Taking Care Of Business

I have an uncanny ability to step in shit. Figuratively speaking. I occasionally step in real shit, too, but I don’t find that nearly as bothersome as some people do.

Even if there is no shit in my path, I can instantly conjure a steaming pile and step dead square into the middle of it. Figuratively speaking. When figurative shit becomes the gold standard, I will scrape my shoes at the teller window and leave the bank a rich man.

I was just lying there, minding my own business. My own business generally consists of lying down, which is how I do my best work, and thinking clever thoughts. I make my own hours, just like the Business Opportunities ads in the newspaper promise. I can’t say that my business is an Absolute Goldmine, but there is definitely Unlimited Earning Potential. My business is recession-proof and I pay no franchise fees. Self-Starters need not apply.

So I’m tending to my business and the phone rings. It’s a regular customer of my business.

"How ya doin’?"

"Good enough." That’s my pat answer here in the Land of Low Expectations. After all, when you set your expectations nad-high to a gnat, nothing can disappoint you. In that same vein, take care in establishing the standards for your own personal performance. Set the bar low and miss it three out of four times. That draws down the expectations of those around you, and you will soon sense less disappointment from them. Consider it a form of inoculation. Your friends and family will always feel good enough when they are around you.

"I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh." Note to self: Prepare a longer answering machine message for adoring public. "How much do you want to hear? Because I really should get back to my business."

"Don’t you sometimes just wanna hear my voice?"

For a moment, the only voice I heard was within my own head, and it was screaming HELL NO.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

Yeah, I was still there. I was there, holding a hunk of plastic to my ear for no reason whatsoever, cursing the Pavlovian intellectual weakness that prompts me to pick it up whenever it makes noise. I could take the easy out and let the runner advance. Make smoochy smoochy about how I relish the tender lullaby that is her voice, and be back to the couch and Everybody Loves Raymond in a matter of minutes. Nah. I’ve already seen this episode anyway. Debra rips Ray a new asshole, he apologizes profusely, and he still doesn’t get laid. As a matter of fact, that pretty much covers the premiere episode through the tearful final episode. Blue-balled Ray and a supporting cast of ball-busters.

"After all of the years I have spent living with women - yearning, aching for the infrequent respite from hearing their voices — no, I never just wanna hear your voice."

"But I’m different!"

Phone calls like this one remind me of the reason I haven’t married again. It took me a long time to figure this out, but as a single man I still enjoy the best part of being married. No, not that part, you gutter dweller. That part is overrated. That part is a lot of work, it’s expensive, and it gets in the way of the TV. The best part is the part when your wife isn’t home. She’s never home now, and that’s the bestest part.

"Don’t take this the wrong way (heh, heh — that’s a big road sign that reads "Wrong Way Ahead," leading to a big pile of aromatic, figurative shit), but you’re all different. Just when I think all of my shortcomings have been unearthed, identified, catalogued, dissected and analyzed, I meet another woman who is able to shed new light on my inadequacies and present them from a fresh perspective. Hers. Because she’s different."

"You really are an asshole."

"No fresh perspective there. Wanna buy a vowel? How’s my voice sounding, by the way?"

Click. Business as usual.

All right! Becker’s on! What a prick! I love that guy.