Strangers. There’s a reason they teach you not to talk to them. Most of them are creepy and weird. Especially the ones that don’t act like strangers at all. Ever get introduced to these people? They act as if they’ve known you for years. Like you spent three summers together as bunkmates at Camp Willowtree or something. They’re usually all touch feely, handing out man-hugs left and right. They laugh way too hard at your jokes. And they never call you by your first name. Nope, they’ve always got some cutesy, generic nickname to bestow upon you even though you just met like five seconds ago. Just take a look at some of the vomit-inducing monikers they come up with (and feel free to add any that I left out in the comments):
Bro, Brother, Brah, Bro-ski, Broseph – I don’t know when all this “Bro” stuff started, but I’m pretty sure the general population has had just about enough of it. And by general population, I mean everyone except Hulk Hogan, the cast of Jersey Shore and every member of the Sigma Nu fraternity.
Boss, Chief, Captain, Sarge, Ace – I’m not actually your superior, so why do you continue to refer to me like I am. Are you being sarcastic? Do you think you’re better than me? Huh!? WELL, ANSWER ME!!
Pops, Grandpa, Gramps, Old Man, Son, Young’n, Youngster, Junior, Kid – Is it me or does it always sound condescending when you refer to a person by their age? Just because I’m 86 years old doesn’t mean I can’t run your ass down with my Hoveround. Haven’t you seen the commercials for these things? They can go anywhere! Even the Grand Canyon!!
Dude, His Dudeness, Duder, El Duderino – I’m not a Lebowski. You’re not a Lebowski. So please stop calling me Dude.
Pal, Buddy, Friend, Girlfriend – I think it’s a bit presumptuous to already assume we have some sort of relationship when we’re meeting for the very first time. How do you even know that I want to be your friend? How do you know you want to be my friend? I could be an axe murderer or an escaped lunatic or even a Cubs fan! All I’m saying is that you might want to do a little research before you ask me to bring the paper plates to your next barbeque.
Slim, Blondie, Shorty, Curly – Might as well call me “Leather Chaps” or “Jean Shorts” or “Knock-knees” or “Eye Patch” or whatever other generic observation you can make upon first sight. (Note: I’m not actually a one-eyed, knock-kneed, jorts-wearing, biker…as far as you know.) Incidentally, I used to have a co-worker that would call me Blue Shirt or Khaki Pants or Brown Shoes or whatever article of clothing from my outfit stood out on that particular day. The difference, of course, is that we knew each other and were pretty good friends. If we’d never met and he had addressed me as “Pinstripe,” there’s a pretty good chance I would’ve stabbed him in the eye with a Sharpie. Just sayin’.
Lady, Sis, Girly, Boy, Man, Fellow, Guy – Congrats! You’ve correctly guessed my gender! Your prize: My foot in your ass.
Mack, Bub, Bud, Hoss, Butch, Jack – These guys don’t know your given name and don’t really care, because they’ve already assigned you a new one. I wonder if they ever guess correctly without even trying? Holy shit! My name IS Mack! How did you know that? Are you from the future? How many kids do I have when I grow up? When do we invent flying cars?
Sport, Champ, Sports Fan – Not everyone likes sports, you know. Now, maybe these people are just trying to play the odds. After all, most people probably do like sports. But aren’t there other more universal interests that would have a higher rate of accuracy, like Hey there, Taxpayer! or What’s happening, Masterbater?
Chica, Muchacho, Hombre, Amigo, Mate, Gov-nuh, Comrade – Are you trying to impress me with your knowledge of foreign language and culture? Well, guess what? This is the ‘ Nited States of ‘Merica. We don’t take kindly to your pinko-lovin’, sombrero-wearin’, democracy hatin’ asses ‘round these parts! So why don’t you go back to Iranistan, where you belong!?
Sweetie, Hon, Honey, Darling, Babe, Dear, Sugar, Sweetheart, Doll, Dollface – These names are often handed out by your local Chili’s waitress upon taking your order (No, I would not like to try your Fire-Grilled, Kicked-Up, Triple Dipper Appe-teaser w/Queso. BACK OFF, WOMAN!). These folks think that by giving you some generic pet name that it’ll make up for their inevitable failure to leave the mayonnaise on the side and to bring your honey mustard dipping sauce before your fries get cold. Trust me, it doesn’t.
