a fool and his community are soon partied
On living as an anti social being in aa pro social world
Alo dear reader!
If you’ve been with me for a while, I have a revelation to share that will be SHOCKING for many of you.
I, Jimmy Dalling, your remarkably foolish friend, have a tendency to be curmudgeonly, defiant, disagreeable and all together difficult to get along with.
Surprising?
I KNOW!
It’s difficult to believe.
But it’s true.
How then, does someone like me manage to socialize? How do I maintain any sense of community or connection?
The key?
Don’t.
Drop out.
Don’t try.
Don’t engage.
And mostly?
Hide with people I know who kinda have to put up with my shit. Hang with people who love me without any conditions whatsoever.
Essentially, I’m a family man.
I do however live in this world. Social interactions are unavoidable. No matter how hard I try to hide, someone eventually drags me out, into the light of shared social existence.
At some point, I get invited to a party.
This fact, given my history, is still a mystery to me - why does this keep happening? How do people continue to put up with me? Do they not know who I am? Do they not know how I’ll behave.
Sure, I know how to use a toilet and flush after pooping, but that’s about as advanced as I get on the ‘socialization scale’.
Most of the time, dear reader, I’m happily busy - carting my children from one activity to another or hyper focused on my latest project.
There are times though, when people who really matter reach out and invite me to a social situation with them and strangers.
Years ago, when I was social, I had a simple formula to endure these events: Drink beer.
And if that didn’t make me feel relaxed and engaged enough I simply had to drink more.
In doing so I’d engage in all sorts of long, convoluted and tedious conversations about the state of the world. So many urban hipsters like I was, have solved all of the worlds problems over pitchers of beer in pubs like The Communist Daughter in Toronto’s west end.
Sadly however, these vacant, overly lubricated gold fish never remember the plans they’ve made or are too busy chasing the next status filled outrage I pound pints on bar tops over.
As a sober dude, parties are tedious.
I mean, what do I say when people offer me a drink of alcohol?
No thanks, you can enjoy that cancer juice all on your own. Did you know that for every tax dollar collected on alcohol sales, it cost the government $1.30 for health care?
Right?
Or:
Women who binge drink in their youth have exponentially higher death rates from early onset breast cancer than any other group. And I should know, my wife’s been living with stage four breast cancer for fifteen years.
People at parties LOVE me.
At a recent retirement shin dig for a great man that I know, I was speaking with a mutual friend about our shared hatred of bike lanes.
For those new to the scene here, I’m an avid cyclist and I hate bike lanes almost as much as I hate bike helmets for essentially the same reasons.
Some stranger was evesdropping on our conversation.
A cyclist who hates bike lanes? I need a part of this conversation!
He then proceeded to ask me why I have such a visceral reaction to something so important (to him).
I spoke my piece and he replied.
Well maybe you should think differently about this.
Fuck.
My body froze. This fucking mini-tittied little man had the audacity to project his shame and guilt onto me. I was on the verge of making the party very uncomfortable for him, me and anyone unlucky enough to witness what was going to happen next.
Listen buddy
(Always call other men ‘buddy’ or women ‘lady’ to degrade and debase them before engaging if your goal is to send them away as quickly as possible without regard for their emotional state)
I continued:
You asked me for my opinion on something, I didn’t ask for yours.
Now, it was his turn to freeze. After a brief moment, he composed himself and tried again.
Well, I was trying to engage you in a discussion. It’s only polite to let me share my point of view on the matter.
I shot him a scowl that would turn Medusa to stone. He clutched his bespoke micro-brewed IPA for comfort.
I don’t want a discussion. You want one because you have a point of view that I have no interest in engaging with. I know what you’re going to say and likely why you want to say it. I am unwilling to listen.
I thought I was clear. He didn’t relent.
You know, there are political and larger societal implications for what you’re say-
I didn’t let him finish.
Fuck off.
His jaw dropped.
Excuse me?
Unperturbed, I continued:
Ok. I’ll be really clear. FUCK OFF. I don’t care about you. I don’t care about your politics or you ‘correcting’ my point of view. I don’t give a shit about the mom with her e-cargo bike and her babies.
He squanked something about social justice and ‘equity’ while twiddling a pin on his cardigan. I wasn’t listening.
I don’t care about the poor brown dude delivering Uber Eats on an electric scooter. I don’t give a shit about any of them and I don’t give a shit about you. What’s more, you don’t really care that much either.
The room got quiet but I kept on trucking.
You’re pretending to care in order to shove a point of view down my throat and dominate me in front of all of these people because I have an opinion that you don’t like. But instead of you dominating me, I’m going to dominate you by shutting down this shit missile before it even launches.
Oh boy, it was fun peppering this put down with such lovely imagery!
I want no part in listening to you, nor engaging with you. So to be clear: We’re not going to talk about this. You don’t get the chance to ‘correct me’ and I will go on living my life the way I want to and you can take your eco-evangelism and stick it up yer arse!
His jaw hung slackly as his face turned red. I came in for the kill.
And no, I’m not drunk, I’m just sick of other people’s shit. I stand by what I’ve said and I’ll have no regrets about it tomorrow.
It was glorious dear reader. There was a small pause of silence then conversations began again. The music seemed to ramp up to cover this poor, shrinking man’s awkwardness.
I dropped a bomb on the kind of shit bag man who dominates by assuming a moral high ground and no one died.
And for once, dear reader, I felt no regret the next day. I was clear without being outwardly insulting. I set a boundary with perhaps a bit too much force, I dunno. I’ve tried to politely set boundaries when it comes to the kind of power play people with an agenda but they never seem to work.
I guess, some people just need to be slapped. This mini-titty man was one such person.
But no one died. No one was outraged or hurt that bad.
And my hosts? They didn’t seem to notice at all.
And if they did?
They are like family.
They know I’m difficult to get along with and like me anyway.
And people like that dear reader?
They’re gold.
Remember, dear reader:
Love the people who love you and fuck the fucking fuckers.