I recently tolerated the despicable Boston nightlife while enduring a number of aggravating comments that tickled my spine in the wrongest of ways. People say some really stupid things on the weekends, especially after two drinks. If you haven’t noticed this, then you’re probably one of those idiots.
In a world of cliches, bastardized knowledge, and common misperceptions, I’m faced by young professionals diseased with ‘know-it-all’ attitudes. Put together, these personalities lead to tactless and backward conversations. Every time I socialize with assholes – which make up 95% of my network – two questions arise:
1) How much longer must I pretend to enjoy your company?
2) When can I go home to blog about you?
An idiot told me, “We should really meet up sometime. It’s been too long.”
Really? Do you really think we should meet up? Or are you just saying that because it’s what you’re supposed to say to someone that you used to see on a monthly basis through a mutual friend, and then that mutual friend moved out of the state so now you no longer see each other…? Shouldn’t the both of us take it as a sign that because we haven’t seen each other in over a year, perhaps it wasn’t meant for us to be friends?
Another idiot said to me, “HA! You use condoms? Why?…”
Really? You’re questioning my contraceptive practices? Isn’t that the same thing as making fun of someone who puts on a seatbelt when driving? Look, if you think ‘pulling out’ is the best route, then you and Evander Holyfield – with his 11 illegitimate children – should hang out sometime.
An idiot told me, “I like your blog.”
Really? Do you really like it? Because I haven’t seen you ‘like’ it on Facebook EVER. And I wouldn’t believe you even if you did press that stupid ‘like’-button because not even I like this blog.
An ignoramus told me, “I wish I could have come to your wedding.”
Really? Because I don’t. That’s why you didn’t get an invite. If you’re trying to make me feel guilty for not inviting you, it’s not working. And the fact that you posed such an ignorant comment makes me even HAPPIER that my family didn’t waste their money on you.
Some vegan moron told me, “You should watch what you eat.”
Really lady?! I should WATCH what I eat? Do you actually think I walk into the kitchen blindfolded and devour the first thing that my hands touch? Like I’m some sort of mole or goat that will eat anything? I’m 165 pounds and very healthy, but you pester me because I eat meat? Go have fun with your quinoa and fragile body. These pompous vegans forcing their agenda onto me are no different than those Jesus-freak missionaries clownishly prostituting their religion on city streets, berating people for their sins with a loudspeaker – as if my conscience wasn’t already loud enough – all the while their priests are fondling my children. May God curse the loudmouthed hypocrites and tasteless-food enthusiasts.
An imbecile asked, “So where do you work now?”
Really? Where do I work now? I’ve been on your LinkedIn network for the past half year and you don’t know where I work? More importantly, what type of dipshit talks about work at a bar? We’re all here to FORGET about work. Fuck work. I’d rather you point out that I have a huge pimple on my head, which I deliberately forgot to pop just so you could stare straight at its core and become annoyed.
That same imbecile kept talking, “I’m the manager of ‘blah blah blah’, and maybe we can help your company with ‘yakety yak’. Here, take my business card.”
Really? First of all, don’t brandish your title around like it’s a gauntlet. So you’re a manager, eh?… Big deal! I’m a director, but it doesn’t mean shit. I drive a HONDA CIVIC. And you drive a HYUNDAI! We’re nothing compared to the elite. Just drink your damn drink, and let us both stare at girls that we can’t touch because we’re either already married or too timid to approach them. Secondly, sheath that paperweight of a business card. If I take it with me, I guarantee that it will be used as my coaster on the living room table when I finish off the night with a Glenlivet in my left hand and my right inside my wife… On second thought, give me that silly business card; it’s tasking to get an erection while drunk, and I get an immediate hard-on when I rip up those pointless pieces of paper lies.
Sometimes I wonder why God placed me in this era. Why must I live amongst the American millennials? A collection of politically forward-thinking, health-conscious, yet culturally deprived, identity-less individuals who drink their sorrows away, and then talk and talk and talk and talk your head off until they make you want to vomit. God, next time breed me in the Neolithic era, where people used stones instead of words.
You can add the young professionals of Boston – these asinine defilers of truth – to the list of people I hate.
The Boston Jew is a humor blog. Though you may not find it funny, we thank you for wasting your time with us today.