What Grinds my Gears? The Perpetual Shit-Talker

The Perpetual Shit Talker.Dear Perpetual Shit Talker (PST),On behalf of everyone you have ever met: Co-Workers, family, and supposed 'friends,' please shut the f*ck up! Right now.

Sincerely, Chris 'Gonzo' Watson

Let me be absolutely clear about something from the onset: no one enjoys dry, caustic sarcasm as much as yers truly. If you do not participate in, or at least appreciate this kind of humor, i will probably find you quite boring and have very little to discuss with you. My closest friends and i often pass the time by sitting around and tearring each other new ones, laughing hysterically all the time. That being said, understand that PST is a different breed than those of us who enjoy the occasional good natured rib fest. Every single word that emanates from this pompous buffoon's talk hole is an offensive and annoying declaration that you, the target, somehow rank lower on the totem pole of humanity than they do. When you first meet the PST, you'll be fooled into thinking that he's just trying to get a rise out of you. Or maybe just has an odd sense of humor. Or maybe, if the PST in question is of the opposite gender, that he/she has a tad bit of a schoolyard crush on you. Whatever the reason, im sure its all in good fun right? No one could possibly be this blatant of an ass-hat. Certainly not in public, in front of everyone. I mean who doesnt bitch about every single person they know in the privacy of their own inner circle? Thats what this country was founded on after all. This kind of in-your-face relentless insulting has to be just this persons idea of a joke. Right? Right?Wrong!

As time goes on, it will become slowly but inescapably clear that the PST's verbal spew is not just 'all in good fun.' Or maybe it is, but to no one but him. While at first you may find it amusing, and after the amusement wears off, you may be able to tolerate it, eventually you will tire of the bullshit. You will try to make this fact obvious to the PST by every means at yer disposal short of punching the douche in the face. Let me save you the time and energy, it wont work.You see, the PST views the world through a lens tainted by a different color than those of us who actually have some regard for the feelings and personal space of others. In this bizzaro version of the universe, the PST sits at the epicenter. The president, the emperor, the king. He is Michael Jackson, and the rest of us are blundering Tito's who exist solely for his amusement.You can try playing his game if youd like. Next time PST attempts to lay the verbal smackdown, come back with a retort of yer own and see what happens. If youd rather not waste the valuable oxygen, i'll tell you what will happen. Nothing. Yer comeback, regardless of how clever or scathing it may be, will simply go in one ear and out the other. The PST will smirk, look down his/her nose at you, turn around and strut away with a cock-sure swagger. Even if you managed to insult him, his family, his acestors, and call his sexual orientation into question all in one breath. Because remember, this is his world, hes just allowing you to live in it. Even if yer insult does register, it doesnt matter. Because if he wanted to, PST could ruin yer life. Even tho he only sees you a few times a day, five days a week in the office and knows nothing of you or what makes you tick in the real world.

Whats the most frustrating aspect of this denizen's personality? Its not the unwavering ignorance, cockiness, or even the '82 Datsun he drives. Its the fact that his insults arent even that good. Despite having enough self assuredness to power the city of Los Angeles for 10 years, the fact of the matter is that PST is a f*cking dumbass. In a battle of wits, you are armed with a Panzer tank and he is armed with a pile of feces. But like a really, really idiotic Franz Kafka, he simply refuses to acknowledge that the tank is real, and this somehow makes him impervious.

Ive come to the conclusion that theres only one logical way to deal with this type of putz. Purchase a few bathtowels, a few dozen oranges, and some clown masks. Get some of yer buddies together, put on the clown masks and each of you wrap 2 oranges in a towel. When PST is dropping his post-lunch deuce, walk into the stall and re-aquaint him with reality.

Or, if violence isnt yer thing, you can bitch about it on some lame ass blog to an audience that probably doesnt exist. The choice is yers.