by Joe Buonfiglio
I’m a good writer. However, I am a TERRIBLE human being.
No, I’m not saying I’m a bad person; I’m just horrible at this whole “being human” thing. I wish there was one of those guidebooks for simpletons out there along the lines of Being Human for Dummies, because I really need to get a handle on this whole “life” thing.
Hell, it may already be too late! Here are some examples of what I mean:
I pick a restaurant not based on the quality of the food or the service or even the ambience, but rather if they precalculate the tip for me at the bottom of the check.
I seemingly don’t read and watch the news in order to be informed of local, state, national and world events; I apparently do it to refuel a perpetual state of being pissed off that has evolved over time into some warped kind of entertainment value coupled with an invited embrace of emotional immaturity.
And then there’s nutriment. Food isn’t just a device for necessary caloric sustenance; it’s a coping mechanism … that leads to bad habits … that leads to poor health … that leads to depression … that leads to needing more coping … that leads to more food … that leads to….
Strong drink, doubly so.
You know what else? I’d rather sit in the dark at three in the morning watching some B-movie from the Sixties that I’ve seen a hundred times than interact in “normal” functioning hours with “normal” functioning people in the “normal” activities that “normal” functioning people engage in … … … normally.
In my defense, those old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns are pretty cool.
Then there’s the world of vocational madness. Two words can send me into a rage faster than a giant-tired monster-truck wannabe pickup tailgating me on the interstate and laying into his The Dukes of Hazzard theme-song novelty horn the whole way: COMPANY PICNIC.
Take your sunbaked deviled-egg nightmare out of my face and get back to kissing the boss’ ass so that I can finish my Bud Light in peace and make it home before the game starts. And for the love of God, tell your fucking rugrat to stop sticking me in the ass with that holiday party-blower before I drop trou and introduce him to Uncle Smelly’s Private Wind Tunnel.
Here’s another gem. I’ll buy my gas at a service station not because they have the best price at the pump or even if they have good doughnuts inside the attached convenience store, but because their bathrooms are cleaner than a hotel’s. And this brings me to the coup de grâce of my quirks d’ persona…
I RATE GAS STATION BATHROOMS. I’ve done it since I was a kid.
An “A” means a 5-star-resort quality of bathroom cleanliness; most certainly a rare find. “B” means I wouldn’t eat a Twinkie off the toilet seat, but after applying TP to it, I’d be willing to sit my ass down and do my business. A “C” is almost unbearably malodorous and engaging in an inadequate level of sanitary presentation, but I’ll still hold my nose and use the urinal — only! A “D” means that somewhere in the facility, there is actual feces smeared on the wall. I’ll hold my nose, close my eyes and pee, but I’m not touching the sink faucet. The bottle of hand sanitizer in the car will have to do. And then there’s “F.”
An “F” means that I’d rather shit my pants than step foot in that bathroom. An “F” means a stench so overwhelming, a revulsion factor so alarmingly disgusting; Satan himself would shield his eyes in despair.
Now, does the fact that I engage in this potty-critic activity, that I make purchasing decisions based on engaging in this activity, that I make those travelling with me deal with the unpleasant fallout that inevitably comes from engaging in this activity; does this make me a terrible person?
Does ANY of this really make me a bad person?
Okay, yes. Yes it does.
Now if you’ll excuse me, High Plains Drifter is on and I’ve got a Hot Pocket in the microwave.
© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.