Oh God, You Mean That Guy?
"What’s so funny?"
"Nothing. Ba ha ha ha ha ha ha. Ahem. Heh."
"Seriously, what the fuck is so funny, you’re giggling like a pregnant school girl."
"Ok, ok. That guy down there, he totally looks like you. You were both just standing the same way. It was like a mirror or synchronized swimming or something."
"Which guy? That guy?"
"No, not that guy, the one with the glasses, reading the newspaper."
"You think I look like that guy? Jesus. I don’t look anything like that clown."
"No, you do. Seriously, you look exactly like each other. He could be your stunt double on the commute. If you decide to take on the conductor, just call 'CUT! Bring in the stunt double'. He’d be perfect for the role."
"You’re really enjoying this aren’t you?"
"Well, it’s not every day you get to see your stunt double. I would totally put that guy on payroll if there was a need. Like if you were on the lam or something, or our neighbor threatened to beat you up."
"Wait, now you think the neighbor could beat me up too? I hope you don’t mean the downstairs neighbor, I could totally kick that guy’s ass. I’d make his child fatherless by the time I was done with his goateed crunchy lipped face."
"No, you’re right, I’m just saying if, you know, you didn’t really want to fight the neighbor and wanted to call in the stunt double to do it. Prevent a jammed knuckle or something you know?"
I had to admit that was a good save. It was very possible to jam a knuckle wailing on a neighbor’s face. But that guy? I totally didn’t look like the pudgy bastard standing on the platform. He was reading the Post for pete’s sake. I wouldn’t read the Post. Clarification – I would read the Post but he was reading the Post from the front. I only read the Post like the Torah. Back to front, sports first. I never even venture into the classifieds. And I looked like this guy?
(I’m writing this on the train despite the obnoxious woman two seats in front of me who just pounded a Coors Light and then dialed her cell phone. This woman who is talking is making it abundantly clear that whoever is on the other end of the phone is sooooo welcome to come up for Easter but there is zero chance, and I mean zero, that she’s going to change a reservation yet again. The woman also seemed a little concerned that whoever was on the other end of the line might not realize it was a three hour drive, maybe more with traffic this weekend. No, no, of course they were welcome. How rude. The whole train could hear her inviting everyone yet she only invites her friend? She needs a helping from Miss Manners if you ask me. Inconsiderate bitch.)
That’s the problem with small talk. Sometimes it really just smacks you in the face. My wife was just amusing herself with how much I looked like another man waiting on the platform for the 7:48 to Manhattan and meanwhile, if she had stopped to think she would have realized that I totally don’t look like that guy. Eww. And If I really did look like that guy, then there’s two things: 1) It would have been best to keep it to herself because he’s an ugly son of a bitch. This was the type of guy you could easily use an old playground taunt on. Something like, “he fell out of the ugly tree and hit every single branch on the way down” or maybe even, “he’s so ugly they had to tie a porkchop round his neck just to get the dog to play with him”. Seriously, ugly. 2)
(Okay, I guess Coors Light woman is having pangs of regret because she just called back to let them know there is absolutely no obligation for them to come up. Really, they’ll be tired, it’ll be a long ride. Although, if they do decide to come up early, they’d have time to nap before dinner. Why doesn’t this woman just come clean and tell whoever is on the other line that frankly she just really doesn’t like them. I’ll do it for her. I mean, she doesn’t want them to come up but if they do she immediately wants to put them down for a nap? Please, just shut the fuck up lady!).
