S. Or Dave’s Awesome Personalized Hand Shakes.

Over the next few months I will be making myself available to any friend, family member or acquaintance for a personalized greeting brainstorming session. During this time period you and I will sit down – or stand if we’re in a bar or a wading pool – and we’ll figure out a greeting that will replace our current melange of uncomfortable touching and lip pressing.

This greeting can be as simple or intricate as you wish. We can still make kiss kiss if that’s your thing. We can sign a portion of the alphabet to each other. We can have a minute long wrestling match while only saying the word, “HI!” really loudly at each other. Whatever we come up with will be how I will greet you for the rest of your miserable existence on this planet.

I’ve only just started but for a examples:

My older brother and I do the simple Roman style handshake. Because we both wish we were Romans, minus the rampant disease, death and slavery.

My little brother and I do a slightly more involved double hand slap and chest bump, which I fear is only making his chest more concave.

Several years ago, my friend Mike and I had an intricate series of hand gestures based around a hand sign for a vagina. It took about ten seconds to complete, roughly the average time of our separate sexual encounters.

The intricacy of said greeting is not important. If you want to stick with the tried and true cheek kiss, that’s fine. What’s important is putting the time in to make sure you’re really greeting someone. Sometimes using a stock kiss and go is more of a goodbye than a hello.

So if I see you out any time soon, pull me aside and let’s make a personalized greeting. I’ll be updating with the best greetings over the months to come.

October 30, 2006

Wedding Zingers

Filed under: Dancing,Drunk,Friends,Funny,Humor,Life,Manners,Wedding — missedmanners @ 11:24 am

We’ve got this super-huge event coming up soon here at work, so I’ve been super-hugely busy. Sorry for not staying updated. After this weekend I should be free enough to begin really posting in Ernest Saves Christmas.

Anyway, so the lady and I went to this really beautiful wedding on Friday night. Two of my very dear friends were tying the knot and we were lucky enough to be invited. It’s always more fun when it’s not a family wedding, don’t you think? There are no great uncles to worry about getting too drunk, no disapproving cousins to validate your life choices to. Just a mass of friends and strangers wrangled into an open bar with door prizes.

As we were signing the guest book I noticed something. There are really only three or four stock phrases that everyone chooses from. Either something along the line of, “Dear So and So-ette, thank you for letting us share in this moment,” or “May your love continue to grow until the end of time,” or “May you treasure this day forever, blah blah blah.”

Where’s the originality, people?

I find it a little disconcerting, really. I mean here are two people whom you love dearly, they’re getting joined at the legality bone and all you can conjure up is something you read off the back of an appendix surgery-themed Hallmark card.

So with that sentiment in my heart I went to write something fantastic.

I of course drew a blank and ended up writing a mish-mash of the stock phrases in poor handwriting and what seemed to be pidgin English. Hey, screw you, Buddy, it’s a lot of pressure. I realize now that I’m 5,000,000 times more witty when on the other side of a keyboard (which is not saying much since I was in possession of zero wit at the time).

I’ve taken the liberty of creating a few non-traditional wedding guest book phrases that you can memorize for when the time comes. Please to enjoy.

“Thank you so much for inviting us to your Wiccan ceremony. The Goddess dance, while causing me to re-tear my ACL, was riveting both in body and spirit.”

“Here’s to at least several months of unmitigated happiness, ten years of pained silence, regret and painful loathing and then hopefully a revival of your marriage in your sunset years when you guys can throw a great renewal of vows ceremony and start the whole thing all over again. Maybe by then I’ll be able to buy Jim a cyber-stripper, Awesome!”

“Thank you for the drinks and loose women.”

“Thank you for the food and tight men.”

“May your love continue to grow, but not in a cancerous way, because cancer is bad.”

“Thank you for that reading from Corinthians II, it helped me truly understand the vows of marriage in a way I have not understood them since I was 12 and in Bible school.”

“Your fine selection of shrimps and appetizers are truly representative of the special bond of love you two hold. Except for the Capers, who’s idea was that?”

