A Tale of Two Idiots

Aren’t some conversations so insufferably annoying that you want to gouge out your own eyes with the nearest possible sharpest object if only to be given a truer proper point to the physicality of the pain? It doesn’t have to be just the topic, sometimes it is merely the unrelenting obtuseness that can drive a person into an approximation of a migraine so severe that a pencil, a ballpoint pen, or a pair of scissors driven through the eyes sockets could possibly act as a pain offset. And that extremity of action could also serve to shutdown the horrifyingly relentless monologue that is precipitating such pain.

I am not exaggerating. In the past – given such conversations – I was given to a rudeness that I am more or less incapable of today. Back then I might have just told someone in so many words to just shut the fuck up. But these days I am trying to put my rudeness behind me.

But I still hate pointless meandering conversations especially if I am sober. Alcohol is often called a social lubricant for a reason. Alcohol is the one medicine I heartily endorse because in certain given social circumstances it can keep people alive.

But conversely, if you over medicate in the wrong conversational situation it can also get you seriously killed. (Hyperbole intended.)  ‘Drink in moderation’ is probably stamped onto so many beverage containers precisely with that single sentiment in mind.

Words alone can you killed in Mexico. Words combined with alcohol here is like playing Russian Roulette. The same words said while drunk in a cantina might either get you a huge unwelcomed bear hug and undying pledges of friendship or they can get you killed. Quien sabes? Who knows?

And I have nothing against this Mexican form of verbal capriciousness. Speak at thy own peril is my motto. Physical pain – up to and including death – should serve as a lesson to keep everyone on their toes and keep chronic bores closer to their natural Darwinian levels. I have said it before and I will say it again – people who can’t do their jobs or hold up their end the conversation should be reserved additional placeholders in our legal system as those we label justifiable homicides.

My friend and neighbor, Max took a seemingly innocent and somewhat interesting conversation this afternoon and sent into a unrecoverable death-spiral where he was trying to liken his nascent appreciation of wabi-sabi with human nature and our proclivities for making poor decisions. He said something to the effect that human mistakes are like broken pieces of pottery, once mended the new whole is better than the original.

The analogy drug on to where the pottery, if somehow mended with pure gold, supported how human fractures (poor decisions) once healed produced a more noble character.

He even dug out his iPod to show me the image of such a gold mended piece of pottery to prove his point.

Not just did the whole human malfeasance argument being somehow wabi-sabi bug me, but the chemistry bothered me as well – as I don’t believe it is possible to join fired clay with any metal. (I suspect the gold was actually gold leaf, later applied.)

And the monologue went on forever. It was like he’d discovered a 13th dimension in space or something. In reality it was all just a bunch of cobbled together bunch of new-age mysticism stuff.  And I hate all things new-age. It’s recycled nonsense.

But the murderous frustration is nothing that can’t be shortly cured with a couple of beers and a bit of mescal.

PS – There are always 2 idiots in any given [one-way] conversation – the one giving and the one listening.

 

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