Back to number 2. So if I did look like this guy she pointed out then I seriously have to question her taste in men. When we began dating and her friends met me, did they think, ‘my God, what the hell has she gotten herself into, she might as well date a decaying rutabaga.’ Undoubtedly, someone will read this and remind me that it’s not always good looks or popularity that gets the girl, it’s who you are. To this I’ll say, “don’t you dare lecture me. I saw Can’t Buy Me Love. I know what gets the girl.” That’s Hollywood though. In Hollywood, a guy like Patrick Dempsey plays the dork. The same Patrick Dempsey who is one of People’s favorite photos and on some show where he’s a doctor making a boatload of money saving people then sleeping with beautiful women to knock the edge off his day. Sure though, looks, money and popularity don’t get the girl. You know what else doesn’t get the girl? That guy that I supposedly look like that’s standing down the platform from me reading the Post. That guy goes home alone 999 times out of a thousand. Unless he pays of course.
I’m married I remind myself. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about these things. I’ve found my love, I don’t need to concern myself with the trivial matters of how mates match. Then again, how can I not when I’m indirectly told I look like a short, balding, fat Danny Devito with glasses; in other words, that I look like a bloated Rick Moranis? The moral of the story you see is, think before you tell someone they look like someone else. Don’t greet your grandmother with your epiphany that she looks like Barbara Bush. That’s bad form. Don’t greet your co-worker on Friday morning after the work Happy Hour that you finally put your finger on who she looked like, Courtney Love. Great, she’ll think, I look like a cracked out whore who can’t utter, or form for that matter, a coherent sentence without people thinking her breath must smell like rickety crotch. Instead, keep these things to yourself. Relationships are built on honesty, but if you’re simply not telling someone something, is that really a lie? Not according to Oliver North and if it’s good enough for ole Ollie then it's sure as heck good enough for you.
Word.
Epilogue: That woman still had not shut up even as my train was pulling into the station, a good twenty plus minute phone conversation where she passive-aggressively tried to persuade whoever it was not to come up for the holiday because she refused to tell them what the real reason was because she hated them. I learned something from this woman however. She kept the truth to herself. While some things are good to release, like gas and phlegm and gasps of relief so you won’t implode, some things are better left unsaid. Thank you bitchy cell phone woman. You taught me a lesson today. And because of that, I didn’t tell you that you reminded me of Sissy Spacek after an all-night coke binge and gangbang. It feels good to be evolved.
"Nothing. Ba ha ha ha ha ha ha. Ahem. Heh."
"Seriously, what the fuck is so funny, you’re giggling like a pregnant school girl."
"Ok, ok. That guy down there, he totally looks like you. You were both just standing the same way. It was like a mirror or synchronized swimming or something."
"Which guy? That guy?"
"No, not that guy, the one with the glasses, reading the newspaper."
"You think I look like that guy? Jesus. I don’t look anything like that clown."
"No, you do. Seriously, you look exactly like each other. He could be your stunt double on the commute. If you decide to take on the conductor, just call 'CUT! Bring in the stunt double'. He’d be perfect for the role."
"You’re really enjoying this aren’t you?"
"Well, it’s not every day you get to see your stunt double. I would totally put that guy on payroll if there was a need. Like if you were on the lam or something, or our neighbor threatened to beat you up."
"Wait, now you think the neighbor could beat me up too? I hope you don’t mean the downstairs neighbor, I could totally kick that guy’s ass. I’d make his child fatherless by the time I was done with his goateed crunchy lipped face."
"No, you’re right, I’m just saying if, you know, you didn’t really want to fight the neighbor and wanted to call in the stunt double to do it. Prevent a jammed knuckle or something you know?"
I had to admit that was a good save. It was very possible to jam a knuckle wailing on a neighbor’s face. But that guy? I totally didn’t look like the pudgy bastard standing on the platform. He was reading the Post for pete’s sake. I wouldn’t read the Post. Clarification – I would read the Post but he was reading the Post from the front. I only read the Post like the Torah. Back to front, sports first. I never even venture into the classifieds. And I looked like this guy?