And of course, my personal favorite:

“Is this where I sign up for the silent Auction? $20 for the Mother of the Bride.”

October 25, 2006

Sounds of Dread #2

Filed under: Dread,Funny,Humor,Manners,Personal,Sounds — missedmanners @ 12:03 pm

This coming weekend I will celebrate the anniversary of my 4th year living in Brooklyn with my roommate, Spoony. Brooklyn’s changed a lot over the years. Most notably would be story of Williamsburg, the once immigrant haven turned local turned hipster trustafarian neighborhood. Where you once saw local butchers, tailors and other businesses you now see health food stores, “concept bars” and wholesale ironic tee-shirt markets.

Thankfully I don’t live in Williamsburg. Well, according to zoning regulations, my building is on the farthest outskirts of this conclave of the simply-trying-too-hard-to-be-different. Where I live is a little rough around the edges, to say the least. Spoons and I made the conscious decision to pay less, have more room and not give a shit that we’re not in a cool neighborhood. It’s paid us back in dividends of late night/early morning parties, bootleg everything, little noise constraints and quite literally a dance floor in the middle of our pad.

Unfortunately, most of our friends don’t share our disdain for the manufactured ambiance and perceived quality of life that these newly gentrified other regions of the city provide. Every time we have a party, planned or not, we have to go through the rigmarole of assuring people that it’s OK to park on our street. That yes, they can take the subway there. Yes, the J,M,Z line is an actual subway and it does run after dark. No, there are not roving gangs in burnt out school buses patrolling Bushwick looking for white women. Etc.

With everyone finally over their stigmas we have a good time, hang out and all is well.

Until today’s Sound of Dread is heard.

The Sound of Dread for October 25th, 2006 is:

The Loud Booming Noise That Probably Isn’t a Gun Shot, But You Definitely Thought It Was for At Least Five Seconds.

Every time I have people over a truck will unfailingly drive over a large metal grate, causing this booming sound. In all reality, it doesn’t actually sound like the thunderclap of a firearm discharging – but I can see on my friends’ faces that they think it was.

It may be slightly dreadful for them to think that there was a gunshot near by… but it’s actually kind of funny watching the pained look of fear turn into questioning and then eventual acceptance that it was just a truck and then finally into guilt at assuming it was a gunshot simply because I live in a poor neighborhood.

That’s priceless.

October 20, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: Urban License #2: LHTFWA

Filed under: Column,Funny,Humor,Life,Manners,Miss(ed) Manners,New York,Walking — missedmanners @ 1:48 pm

So here on WordPress there’s this great feature that allows you to see what search strings have drawn people to your site. Last week someone came around looking for, and I quote, “Skills that require licensing.” Good on you, Mr. Like-Minded Individual Sir. Besides jukebox operating there are many such skills that should mandate federal licensing. Which brings me to this week’s offering:

Miss(ed) Manners: Urban License #2: LHTFWA

That’s short for Learned How To Fucking Walk Already.

New York is literally FULL of sidewalks and guess what? People walk on them. For the most part, very poorly. Too slow, too fast, not straight enough, wrong side, stopping when you should be going, etc. These are the tell-tale signs of the retarded streetwalker.

If people were made to apply for streetwalking permits, this city would be a better place. In the license application below I’ll explain in further detail the very simple process (including a six week Walker’s Ed training program) one would have to go through in order to receive their LHTFWA certificate.

At this point you may be wondering aloud, “Dave, how do I know if I’m a problem streetwalker?”

There are a few signs. First, are you drooling? If yes, wipe your mouth and stand away from the glow box, Corky. Second, when you walk do you routinely hear the gruff, forced exhales of angry people as they try to shuffle around you and your club foot? No?

Most problem walkers fall into one of four categories.

