There’s two questions that I could never hear again and not miss for a moment. One is: “Why are you wearing a suit?” The other is: “You smoke a pipe?”
(If I’m smoking a cheap and horrible tobacco, that question is always followed by: “My granddad/uncle/father used to smoke that.” I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone’s granddad/uncle/father had terrible taste.)
The reason I’m wearing a suit is because you never need to think about a suit. It already matches, looks decent and I just like the damn things. When I drank, it was also because police officers treat people in suits differently than, let’s say, black people. As do bartenders and, well, just about anyone with any authority. The downside is that Russian mafia types might stagger up to you and say strange and frightening things like: “I’m proud of you.”
The pipe question is silly because whenever I’m asked it, I’m smoking a pipe. Therefore, it is obvious that, yes, I do smoke a pipe. Sometimes I’ll be asked why. The answer is that I prefer a pipe, the tobacco is better and it’s actually cheaper than cigarettes. I could say that I’ve adopted this stupid affectation to attract the interest of the likes of you. But that would be rude and I’m trying to be a bit less rude to people.
They’re not making it very easy.
Everything that I like seems to become a conversation piece and that drives me nuts. I am rarely, if ever, interested in conversing with strangers. I would wear a shirt that said “FUCK OFF!” but I wear a suit. I did try a button that read: “Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck” but people kept asking me where I got it. I had a mohawk for a while and that actually worked better than anything. But I’m twenty eight years old now and the idea of having a mohawk is just too depressing for words. If I wanted to be that infantile, I’d probably wear a diaper. It would work better than a haircut anyway.
As it is, I’m just grateful that I have a penis. I can’t even imagine the shit that women have to put up with. I’m not above sneaking a peak at some beauty but there has to be a line. I’ve seen men yell, honk their horns, make hissing noises and perform a whole range of bizarre and, I assume, ineffective mating rituals. Just stepping out of the house must be an act of bravery for a woman. They probably don’t even notice. But if I had to put up with that nonsense . . .
I think I’d wear a burka and carry a gun.
