I’m not that big a fan of talking. I don’t know what the big deal is. It seems like it’s basically impossible to find a girl to date who isn’t constantly nagging you about that. “What do you want to eat? What are you thinking about? Why did you put my dog in that Ziplock bag?” I swear, if I wanted to be interviewed I’d show up at the airport with lit fuses sticking out of my shoes. I’m just trying to live my life here, not run around in some kind of non-stop monologue nightmare.

It’s not just girls, either, there’s all kinds of social situations where people just won’t let you shut up. You go into a restaurant, and right away, somebody’s asking you what you want. And even if you point politely at the menu they still won’t leave you alone, they’ve got to ask for some kind of verbal confirmation. What are you, retarded? I pointed at the duck nuggets, didn’t I? You think I’m the kind of person who silently points at food he doesn’t want? Think again.

That’s why I started eating at fast food places exclusively. It’s way easier to gesture your way through a meal there since they’ve usually got the menu in big pictures over the cash registers. But some of those geniuses have a hard time following an imaginary line from your fingertip to the menu, everything’s all “Oh, you want Big Mac?” Even at the Chinese place, weird as shit. And you wouldn’t believe the trouble you can get into if you decide to make it easy for them and just reach over to press the cash register buttons yourself. It’s like they think you need a degree in nuclear physics to run the thing. I’ve seen them press the “Slow Loris” button enough times, I know where it is. If you want to have a one-sided argument with me about it, I guess that’s just your prerogative.

Nobody’s worse about the “no talking” thing that people who call on the phone. Jesus. I don’t know where these people come from. If you’re going to contact me over a non-visual medium, at least have the courtesy to learn your Morse code, people. I’m willing to meet you half-way in the auditory department, and you’re just shitting all over my diplomacy with your “Hello? HELLO?? Is there anybody there? I don’t know, it’s just this weird tapping noise. I think my phone’s fucked up.”

As you can imagine, I flunked speech class in college. I thought I could Pictionary my way through it, but my professor was a hard-ass about the talking part. And the rest of the class were horrible guessers anyway. A cow? If you people can’t tell the difference between a horse and a cow, remind me never to accept a barbecue invitation over at any of your houses, all right? That was a hard year, both semesters. Eventually I got the requirement waived after arguing (in pictures) that speech class was an illogical requirement for a culinary arts degree.

Of course, that was before I discovered the cruel reality of the world, that nobody wants to hire a chef who doesn’t talk. Talk about your discrimination, you’re lucky if you can even get past the first interview.

I don’t even want to get into the time I was asked to speak at my dad’s funeral. There are still a lot of family members who haven’t forgiven me for that Mexican standoff or the way the funeral home closed with all of us still in there. I’ve had half a mind to tell them all off, but they’re even worse at Pictionary than my college class was.

But I’ve said too much already.



For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds
No, my Deidrebane, not The Fuzz either. Not the pigs, the rookers, Johnny Law, The Man, or the Blue Meanies. None of them, Deidrebane. Not one. The flower delivery man yesterday? Just delivering flowers. No secret camera in his oversized belt-buckle, my dear. I think the young man was just from Texas.

A Martini for My Dead Homies
Frankly, I think these negative rappers are just unimaginative. They have nothing good to say about anything, so they stoop to saying the worst things about other rappers. Other rappers, I might add, whom they know are class acts and possess talents superior to their own.

Don’t Be Absurd My Dear, That’s Obviously Not My Shit
Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I’ve heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that’s clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? I think not. So let’s put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.

My Dear, Your New Children Have Become a Nuisance
I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim the children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible.