Whenever I’m the new guy at some job, I’m also inevitably the guy who puts his foot in his mouth about something I didn’t know, and couldn’t possibly know. You know that guy?
Like, when some folks at work ask you if you want to go to lunch with them, and you say okay, and they say Jenny will drive, so you all pile into Jenny’s car and head out to McFeasty’s Cavalcade of Breaded Goodness or whatever, and on the way, you see a half-naked crackhead fighting invisible ninjas or dancing with himself or something on the side of the road, and you yell, hey, look, it’s Jenny’s abortion doctor, you know, just to be funny, and everybody gets super-quiet and Jenny’s hands get really tight on the steering wheel and the rest of the whole lunch is totally awkward and then later that afternoon Bill comes up to you while you’re smoking a cigarette outside by yourself and tells you that, last year, Jenny’s mom was killed by invisible ninjas?
Yeah … that guy.
I was riding in a car with a friend of mine, and we passed by a guy on the side of the road changing his tire, and it’s rush hour, 5 pm on a Friday, and it’s August, 900 degrees and the smell of exhaust and the noise of horns, people laughing and giving him the finger.
And my friend was like, “Man, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
And I thought, well, me neither.
Because, really, what a pussy thing to wish on your worst enemy, you know? ‘You are the person I hate most in the world, and man, I really hope you sweat a little, and are 15 minutes late to something.’
That’s a bullshit little nothing. You don’t wish a fucking flat tire on your worst enemy. You wish sentient fire-breathing zombie herpes on your worst enemy. You wish getting colon-pregnant with a litter of restless spiky-skinned ass-babies on your worst enemy. You wish a tiny, angry little personal black cloud that never goes away, and rains piss, acid and razor blades on your worst enemy.
A flat tire … sometimes I wish that on myself, when it’s a workday and I’m passing a bar.