I’m sitting at an airport bar the other day and some fucking Howdy Doody mother fucker pulls up a stool next to me.
This little cocksucker went about 5’ 3”, 135 lbs. tops and was all teeth and hair and had a 70s gay-porn style moustache. He was wearing a black-and-white checked sweater with a white collared shirt poking out the top and some kind of black slacks.
He wanted to be my friend.
He ordered a beer and I had a hard time placing his accent. At first I immediately pegged him as Bostonian but it was distorted and sort of hillbillyish.
Turns out he’s from NH.
That figured.
So he starts with his small talk. Where you from? Where you going? What are you doing here? I answer. He’s not really interested in my answers. He’s out of town and has an agenda to tell the world how great he has it.
He starts by telling me about all the incredible virtues of The Granite State. How nice it is this time of year. What a great spread he has there and blah, blah, blah.
He was doing all the talking. Telling me about how great it is to live out in the country and what a wonderful place it is to raise kids. He’s basically selling me on his life. He’s 34 and has five kids ages whatever to whatever and his wife LOVES being a stay-at-home mom. He commutes into the city, “only” an hour and half each way.
I nod my head, the whole time thinking that this stupid fuck is clueless that at this very minute his wife is on all fours taking it in the poop chute from Rusty the fucking local handyman. Of course she’s happy.
While you’re out “busting your ass” selling straws and napkins and other small-margin restaurant supplies, she’s fucking anything that wanders onto the Back 40. Hell, even your five kids are in on the joke.
And what’s he going to do about it? She’s got at least 50 pounds and a half foot on him.
That’s why she lets you leave the house with that fucking ridiculous moustache. She doesn’t give a fuck. She and half the county are laughing at your ass. You’re her cute little businessman boy, all dressed up for a big day of cold calling Taco Bells and diners in the big city.
Anyway, he volunteers the dimensions of his “estate” and, with great emphasis, tells me it’s on three-and-a-half acres of land.
Let me say it straight: There’s no bigger red flag in the realm of small talk among men than when a guy tells you how much land he owns. If you have to mention the size of the lot of land your home sits on, you’re a fucking small-time piker. End of discussion.
But I pretended to be impressed and asked him what his sprawling compound looked like.
“Oh it’s beautiful. Most of it is trees and grass. Great for the kids to just go out and run around.”
“Yeah, but who maintains it? Do you have a staff? A gardening service?”
“Oh no. I do it all myself. I have one of those sitting lawn mowers. It takes me about four hours to mow all the grass. I mow it every other weekend from May to September.”
“What happens in the fall?”
“Oh, the fall’s the worst. I have to go out with rakes and a blower and get all the leaves. We’re talking dozens of those 30-gallon Hefty bags. I do that four or five times. Takes the better part of a weekend each time.”
“And the winter?”
“In the winter I don’t have to do anything. It’s just covered in snow. No one even goes out there.”
“What’s winter like in your neck of the woods? How long?”
“Oh we start getting snow sometime in late October and it will snow pretty much all the way through April. Sometimes into May.”
“So you’re telling me you really only use the land from sometime in May to sometime in October?”
“Pretty much.”
“And you spend most of your non-winter weekends out mowing the grass and raking the leaves.”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like a big pain in the ass.”
That was the end of our conversation. We sat there next to each other for the next 20 minutes in complete silence until he got up to, I presume, catch his flight back to heaven.
Fucking idiot.
ha - a giant pain in the ass, indeed.
Posted by: guinness girl | October 19, 2006 at 08:52 AM