1) The Wobble Walker or Shambling Mound
(If you got that joke meet me on top of a high building for a joint suicide on the grounds of hyper-nerdiness)

The Mound usually weighs in at somewhere between 290 and infinity pounds. Their amorphous globular shape seems to ripple in the wind as they take up the entire street ahead of you. The problem with Wobble Walkers isn’t that they’re fat, it’s that they move from side to side more than they progress further. The overweight are A-OK with me so long as they use that girth to get a little forward momentum going. Not Wobblers though, no they plod about shifting their weight from east to west. They move forward only on account of their legs – sensing an impending plummet to the ground – jutting out to stop the catastrophe like re-inflatable cellulite airbags.

2) The Stopper

Picture this: You’re headed home after a long day of work. Mr. Jenkins was all over you today, “Where’s that report, Collins?” “You need to stay on top of stuff, Collins!” You’re fed up and need your feelings of rage and homicide numbed by the soft blue glow of telemorphine ASAP. Your legs are working on their own, pretending the pavement is the doughy remains of Mr. Jenkins’ knee-strike battered face.

Then, the person right in front of you stops. Usually to either: Take out their cell phone, focus on an already in progress call, rummage through their bag looking for a metrocard or just to appreciate the magnificent beauty that is New York (or sneeze, whatever). 8 times out of 10 this will happen right at the top of a set of stairs. Will Mr. Jenkins’ get a murderous reprieve as you throw your rage against the back of this stuttering interloper?

The stopper is a danger not only to New York citizens but also to him/herself.

3) The Wrong Sider or Japanese Tourist

We get it, where you’re from people keep to the left. Not here. Here we keep to the right. Here we like our beer cold and our panties un-sniffed. This is the rule.

There’s a small subdivision of Wrong Siders who are equally as dangerous: the Clueless Scaffolding Spacehog. These are the people that walk down the middle of the narrow pathways created by work areas. These people too must be taught.

4) The Groupies

Not cool groupies like the ones that take off their shirts at the mere mention of Steely Dan. No, walking Groupies are the tourist twats that link arms and prance down crowded streets at 5:30pm laughing and giggling about what they just bought at Scoop. I don’t even recommend licensing these people. These people should be shot, their bodies stuffed with explosives and then lobbed via trebuchet into the plate glass windows of Scoop stores the city over.

The Licensing Process

Before ticketing for non LHTFWA street operation becomes common, you should look into coming down to the bureau and applying. For most people a simple practical exam will clear you for partial access to 90% of the city’s streets (Special tests will be created for Soho, Times Square and Narrow Subway Platforms).

Failing the test will require you to take the Walker’s Ed course which will focus on stride length, gait and steadiness. Other features include:

* Focus on: Walking and talking on a cell phone at the same time.
* Watching where the fuck you’re going, you asshole, you.
* Getting the hell out of the way when you feel like stopping.
* A four day seminar entitled, “Hey! The Streets Don’t Belong to You, Buddy!”
* With price of enrollment comes the free pamphlet: “Walk/Don’t Walk Signs: What They Really Mean”
* Mastery of the side-by-side/front-and-back conversational streetwalking dynamic formation.

If I were you, I’d get down to our offices now and sign up, the lines are sure to be really long, and you can bet getting there is going to be fucking hazardous.

October 6, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: Urban License #1: JOC

Filed under: Announcements,Column,Dancing,Drunk,Funny,Humor,Manners,Music,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 2:37 pm

The more you think about it the more you realize people just can’t be trusted to be competent in anything that they do. In many cases when compentency becomes an issue of life or death the government will issue licenses certifying that person in the skill in question. Driving, operating heavy machinery, being a barrista at Starbucks, etc.

Why stop there, I ask. There are thousands of skills that require licensing immediately simply just for living in New York. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this issue and the simple fact of the matter is that you need to know if you’re skilled enough to perform certain tasks without fear of legal reprisal, beatings or cock-smacks (assuming you have one, vag-slaps aren’t nearly as painful).

So today I’m introducing part one in a multi-part series of undetermined length or quality that I call:

Dave’s Urban License Program
License #1: Jukebox Operator Certification

Juke

Picture this: You’re sitting in your average run of the mill New York beer bar, swilling down some God awful pint of Hoegarden or whatever you fairies drink. You’re enjoying the company of your friends, eating, talking, laughing, all is right with the world.

