There are certain things you are never, ever allowed to ask people.
The main one is, of course, in regards to a woman’s pregnant or non-pregnant condition. You cannot ask a woman if she is pregnant unless there is an actual baby shooting out of her crotch right in front of you.
You’re skating on thin ice if you even ask a woman if another woman is pregnant.
That one goes like this:
Man: “Is Joanie pregnant?”
Woman: “Do you think I’m fat?”
Man: “No, I was asking if Joanie is expecting. Not you.”
Woman: “Well, you obviously think Joanie’s fat. Do you think I’m fat?
Asking someone whether or not you’re fat is another one. Two reasons: one, you will never get an honest answer and two, if you do, you won’t like it.
If you think you’re fat, you probably are. Unless you’re anorexic, of course. Best to ask a friend whether you’re fat or not. She or he will tell you the truth.
Today’s topic, however, is one that I had never thought of simply because I had never thought to ask the question. Give it up to Barbara, whose ability to ask the right questions and get tons more juicy information out of people, like photos of closet skeletons going down on closet zombies, has always been minutes or even hours ahead of mine.
Barbara gets people to talk.
Sometimes they won’t shut up. Sometimes they are lesbians, but hey, what are you going to do? And if the CIA had hired Barbara at the beginning of the Afghanistani/Gulf War conflict, then they could have saved a shitload of money on Gitmo.
So this is probably her one mistake in the interrogation department. It’s also my last piece of advice for the day:
Don’t Ever Ask Anyone If Their Kid Is Retarded
Here’s what happened:
Barbara and a friend have been taking their babies to swimming classes. I now have an 8 1/2 x 11 portrait of Teo underwater, looking cute. He could have been on the Nirvana album cover for Nevermind, except somehow someone has managed to obscure my son’s penis.
So there they are one day, drying off in the locker room, and a woman whom they have been speaking to since they started back in September is there, with her child, who, to Barbara and her friend at least, is most obviously a Down’s Syndrome child.
Because everyone is naked and breastfeeding, and has been talking about crotch massages and the birth and stretch marks and needles and shit, I suppose Barbara felt comfortable being open with this woman. I don’t know. I wish I had been there (hey, free naked boobies), but I wasn’t.
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, when did you get the diagnosis?” Barbara asks.
The woman looks up from her nursing child.
“What diagnosis?” she says.
A long moment of silence.
How do you respond to that? What did Barbara say? I have no idea. I told you I wasn’t there. I can only assume that it’s something along the lines of “Homina Homina Homina.”
Which is why you never ask a question about that. If a kid walks in looking like the Elephant Man, you do not ask. You just grin and pretend that kid looks fucking awesome.
Which is what you should do anyway, of course, because retarded kids are people, too.
Wag the Dad
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