Making Small Talk
Don't Ever Talk to Me Until You Read This, for Christ's Sake
by LaToya Prater, D.S.M.
In our culture, people seem to have a fear of silence. "Small talk" is
perceived as polite. In fact, the average American will only let a conversation lull for
about 3.7 seconds before opening their pie holes again to make some inane comment.
If we're just sitting on the porch throwing back a cool Colt 45 forty ounce, I
don't mind. But there are places where small talk is simply not appropriate, not welcome
and not conducive to an efficient society.
The first is the GROCERY STORE. This is my biggest pet peeve. I am not here to
socialize. I am here to make my purchases and get them home so I can start stuffing them
in my face. There is nothing worse than waiting in line with one box of cereal and a roll
of Sweet Tarts while some jackass checker is chatting away with the person three people
ahead of me.
Checker: Ooo. Look at those checks! Ain't they nice? Are those
puppies on there?
Customer: Yes. They're Westies. I love Westies.
Me: (muttered just loud enough to be heard): I like Westies, but
I can never seem to eat a whole one.
Checker: (disconcerted): Um…how many cutsey wutsey little
puppy wuppies do you have?
Customer: Well, we have three, and it was Seymour's first
birthday yesterday and we had a little party with all his friends and he finally stopped
making stinkies on the carpet!
Me: (muttered just loud enough to be heard): Seymour is, of
course, her husband.
Checker: (more disconcerted, with hateful glances in my
direction): Ok. Um. Paper
or plastic?
What I have demonstrated above is the "impatient asshole in
line" technique, which requires advanced sarcasm training. As you can see,
what has happened as a result of my comments is I headed off a long, long wait by
confusing and frightening the people wasting everyone's time, thereby getting them back to
the business at hand. If you can be moderately threatening and make people think you MIGHT
be concealing a weapon, that is equally effective.
The next highly inappropriate use of small talk is AT WORK. Now I'm all about
fooling around and wasting time at work, but I do NOT want to hear about people's kids and
personal lives. People who have kids have completely lost the art of conversation, because
they can't have one without working in some praise, complaint or comment about their
spawn. I don't care under the best of circumstances (sitting at the bar with three shots
in front of me), let alone at work where I'm already stressed, irritated and deprived of
alcohol for eight whole hours.
Young married couples that don't have kids yet are equally annoying. They, too,
have lost the art of interesting dialogue, and seem to only be able to talk about their
houses. Leaky basements, new paint colors, furniture, shelf building - all thoroughly
uninteresting.
Co-worker: Oh, yeah, I couldn't make that meeting yesterday
because little Johnny has strep, again, and we're waiting for the plumber to come out and
drain the basement…we just had it paneled and…blah blah blah….kids, house,
kids, house.
Me: Did Johnny die? Because that would take you down to only two,
and since we all know you don't make much here, that would probably be a much more
economical situation. Since having children, tell me: How much money are you saving for a
rainy day anymore? I hear those things eat a lot.
At this point, one of two things will happen. The desired outcome is, of course,
for the person to be so shocked and offended they go away, never to bother you again.
However, the danger of being a sarcastic asshole is that some people make
the gross assumption you're kidding. They will immediately label you the office
"clown" and actually start coming around MORE for entertainment.
If this happens, you must put that fire out immediately. For example:
(above, continued) Co-Worker: Oh, LaToya, you are so crazy!
You'll want kids - believe me, I didn't think I wanted them, but then I had three
and…blah blah blah, kids, house, kids, house, etc.
Me: (quiet and serious) I can't have children anyway. I have a
rare form of ovarian cancer that has actually eaten nearly all of my reproductive system.
Remember when my hair color and style changed so drastically awhile back? Well…it's a
wig. It is not something I like to talk about, because I don't want people's sympathy. I'm
a fighter, and I'm going to get through this.
That will usually do it. I am not making light of terminal illness, but topics
like that usually make people so uncomfortable they go away much faster. If it's a male,
especially an older one, you can simplify down to "menstrual cramps." Those
words send men running faster than a redneck to a confederate flag sale.
Now, on rare occasions, this response COULD prompt the idiot to immediately feel
he or she must share with you any and every story they know about anyone with cancer.
Co-Worker: Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. My uncle had a roommate
who died a hideous, horrible death of lung cancer back in 1973. It was awful. We were all
really torn up by it. I can't remember his name.
At this point, just poison their morning coffee and be done with it. There is no
other way to get rid of them.
And last but not least, there is one place where making small talk is allowable
under certain circumstances, but NOT under others: THE LOCAL WATERING HOLE.
Obviously, many people go to bars hoping to make friends, and will engage in loads
of small talk. My guidelines about this are simple. Do NOT attempt small talk with me if:
1. You are not as attractive as I am.
Actually, that's my only guideline. Bars can be entertaining places to listen to
people, and drunks are easy to beat up if they get irritating. Mostly, I will be happy and
relaxed at the bar, and thence far more tolerant of the human race.
In summary, I would like to quote some excerpts from a small dissertation I found
on the Internet, written by Chinese exchange student Gu Huiyun.
"I believe that every international student will experience different kinds
of culture shock as soon as he sets foot on the soil of the United States. One problem is
interpreting American small talk. As I come from an Oriental country, China, I often find
it confusing."
(translation: We leave female babies on mountains to die of exposure.
'Nuff said.)
"When I first came to the United States. I was amazed to hear, and felt that
it was a task for me to use, the words "Thank you!" or "Thanks a lot!"
In the grocery store, the clerks would say these words to me after I finished paying for
what I had bought. At the loan desk of a library, the librarians would say them to me, as
soon as they passed me the books…In China, we do not use these words very often. We
usually give a smile to the people who have offered us some favor. Normally we say,
"Thank you!" only when we really and sincerely appreciate the people who help us
a lot."
(translation: Let's cut to the chase: Americans are full of shit. If you
like someone, ignore them. If you don't like them, get rid of them. Populations control.
It only makes sense!?)
"In the first few weeks after I arrived here, I could not fully get the
meaning of "How are you?" and "I am fine." These words may be the most
frequently used words by Americans as a conversational greeting. When you run into an
acquaintance somewhere, he would greet you by saying, "How are you?" In response
you would say, "I am fine." But actually you might not be fine. You probably
wanted to say something else from the heart. Even if you were possibly afflicted with some
illness, or you were going to die, you still said, "I am fine." You would not
tell people about your sadness or your trouble. Why? I guess that people do not want to
know about you. These are just greeting words. In China, when anyone inquires, "How
are you?" it means he really shows a concern for you."
(translation: No one cares how you are except your mother, and half the
time she's thinking "What a mistake THIS one was. No more gas station condoms.
EVER.")
What these wise musings tell me is that in America, we are insincere bastards who
are generally full of shit, and in China, people are one cold, evil step up from Satan.
At any rate, the moral of the story is this: A psychologist once said that we know
little about the conscience except that it is soluble in alcohol.
THE END
