Well, Spike certainly understands your pain. He so could not give 2 shits about anyone else’s problems, and yet for some reason here you are sending him a letter pouring out your troubles and expecting him to respond. It really is quite a mystery why it keeps happening. Spike goes out of his way to make it clear that he doesn’t care, and yet the letters keep coming. I guess it’s just Spike’s curse that he’s so sensible that other people seek him out for advice.

Anyway, Troy, onto YOUR problem (because, of course, Spike has NOTHING better to do). Why exactly are you concerned about being rude? What could be ruder than glomming onto a stranger and pummeling them into submission with tales of your miserable existence? The hubris boggles the mind. Assuming that other people should be interested in one’s problems is presumptuous and not a little narcissistic. Spike thinks one of the scourges of our society (along with smoking bans and the Olsen Twins’ midget-whore clothing line) is the compulsion people feel to share the details of their lives with everyone else. That’s why God made therapists and hairdressers. They are professionals who get paid to listen to other people’s shit. The rest of us shouldn’t have to suffer it: not on websites like FaceBook and UTube, not on reality TV shows, and certainly not in bars. As far as Spike is concerned, the only proper response to such intrusions is, “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

But Spike suspects that you’re too “nice” for that approach, which is probably why these losers keep coming up to you in the first place. They sense your weakness like Jennifer Love Hewitt sniffs out a cheesy role (or maybe even a cheesy roll, if the recent photos are to be believed).

So Spike suggests you use the tactic he perfected during the Clinton administration whenever he found himself seated next to Madeleine (I’ll-talk-your-ear-off-all-night-about-this-Middle-East-stuff) Albright at state dinners (where, of course, rudeness would have been inappropriate).

As soon as old Maddy would launch into one of her monologues, Spike would stare at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then point to his ears and say, “Dorry, dut I’b deap,” in his best Marlee Matlin voice. It never failed to work. Of course it helped that Maddy was so self-absorbed that she never noticed Spike smoking Cuban cigars and cracking dirty jokes with the Dalai Llama and Kofi Annan later in the evening.

Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? These sorts of bores love nothing more than the sound of their own voices, so the chances of one actually knowing sign language are pretty small. Of course they may decide to tell you their tale of woe anyway...in a really loud, slow voice so you can read their lips. But that might actually be amusing, especially if the bar is crowded and you keep giving them perplexed looks so they’ll repeat what they said...over and over again.

So ciao for now,
Spike

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