You Better Be My Date Or My Dentist

Okay, rant time. This one’s for you Teddy, since you said yesterday that I never offer up any sarcasm-laced observations any more. Love you dude.

Personal space. It’s a nice thing. Some might call it a luxury. Having lived in other places where the personal space bubble is smaller than it is here in America, I would call it a necessity. Try boarding a bus packed with a bunch of the French, a majority of whom aren’t wearing deodorant and you’ll quickly understand what I’m talking about.

But this is not a French-bashing post, mes amis. This is a post to stand up for what’s right. In a political year when promises flow like the gushing head wounds in Braveheart, I’m looking for a candidate who will uphold my God-given right to personal space. And one who will swiftly punish all those who violate it.

Look, I’ll put it this way: if you’re close enough to me for me to feel your breath on my neck, you better be my date (i.e., my wife) or my dentist. Otherwise you better take a big step back out of my face. I don’t need your hair brushing my shoulder or your chestal area getting anywhere near my arm. I especially don’t want to smell the meal that you ate hours earlier that must have been a mix of anti-freeze, jalapeños, Kibbles ‘n Bits and hairballs. There’s a reason why we drive monstrous vehicles and have yards and whatnot. It’s so you can talk to me without violating the terms of the Geneva Convention. And it’s so I can listen to you without having to violate the terms of the Geneva Convention in retaliation.

So let’s generate world peace, one personal bubble at a time. Otherwise I’ll have to come over there and decapitate you, William Wallace-style.

Of course, if you’re one of my guy friends just trying to play a little grabass, that’s a completely different story. We cool.