Midget Parade
Midget Parade (aka “Slow Motion Guy”) from justin and Vimeo.
Am I the only one that is too nice to be completely deceitful? Let me explain. The other day, I met somebody who shall remain unnamed. This person, who I will call… “Jacky” was introduced to me by a person at a social gathering (I’m being ambiguous for a reason). “Jacky,” wasn’t, how can I put this? Well, let me just say that she wasn’t somebody that I would ever want to talk to again. There wasn’t really any certain aspect about her that made her all that terrible, but, you know? Erglgggleahh… So she ended up totally digging my sweet, but, oh so, very passive and superficial, banter. Yeah, she wanted my number. Now, if you know anything about me, you know that I’m a pretty mellow guy that is never openly disgusted with anyone, well, at least not to their face.
And I know that you’re probably thinking, “Shit, Eric, don’t be a dick to ugly chicks. You ain’t no Kobe Dome.” I know that. Except, this girls wasn’t ugly. In fact, she was rather pleasant looking. Her looks intrigued people left and right . Her personality, however, was that of an inclusive and vain ho-bag. I couldn’t believe some of the things that came out of her mouth. It was like an episode of Laguna Beach was being transmitted into “Jacky’s” brain, and resulting in the form of poorly mimed hand gestures and bad impersonations. It was painful and distressing.
So, I had somehow managed to keep this human wasteland interested enough in me, that she wanted to “get together and do things, like next week, yeah?”
Me: (Gulp) Um, yeah. Alright, definitely.
Jacky: Here’s my phone, put your number into it.
Me: Oh yeah, for sure.
Jacky: Just press the buttons, it’s like a computer thing.
Me: (faking astonishment) Oh yeah! Like a keyboard!
As I starred blankly at the phone, and hated myself for being so nice, I thought, “You know what? Fuck her.” I knew what I had to do, but I had to relay niceness.
And just like that, I created a loophole of sorts, to fit my very own dilemma. I gave her all the correct digits, except for the last one. That way I don’t feel terrible about lying, even if to a crappy person, and if, for whatever reason, we do ever meet again, I can just say, “Oh, yeah, thats supposed to be a 7, not an 8.”
I’m the most commendable, asshole-prick, nice guy you will ever meet.
