MattMaroon.com

There are certain groups of people I categorically mistrust. At the top of my list (and, I imagine, everyone else’s) are proctologists. That’s a career choice that makes no sense at all. I guess the costs involved in starting your own practice are minimal, since their only equipment is a rubber glove and a flashlight, but that still doesn’t seem like a fair trade to me. Six years of school, three years of residency, and a hundred grand in tuition to do a job that I would consider daily proof that there is a God and he hates me? I hear Wal-Mart is hiring.

Second on the list, and also in the medical profession, are male gynecologists. I always wonder about them. I can just picture their middle school career day.

Teacher: What do you want to do when you grow up Billy?
Billy: I LIKE BOOBIES!!
Teacher: Yes, but what do you want to do for a living?
Billy: BOOBIES BOOBIES BOOBIES!!
Teacher: I might have just the job for you. Do you like vaginas too?

Then, on what I assure you is a totally unrelated note, the next group on the list is people who don’t like pickles. There aren’t many of them, but the few there are should be deported immediately. Pickles are crunchy and sour and generally perfect in every way. Anyone who doesn’t enjoy one with their hamburger must be a communist.

And last for today, but most common, are guys who don’t follow proper urinal etiquette. Most of society’s rules are capricious and arbitrary, and we would all be better off without them, but I’m pretty sure it is written in stone somewhere that taking an unoccupied stall directly next to one already in use is verboten.

A guy came into the bathroom at a restaurant this evening and occupied the urinal between me and someone else (which is a major infraction in and of itself) and then tried to start a conversation with “what’s up?” Who does that? Everyone knows you stare straight ahead and don’t say a word. If you really must talk, save it for the hand washing phase. You don’t just unzip your fly and say “what’s up?” I have my dick in my hand, that’s what’s up, and that means I don’t feel like chatting. I can’t think of one time in my entire life where I was holding my penis and thought “gee, this would be a lot better if I could talk to some guy I don’t know.”

This entry was posted on March 25, 2007 at 5:09 am and is filed under Me Thinking So You Don't Have To . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed Both comments and pings are currently closed.