Then, out of nowhere, the jukebox springs to life, its lights pulsating to the beat of some unknown track buried at the end of Guns and Roses’ seminally horrible album, “The Spaghetti Incident.” Your palms start sweating, you don’t know the words, you don’t know when to bounce your head, how to fake the guitar riffs. There will be no chorus of, “ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Snap!” from your table. This song is unsnappable.

All too often a jukebox acts like a beacon to the musically retarded. This large foreheaded neanderthal strolls into packed bars with a musical agenda. He’s got a list of songs that he’s going to search that jukebox for and make everyone listen to for one of two reasons: Either 1) The song means something only to him and/or his friends and they want to relive some aborted spring break vacation they spent in their parents’ garage smoking reefer and talking about breast size or 2) He thinks this awful song is good and he wants other people to hear it on the off chance that they’ll like it too and then come up to him and offer him oral sex. I read it in a newspaper.

There’s no reason for this to happen. If the city were to introduce my Urban Licensing system then all jukeboxes installed in the city would be outfitted with card scanners and a series of qualifications for operation based on song catalog, venue type and neighborhood.

For the most part bars with a jukebox fall into the “Beer Bar” category. The semi-sports bar, the slightly noisy, may have food, just a place to hang out with little to no pretension in the air sort of place. These are my favorite places. The jukebox is usually stocked with all manners of Classic Rock.

There are more localized and discerning jukeboxes of course. There’s the hipster bar, country bar, punk bar and jazz bar to name a few. Operating a juke box in these locations would require passing the general JOC exam along with a specialized genre specific written exam so you don’t end up putting on the 15 minute interview introduction to a Miles Davis compilation and getting soaked in a hail of fancy brown liquour by an angry mob of funny hat wearing post-depression Americana enthusiasts.

However, like I said, most bars fall under the general JOC’s jurisdiction, which is headbanging, lyrics screeching, guitar wailing, Classic Rock. Rock and Roll is the veritable glue that holds this macaroni picture frame we call a country together. There is no greater thread that runs through our nation’s history than Rock, it is the universal language of keg parties, beer busts and four day binges ending in multiple pregnancies. Shit, when George Carlin came back in time in the movie, “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” he wasn’t coming back to help a pair of clarinet players, he was coming back to ensure that Wyld Stallyns brought the future together under the banner of Rock music. So suck on that DJ’s, you are basically a shit stain on the underwear of musical relevance.

Anyway, I’m currently in the process of producing the written exam portion of the licensing procedure. Eventually there will be a real world practical exam wherein the applicant will have to program a ten song set into a randomly chosen bar jukebox. The finale song choice (always important) is basically the paralell parking equivalent.

Some sample questions:

1) You’re in a bar on a Saturday night and the mood is low. To begin your musical selection you can choose from the four following songs:

a) Madonna – Like a Virgin
b) Ricky Martin – Livin’ La Vida Loca
c) Phil Collins – In the Air Tonight
d) Anything by AC/DC

Answer: D, you idiot. Madonna is generally reserved for the subset Gay jukebox or in the subarticle 9 clause, entitled, “Playing a Female Request in Hopes of Getting Laid.” Ricky Martin songs are obviously punishable by death and/or theft of beer, the same usually goes for Phil Collins, however in this case we see the case of the classic, “playing a song just for the instrumental solo” situation. Not acceptable. “In the Air Tonight” is only allowed for sitting quietly alone on a waterfront, staring off into the distance, contemplating murder/suicide and then walking off, right as the drum solo happens, to an uncertain future.

2) You’ve arrived at a bar only to find that it houses a new, electronic jukebox, what do you do?

a) Instantly search the web for that new Fergie song.
b) Play your song and pay the extra $2.00 to have it bumped in front of whatever song is playing next.
c) Use their comprehensive catalog to find the song you lost your virginity to and cry at the bar.
d) Throw your fist into its cold, mechanical heart and tear out what you can, then, if possible, defecate inside of the gaping hole.

