"Excuses are the nails that build the house failure."

Paul Bunyan's Beard

"You Don't Know Me!"

"You Don't Know Me!"

Welcome! Today we’re going to tackle two atrociously absurd comments that could conceivably come from the same conceited mouth. Let’s have a blast!

We’ll start with the likely origin of either statement being exclaimed with unnecessary aggression. Someone had to provoke the outburst, and while the conversational bait may have been too juicy to turn down, letting oneself get worked up over what I can only presume to be an unwarranted shot at character or integrity, it’s being spewed from the lips of a stranger. Let ‘em rip. Who gives a shit? What, some fella at the bar told you your mother was a whore, or that you secretly wear women’s underwear because it makes you feel confident? Troubling statements, sure, yet hardly provide any sort of justification to respond in kind. The perpetrator is going home alone, and if they aren’t, the company they’re keeping have been embarrassed enough to leave their pal (or lover) to the wolves. They sowed their seeds and the ground upon which they stand is barren. Let them wither. Ah, but alas, all too often the bait tempts and the hook is set. Queue our first of two unfavorable retorts: “You don’t even know me!”

You don’t even know me. Of course they don’t, and that’s reason enough for you to keep your trap shut. Who says “You don’t even know me!” to someone who CLEARLY doesn’t know a damn thing about you? I hate to break it to you, but you’ve just opened up a stale box of cereal you now have to eat; milk not provided. What were you thinking, besides irrationality? I was under the impression we had discussed your next and only move when presented with this scenario. Leave. Leave or let this sea urchin do their worst, which almost always amounts to jack squat. While we’re at it, the setting is irrelevant. Could be a bar, a retail shop, a library, hell it could be at a goll damn rodeo. Although, if you start running around screaming “You don’t even know me!” at a rodeo you stand a solid chance of getting shot in the knee and dragged behind a Chevy Silverado until you lose consciousness. Best to avoid confrontation at a root tootin’ rodeo.

Now I understand full well that the target demographic for altercations such as these tend to swirl around men, specifically BROS between their late teens and early twenties, but humans are getting dumber by the minute. I’ve seen men WAY too old let some stranger’s inaccurate fact-flinging gibberish tip the scales. Granted, I did not stick around long enough to find out if the insult slayer did indeed call to attention some known harlotry the victim’s mother happened to be involved in. Yet if that were the case, then the whole argument behind subject A not knowing subject B can be abandoned. Those two clearly know each other, and in fact subject B may very well have woven his or herself into said fabric of harlotry. Moving on….

Nah, we’re not moving on! There’s still some gas left in this tank. Instead of letting this sleeping dog lie we’re going to wake that little bitch up!

When someone claims that the other person involved in the exchange doesn’t know them, it stands to reason that the person uttering false insults is an asshole. Go ahead, twist that Rubik’s cube one more time and stay with me; we’re not putting together a 20,000 piece puzzle here. The circus clown in question is clearly looking to push whatever button brings about Armageddon, yet what YOU need to realize is that numb nuts is panning for gold after the rush has already happened! There’s nothing there buddy, and don’t let them think otherwise. I’m going to try and use the Wheel of Fortune for this next, and hopefully only analogy. If you’re not 88 years old and familiar with the game show, allow me to pave the way for you. You’re a contestant standing over a colored pie chart that spins. The pie contains a plethora of slices, each slice representative of cash, penalties, and humiliation, better known as bankruptcy. Now, depending on where your needle comes to rest, there’s a blonde who’s legally got to be pushing 70 some odd years old, yet she hasn’t aged a day in her life, and she’s poised across the studio in front of a jumbled mess of blank squares representing a clue that you must solve. It’s your turn, so you give the wheel a hearty spin. Lucky you! You’ve danced with luck and she wants you to take her home. With a bit of momentary cash in your pocket (because you WILL lose it) you now have a chance to solve that puzzle! Exciting. Nerve-racking. Let’s see what you’ve got. Now, before you go complaining about your lack of resources which might aide you in solving that dastardly wall puzzle, you’re given a clue. Go on, rack that brain for a few moments and give it a shot. Keep in mind that you can pick this riddle apart letter by letter. Oooo, TWIST! It’s almost as if you’re standing at the edge of a frozen pond, there’s a guy behind you holding a gun to your back, and your only options are getting shot or shuffling across that ice in hopes you select the correct path. Now we’re cooking! Holy shit that comparison got out of hand, but stay with me.

