The Windy Shitty

As I said, I would wait to continue my series until I got into an altercation with any of the previously listed antagonists. Well, it finally happened. Lucky me!

I wrote a blog about it. Like to read it? Here it go!

The Windbag - "People who talk a lot often talk about themselves. They have never acquired that inner voice that wonders, Am I boring you? To be a Windbag is to have a deep-rooted selfishness. Never interrupt or argue with these types--that only fuels their windbaggery."

I recently had the unfortunate pleasure of encountering a windbag phone-to-phone. There is a fine line between being random and being a self-centered word diarrhea-ist. I just made that term up. I like it. If you don’t then pretend you didn’t read it. Moving. On. I made the mistake of contacting the windbag in question with the intent of having a short conversation. In hindsight, I’m wondering what kind of drugs was I on to ever think such a thing was possible.

That was Strike 1.

During said conversation, I had another lapse in judgment when I thought that interrupting the windbaggery would inspire a cease word-fire on their behalf…Robert Greene has already warned of me of my fate when using this tactic (“Never interrupt or argue with these types--that only fuels their windbaggery." I made my bed, now sleep.

That was Strike 2.

Alas, just when you think I’d learned my lesson, I made another fatal error. I made, what I thought, was a logical suggestion as to why we should end the current phone conversation. (it was already late and she had to wake up early in the morning)

Strike 3. Go to your room!

Never, ever ever ever ever try to end the phone convo with a windbagger for a reason other than an emergency. This is an exercise in futility and will only be met with extreme resistance. Oh, you think just cause the windbag has been sleeping all night and you woke them up that they would rather have a good night’s sleep as preparation for tomorrow’s workday than have you fall victim to their incessant babbling? Au contrair mon fraire!

There is nothing in the universe that tickles the fancy of a windbagger more than to have someone listen to them. Ironically they are not seeking your feeback, only your torture by being their proverbial toilet for word diarrhea.

Want to know if you’re a windbagger? It’s simple. Pay attention next time someone wants to end a convo with you. If you notice that you keep talking while the other person inches towards the exit, or keeps giving you one word answers that suggest “let me the f*ck out of this word prison” then yes you are a windbagger. If you always have one more thing to say before a convo ends, you might be a candidate (P.P.S. lookin’ azz nucca).

Fortunately there is a cure to such a disease as windbagitis. You can talk to yourself, blog (lol), journal, or simply just shut the f*ck up.

You’re welcome.

Exercise, the Exodus from Stupidity’s Soldiers & Booty Calls Gone Wrong

Comedian Ron White once said that “you can’t fix stupid.” Boy was he on the money with that statement. I have picked up running lately and unlike most folks, I enjoy it much more when running without an iPod or a watch on. At first I thought it was because I like to be in touch with nature and sh*t, but I realized that’s a load of bull because I wouldn’t go camping with any you motherf*ckers if you paid me. I digress.

I like running with no iPod and no watch because it means that I’m completely out of touch with the rest of the world. That is a great thing because unfortunately, stupid people exist in the world and they can procreate and get driver’s licenses (not to mention get jobs at my company and get elected President).

The same goes for lifting weights at the gym, I like going there with no iPod but this theory had a hole poked in it this morning when I saw an ex-jumpoff at the gym, whom I conveniently avoided…she probably saw me and probably knows I saw her too…oh well.

While I’m working out or running that means I am completely inaccessible to the stupid people that I run across all too often. I can already hear you saying, “Carver, who are these bumbling idiots you speak of?” Well my friend, they come in many shapes, sizes, and colors. We’ll just talk about those I have recently come across.

In an effort to tie this in to the unsexies I blogged about previously I’ll talk about a recent altercation I had with a Bumbler, but first here’s a recap on what a Bumbler is: 

The Bumbler - "Bumblers are self-conscious...at first you may think they are thinking about you, and so much so that it makes them awkward. In fact, they are only thinking of themselves...their worry is usually contagious."

In all of her self-consciousness, she completely ignored the rules of engagement for a “booty-call” this was a....Booty-Call Gone Wrong 

Of course with any good story, there’s plenty of background info, but for this story’s purpose, it’s not important.

**warning** Please put your metaphor hat on tightly. You may now continue reading. If you see quotation marks, put your mind in the gutter. Thank you for your time and attention. 

Ok, so I am minding my own business on a Friday night, as any young gentleman should. Late in the evening I get into a very flirtatious convo with a young lady whom I haven’t seen in awhile. This young lady requests my presence at her abode in the late night hour of this rainy Friday night/Saturday morning. I oblige.

Prior to my departure I gather as much info about the “scope of work” that will be required for this visit. We’ll call this “engaging in negotiations.” I find out that a “meeting of the minds” is preferred, an initiative that I fully endorse because who doesn’t love a woman with a “good head” on her shoulders? 

Anyways. 

Mind you this is the same woman who during our first encounter took it upon herself to tell me the kind of “service” she wanted during the “pre-game warm up”…I politely informed her not to tell the Chef how to season his dishes unless she wanted to cook herself. This is yet another example of women turning favors into chores (more on this ubiquitous phenomenon in a later blog). 

Moving on. 

I arrive in the place to be and things and the previously discussed actions begin to occur. At the point where it is time for me to “sit back and enjoy the show”, I’m thinking that someone like her who is so adamant about this endeavor should be able to “dish it as well as she can take it, right?” I mean if you’re homeboy talks about basketball all the time, it’s only natural to think that he’s a hooper.

WRONG! 

The “show” was horrible. I was disappointed to the point of anger. However, I kept my composure and kept it moving…one monkey don’t stop no show. But now I am solely focused on “reaching the finale” and fleeing the scene. 

I finally arrive at the finale. I’m glad that I reached my destination, but mad about the “traffic on the way”. She goes to the bathroom for a moment only to return to me fully clothed. This triggers a puzzled look on her face. She inquires about what I’m doing and I tell her that I’m returning to headquarters because I have to go running with a friend in the morning. Since the length of the “work day” was not discussed I feel that it is my right as an American citizen to leave after both parties have “upheld their ends of the agreement.” She doesn’t take my departure so kindly and begins to debate the issue. 

The grounds for her argument are that this “friend” of mine must be a female and that my early departure is rude and inconsiderate. I retort that I cannot depart early if there’s no timetable established and that this friend of mine is quite the opposite of a female and is actually a 6’5” Nigerian and that I only used the term “friend” because she didn’t know this person. Logically this should have cleared everything up, but alas, logic is useless when dealing with most women. Who knew? Lol. 

From this point the following dialogue happens at the front door:

Me: *politely* would you grab my jacket from your closet?
Her: *comes back with my jacket and throws it on the couch near me very rudely*
Me: Aww, don’t be like that. I really didn’t know you wanted me to stay, if I did I would have let you know my plans to run in the morning
Her: *Evil Black Woman Stare while opening the door for me*
Me: *shrugs shoulders, smiles, then begins to exit*
Her: *grabs the back of my jacket in an impolite manner*
Me: *yank myself (and jacket) from her grasp auristocratically while walking to my car*

The End

Now, ladies and gentleman of the jury, I ask you. Am I the crazy one in this story?