This is a tough question to answer. If you answered A, you should probably sterilize yourself by whatever means possible. If you chose B then you’re one of the reasons that these machines are a greater threat to national security than Diebold voting machines. A competent Jukebox operator knows how to put a set of music together, if you go and start either shuffling or changing the order, not only do you risk bodily harm to yourself, but also you risk harming the masterfully crafted ambience that only a 40 minute block of soul-pelting Rock can do.

Answering C is really its own punishment. Good luck with that.

Again the only suitable answer here is D for one simple reason: Led Zeppelin. Currently, the Led Zeppelin catalog is not permitted to be used in Internet jukeboxes. I’ve heard rumors that the Boss also does not allow for his music to touch these little abominations. It is theoretically impossible to drink beer for an entire night and not hear Led Zeppelin and call it a good night. Therefore you must destroy all touch screen/web enabled jukeboxes on sight.

So that about does it for the JOC licensing preview, I’m currently in talks with the Mayor’s office regarding its immediate implementation. In the mean time however, may I suggest that you all supress your wanton urges to recklessly play at Maestro when you see a jukebox from across a crowded bar? You’re gambling with the ears of dozens and scores of dollars in incredibly sub-par beer.

September 22, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: Chit for Chat

Filed under: Column,Funny,Humor,Loud Talkers,Manners,Personal,Ramblings,Subway,Why? — missedmanners @ 12:25 pm

Say you’re a regular guy with a lot on your mind. You’ve got all these great ideas bouncing around inside that skull of yours and you just want to get them out. Your friends don’t really have the time to listen, everyone you know is just too busy… so where do you go to just get it all off your chest?

A rush hour subway car filled with people, right?

Makes sense I guess, train passengers are kind of a captive audience. They can’t really leave, not until their stop, and getting up and moving just because you’re talking, well, I mean, that’s kind of rude.

This basically outlines the situation I witnessed this morning on my way into the office. I’d gotten on the J, as usual and was leaning against the door as we rumbled towards the Williamsburg Bridge. Everything seemed really normal. People were their usual groggy, morning selves. Those sitting seemed to be meditating and reciting the popular mantra, “Friiiiiiiiiidaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, niiiiiiinnne houuuuurrrrs to goooooooooooo.”

But something was different. Right in front of me I noticed some excited movement, hands flashing, head shaking, lips wagging, that sort of thing. This guy was talking very loudly at some poor little girl who seemed to be holding a newspaper.

I had my headphones on so I was missing the gist of the conversation. It was obviously one sided, so at first I assumed this guy was throwing some game, as the girl was definitely attractive by any means of the word. Reluctantly, I turned off my Goo Goo Dolls Greatest Hits Megamix and focused in on the exchange.

Calling it an exchange would really be incorrect. From what I gathered the guy, or Chat Stu as I began to refer to him in my head, had seen a headline regarding Iran’s nuclear program in the lady’s, or Extremely Uncomfortable Girl’s (EUGene), Daily News. This prompted him to launch into a seamless logorrheic tirade, extolling his opinions on a number of subjects.

It wasn’t even like Chat Stu was talking just to EUGene. Granted, he was sitting right next to her and his mouth was just two or three inches from her eye, no, he was shouting loud enough for the entire car to hear. Poor EUGene just sat there, smiling politely, trying her best to make every possible non-verbal attempt to let him know that she just wanted to get back to reading her paper.

Now, when I said seamless and logorrheic, I meant it. You know how there are people out there who will just talk and talk and talk about nothing at all until you literally look them in the face and say, “if you do not stop talking right now I will take the laces out of my shoes, ram them down your throat and then fashion a crude noose out the laces and hang you from a telephone wire by your toes and tell the local kids there’s a pinata outside full of useless thoughts.”

The only way to deal with people like this is you have to wait for a break in their mindless jibber jabber. Most often, this is when they pause for breath. That split second when their mind says, “oh yeah, I need to stop spewing completely inane information so that I can replenish my oxygen supply, then I can get right back to boring the fuck out this person in front of me.”

Well, Chat Stu didn’t breathe. I watched him for somewhere around twenty minutes and over six stops and not one pause. It reminded me of that guy in the movie, The Sting, who was reading the results off the high speed telegram machine, no pauses, no fear, no mercy.

