Things I Don't "Do"

You know the housekeeper (or wife) who is fond of saying,

"I don't "do" windows?"

Yeah, well, in honor of her (get out that Windex, bitch), here's a list of things that I don't "do."

* Breakfast Burritos

Sorry, Ron McDon, but, from one clown to another: Homie don't play. I'm suspicious of the contents of your hamburgers, so why would I open myself up to a potential world of pain by sinking my teeth into a completely disguised breakfast conglroption? I very much doubt that anybody really knows what the fuck is actually in there and, if there are people out there who do, they should be ashamed of themselves. I know I make some questionable comestible decisions in my daily life (see post regarding semen-coated processed ham) but I will not engage in the food fiesta known as the Breakfast Burrito. I'm sorry, those are two words that were never meant to be put together, despite the seductive nature of the alliteration.

* Confrontation

If you were six foot and 136 pounds (fully clothed, with oversized wallet and keys in pocket) you wouldn't "do" confrontation either. As you know from reading this blog, I have a big fucking mouth. I'm a 20-something blogger ("The bloggers with the most to say!") and I can be one irate sonofafuck-- but that's online. It should come as no shock to you that someone who has a penchant for written bellicosity online would be meek and almost mute in real life. I'm very reluctant to go toe-to-toe with anybody, much more preferring to make peace and mediate the disputes of others. Even though there are some people I would like to massacre with the tines of a fork.

Yesterday, for example, I was getting my car's oil changed. I was chit-chatting with Jack, the baby-faced, genteel Chinese mechanic when the brutish thug who owns the gas station stormed into the garage, cut in front of me while I was talking and yelled, "JACK, GET ME AN ALLEN KEY!" Jack immediately stopped talking to me and meekly retrieved the Allen key, just like the model minority that he is. I quietly stewed in my rage until the bastard left the garage area, and then I made fun of him with Jack. But, in my fantasy, this is what happend:

Asshole: JACK! GET ME AN ALLEN KEY!

Fantasy Me: HEY! How about, "Excuse me, Jack-- could you please get me an Allen key?"

Asshole: Who the fuck are you?

Fantasy Me: Who the fuck am I? I'm your Daddy, bitch. And you're about to get spanked.

* Small Talk

I can't fake my way though it. I can't pretend I like it. I can't chit-chat with the woman on the corner who has two dachsunds barking miserably in the background without a pained wince bubbling to the surface. Everytime someone mentions the weather to me, I cringe. The weather? Seriously? Do you really have that little to say to me? Then how about just saying nothing? I was once criticized by a former employer for "not making more of an effort at small-talk."

"But, I'm working," I lied. I was online most of the time looking for other jobs.

"Well, it wouldn't kill you to ask how my weekend was or something like that."

I stared at her in disbelief. I was laid off a month later.

This was the same woman who, by the way, criticized my supervisor, during an actual end-of-year evaluation, for not acknowledging her birthday.

* Facebook quizzes

Yeah, we've been over this before, but I feel it bears repeating. If you think that knowing the answer to such mind-deadening questions as "Which Sopranos character are you?" or "Which swimming event is your speciality?" or "Which handheld bluetooth activated cellular device are you?" is going to bring us closer, than you're obviously Facefucked.

* iPods

This little piece of technology has somehow passed me by. I like to think that I'm pretty with it. I have a handheld bluetooth activated cellular device (and it poings when I get an email!), I have a GPS unit for the car, we have a flat screen TV AND computer monitor, I watch shit on Hulu and I consider myself a pioneer consumer of online streaming pornography-- but I don't go to iTunes and download iSongs to fill an iPod that I then strap onto my iShoulder to go iJogging in iPublic. In fact, I don't "do" anything that begins with a small letter "i" followed immediately by a capital letter with no space iN between.

I'll never have an iPhone, either. I love real buttons far too much.

* Infidelity

Sorry, ladies, but I think you basically have to be the scum of the earth or worse to make a lifelong committment to another person and then go dick-dipping. If things are really lousy, that's why normal people can get divorced (sorry, Catholics, you're weird) but there is no justification, ever, for cheating on your spouse. Period. I'd rather insert my cock into a jar of acid than let it touch another woman. People tend to forget that they have self-control and that, just because there are hot women out there, some of whom might actually might want to sleep with or otherwise seduce you, you actually have something called impulse control. Use it.

* Shorts

I absolutely do not "do" shorts. I mean, I wear them, but I do not "do" them. There's a difference. I wear shorts begrudingly. I'm never happy about it. I look like a chicken wearing a very strategically-placed cotton ball. I got from 2nd grade through 9th grade without ever wearing shorts, except maybe for gym, but I didn't like it. Fortunately, from the second half of 10th grade through 12th grade, I took ballroom dancing instead of normal gym. No shorts required.

* Any activity that follows the word "Extreme"

Yeah... in first grade, I broke my right foot in music class. I think that pretty much explains this one.