(I’m writing this on the train despite the obnoxious woman two seats in front of me who just pounded a Coors Light and then dialed her cell phone. This woman who is talking is making it abundantly clear that whoever is on the other end of the phone is sooooo welcome to come up for Easter but there is zero chance, and I mean zero, that she’s going to change a reservation yet again. The woman also seemed a little concerned that whoever was on the other end of the line might not realize it was a three hour drive, maybe more with traffic this weekend. No, no, of course they were welcome. How rude. The whole train could hear her inviting everyone yet she only invites her friend? She needs a helping from Miss Manners if you ask me. Inconsiderate bitch.)
That’s the problem with small talk. Sometimes it really just smacks you in the face. My wife was just amusing herself with how much I looked like another man waiting on the platform for the 7:48 to Manhattan and meanwhile, if she had stopped to think she would have realized that I totally don’t look like that guy. Eww. And If I really did look like that guy, then there’s two things: 1) It would have been best to keep it to herself because he’s an ugly son of a bitch. This was the type of guy you could easily use an old playground taunt on. Something like, “he fell out of the ugly tree and hit every single branch on the way down” or maybe even, “he’s so ugly they had to tie a porkchop round his neck just to get the dog to play with him”. Seriously, ugly. 2)
(Okay, I guess Coors Light woman is having pangs of regret because she just called back to let them know there is absolutely no obligation for them to come up. Really, they’ll be tired, it’ll be a long ride. Although, if they do decide to come up early, they’d have time to nap before dinner. Why doesn’t this woman just come clean and tell whoever is on the other line that frankly she just really doesn’t like them. I’ll do it for her. I mean, she doesn’t want them to come up but if they do she immediately wants to put them down for a nap? Please, just shut the fuck up lady!).
Back to number 2. So if I did look like this guy she pointed out then I seriously have to question her taste in men. When we began dating and her friends met me, did they think, ‘my God, what the hell has she gotten herself into, she might as well date a decaying rutabaga.’ Undoubtedly, someone will read this and remind me that it’s not always good looks or popularity that gets the girl, it’s who you are. To this I’ll say, “don’t you dare lecture me. I saw Can’t Buy Me Love. I know what gets the girl.” That’s Hollywood though. In Hollywood, a guy like Patrick Dempsey plays the dork. The same Patrick Dempsey who is one of People’s favorite photos and on some show where he’s a doctor making a boatload of money saving people then sleeping with beautiful women to knock the edge off his day. Sure though, looks, money and popularity don’t get the girl. You know what else doesn’t get the girl? That guy that I supposedly look like that’s standing down the platform from me reading the Post. That guy goes home alone 999 times out of a thousand. Unless he pays of course.
I’m married I remind myself. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about these things. I’ve found my love, I don’t need to concern myself with the trivial matters of how mates match. Then again, how can I not when I’m indirectly told I look like a short, balding, fat Danny Devito with glasses; in other words, that I look like a bloated Rick Moranis? The moral of the story you see is, think before you tell someone they look like someone else. Don’t greet your grandmother with your epiphany that she looks like Barbara Bush. That’s bad form. Don’t greet your co-worker on Friday morning after the work Happy Hour that you finally put your finger on who she looked like, Courtney Love. Great, she’ll think, I look like a cracked out whore who can’t utter, or form for that matter, a coherent sentence without people thinking her breath must smell like rickety crotch. Instead, keep these things to yourself. Relationships are built on honesty, but if you’re simply not telling someone something, is that really a lie? Not according to Oliver North and if it’s good enough for ole Ollie then it's sure as heck good enough for you.
Word.
Epilogue: That woman still had not shut up even as my train was pulling into the station, a good twenty plus minute phone conversation where she passive-aggressively tried to persuade whoever it was not to come up for the holiday because she refused to tell them what the real reason was because she hated them. I learned something from this woman however. She kept the truth to herself. While some things are good to release, like gas and phlegm and gasps of relief so you won’t implode, some things are better left unsaid. Thank you bitchy cell phone woman. You taught me a lesson today. And because of that, I didn’t tell you that you reminded me of Sissy Spacek after an all-night coke binge and gangbang. It feels good to be evolved.