All in all the behavior seemed so crazy, but Stu didn’t look or sound nuts at all. He was dressed fairly well, not fancy, but definitely not in hobo-gear. He was clean and articulate, just looked like a regular guy on his way to work. The whole thing was mesmerizing, especially his points of view.

There was so much filler in between his salient points that it was hard to pick out exactly what Stu was trying to say. He had started off with the nuclear situation in Iran but within a few minutes had strayed all over the political, social and sexual world.

Some memorable Chat Stu quotes:

“I’m not a black man, white man, rich man, poor man, right man, left man, up man, down man… I’m an Original Man, see.”

“Being gay is a choice, a lifestyle choice you make, like being a crack head, you can choose to be a crack head, you choose to be gay, you ain’t born a crack head.”

“The World Trade Center was bombed! Did you know they took out all the bomb sniffing dogs six days before 9/11? At the beginning of September there were no dogs allowed in the World Trade Center.” (This was the longest portion of his lecture, involving technical details of “bombs ‘n shit,” “melted steel ‘n shit” and “physics stuff.”)

“A man has got to be able to protect his family. If you don’t protect your family, you’re not a man, I don’t have a family, because I’m an Original Man, see.”

As we neared his stop at Chambers Street he began wrapping things up. He was talking to everyone now, not just EUGene, but anyone who would listen. I had taken a seat right across from him. As he got up to exit the car he began politely urging us to think about everything he said.

I had been thinking about what he was saying and all in all, none of it was real crazy-person talk. It was all a little misguided, sure, but they were just his opinions, a fact he kept mentioning, almost as much as his “Original Man” Theory.

When the doors shut there were about six of us who’d been in direct ear shot of Chat Stu and we all started to giggle. A girl next to me said, “I’m all for conversations, but someone needs to tell him, not on the train and NOT this early!”

“He certainly had a lot on his mind!” Said the woman to EUGene’s left.

EUGene was blushing furiously, “I just wanted to read my paper, I haven’t even made it to the local section yet.”

Two seats down an older man said, “Have you ever thought of reading People Magazine?” Meaning celebrity gossip is not nearly as inflammatory.

We all laughed.

There were only two stops left and we spent them trading light jokes and wondering what was the most polite way to deal with someone who forces you into a one sided conversation like that. How do tell someone you’d rather just sit in quiet contemplating the day ahead?

We all broke off to head to our jobs and the girl sitting next to me said, “Have a nice day.” With a smile I replied, “You too.” The warmth and genuineness of the exchange made me all smiles, but it was also confusing. Here we’d had a conversation, not the usual awkward, “Hey whatcha been up to?” random subway encounter mushmouth conversation, but a real friendly talk… about how you just don’t feel like talking in the morning.

If it hadn’t been for Stu getting all loud and opinionated we’d never have had that shared moment, however brief. The confusion didn’t stop me from smiling all the way to work, or even now.

I guess the moral of the story is that no matter how rude, inconsiderate, loud, bigoted or annoying someone can be, you can still bond with strangers and have a good time making fun of that person once with they and their whacko-loco speak are a safe distance away.

August 22, 2006

Naughty Naughty!

Filed under: Announcements,Humor,Life,Manners,Ramblings — missedmanners @ 10:19 am

shame-on-you.jpg

Ok.

So WordPress has this AWESOME feature that let’s you see what search terms are bringing people to your site. Fantastic, great tool. So what are people searching for on the internet that sends them this way? Are people looking for help and advice on how to act? No. Are people looking for a laugh to lift the oppressive gray cloud of depression from their lives? No.

They’re looking for advice on how to get a handjob at a massage parlor. *Sigh*

If you’re confused look here:

https://missedmanners.wordpress.com/2006/08/11/missed-manners-theres-the-rub/

Listen, people, if you want a handjob, go do it yourself. And remember, your search strings are about as private as taking a dump in Times Square.

Don’t believe me?

 http://www.somethingawful.com/index.php?a=4016

http://www.somethingawful.com/index.php?a=4032

August 11, 2006

Miss(ed) Manners: There’s the Rub

Filed under: Column,Humor,Life,Manners — missedmanners @ 1:42 pm

I’ve got a problem.

A serious addiction.

My name is Dave and I’m a massage junkie.

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Once or twice a month I absolutely have to slink into a sub-basement level Tui-Na Acupressure massage joint in Soho to get my kinks worked out.

Wait. I’m going to pause for about five minutes to let everyone make the requisite “Happy Ending” jokes. OMG THAT’S HELARYOUS! hahahahah

The fact of the matter is that there is a serious negative stigma surrounding the practice of massage, especially Asian massage. You’re all racist for propagating it, yeah I said it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and the only real reason I can come up with for people assuming a massage has to be something sexual stems from the following:

1) Good old American Puritan Repression.
What, me? Get touched by someone who’s not me? What? I won’t have any of it. Now would you pass me my one holed sex sheet?

2) Law and Order
Well, all of TV, really. Any time you see a massage “parlor” on the tube there are hand jobs going on. In fact it’s like a dick knuckling bonanza on Prime time. I said Law and Order because of my deep hatred for Benjamin Bratt, he knows what he did and why myself and the municipality of Aspen will never forgive him.

3) Friendly’s Restaurants
Their happy endings sundaes, while delicious and fun, are racist. Do not attempt to romance the hot fudge covered sugar cone, it’s hot fudge you idiot.

If anyone’s actually ever BEEN into one of these places you’d find that the idea of it being a home for assisted meat pounding is patently ridiculous. The massage tables are generally lined up next to each other with a few feet in between. It would be pretty hard to have someone play the skin flute royale on your peesch without making a ruckus.

I know some of you will say, “well when I went to camp I used to masturbate ten or twelve times a night and no one ever knew about it or heard me, until the last week of camp of course when the incident happened” Well to you I say, “You need to find Jesus, STAT.”

With this unfair and incorrect assumption being the norm, it’s hard to admit to being a massage junkie without people painting you as a guy who likes to get his nob wrangled by some stranger. The worst is coming out afterwards. Since I’m an avid, enthusiastic smoker I instantly light up and I am positive I’ve seen some people shake their heads at me. It’s silly.

In my opinion everyone should be a massage addict. There are almost as many Tui-Na places in New York as there are Starbucks, so it’s not difficult. They’re cheap, usually around 40 bucks for an hour, not including tip. Most of all you will feel refreshed, relaxed and energized.

Proper behavior is very important when finding a regular massage parlor. Below is a list of a few do’s and don’ts.

Do: Feel free to choose your level clothing during the massage, it’s a comfort level thing. In your case I would suggest putting more clothes on… you’ve been hitting the Haagen-Dazs a little hard this month, Sally Struthers.

Don’t: Ask if they do internal massage. You’re in the wrong place, you were looking for the Public Bathrooms at Washington Square.

Do: Tip well. This is very important. My grasp of Chinese is incredibly limited, but I’m usually a big tipper. From the chatter I’ve overheard all the masseurs are big fans of mine… or I’m a chicken with red ice claws who is a “shrrrr” something.

Don’t: Fart.

Don’t: Shout “Immigration!” really loudly and then try to explain that you were just kidding. Not cool man. Unless you actually are from Immigration in which case thanks for protecting us from incredibly loose lower backs and adjusted spines.

Do: Try out the guy masseuse. Almost always at a Tui-Na place there’ll be this one guy who just sits around. Sometimes he’s an acupuncturist, but usually he just hangs out and doesn’t get many appointments because, well… he’s a dude. Most girls don’t want to get a rub down from a guy because, well… he’s a dude. Most guys don’t want to risk an erection and the ensuing collapse of their sexual identity like a brittle house of cards.

Don’t be such a pussy, usually, these guys are the best. Not to discount any of the female masseurs, but most of their allure is that their hands are soft. Guys usually apply more pressure and are more therapeutic.

They also give the best happy endings.

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