The mongrel hurling insults your way is the contestant in our little imaginative scenario. You are the blonde skeleton in the sparkly dress holding all of the keys to the castle. Hey, relax if me calling you a woman in this fictitious game starts boiling your blood. I certainly don’t need you telling me that I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU! Take a deep breath. Remember, you’re the wizard behind the curtain. So your contestant gets a slim chance at guessing the clue (also known as your personal vulnerabilities) with nothing to go off of but a wall filled with blank squares and a subject matter. Mind you, in real life, he likely has not even a subject to go off of, unless you count that Arcade Fire t-shirt you’re wearing, and even I’d make fun of you for that shit. Done with that Rubik’s cube yet? Do you see where this went and where it should eventually go? That pathetic contestant is going to lose! They’re not going to guess shit. HOWEVER, if you turn a few of those squares about-face not only are you giving that contestant a little fuel for the fire, you’re letting contestants 2 and 3 (inevitably his buddies) into the mix. I believe I said this before: keep your mouth shut and let the house fall on that wicked witch of the west. Game over.

Hey, we’re not done studio audience! Time for the bonus round! As bad as “You don’t even know me!” is, there’s an evil step child lurking in the shadows. The culprit is worse than a fire crotch, too. The second despicable phrase we need to bury under six thousand tons of nuclear waste is, “Do you know who I am?”

Oh boy. This one fires me up quicker than the locomotive Doc used to get Marty back to the future. In passing, Back to the Future III was underrated as shit. Love a good western that can successfully incorporate the Moon Walk. J. Fox turns everything into gold. And we’re “back to the future”!

We’ll try to approach our prey from a few angles, but I’ve already pinpointed the first, and possibly weakest vulnerability of this comment. Someone that asks anyone this question has already been called an asshole by God. Could be the one and only mistake he’s ever made, outside of Judas. Too soon? To put a bit more paint on this canvas of context, our guilty party most assuredly asks this question with an air of frustration and entitlement. Kinda odd. Let me explain. Entitlement comes across because to ask the question….in question (sorry), one must truly believe they’re important enough to be known or remembered, and therefore granted extraordinary rights and/or privileges. Frustration completes the one-two punch solely due to the lack of recognition our asshole has received. So we have a delightful situation brewing right out of the gates with this character. On one hand, he’s a king, and we his royal subjects. On the other, how dare we, his peasants, not know he’s king?! I smell a mutiny rising among the ranks!

What I’ve found truly intoxicating as a spectator at one of these events is the immediate burden these cock-jobs shoulder when they assume anyone within spitting distance clearly knows who they are; the toll is heavy my friends, and it’s magical. Of course we don’t know you pal. And really, why SHOULD we know that your daddy owns and operates four car dealerships in the greater Houston area, or wherever the fuck you want this story to unfold? Let’s choose another adventure, because they’re fun to create. I’ve actually experienced this next one in reality: Some withered old “C U Next Tuesday” (solve the puzzle first) was having trouble pumping gas at the station and I’m buying my time in line waiting patiently for my turn. Tempers travel south and she starts whining about the inefficient service, threatening the cashier (who, to his credit, couldn’t have shown a better “I don’t give a shit” face) and asking him if he had any idea who her husband was! Well now I’m curious and I admit, I got sucked into the Venus flytrap for a split second, which as we all know is too long. My imagination took me to the only place it knows to go: Nonsenseville. In a matter of seconds I was running through options the likes of Ed Harris, Joe Biden, Big Bird, and Fred Rogers. And it was when I thought it could be Fred Rogers wife that I knew I’d been had, because there is NO WAY Mrs. Rogers is anything but a saint. Hell, I’d put her in front of Mother Theresa in the waiting line to get into Heaven. So I snap to when this caterpillar crawls her way out of the shop and I make eye contact with the employee behind the register. We give each other that “WOW” face and exchange a sorry. I assume he apologized for the incident, and that’s only natural given this all went down in his establishment, yet he doesn’t owe me shit. And why was I apologizing; I thought later. Sure, I was sorry he had to deal with that Sasquatch, but was I also sorry I couldn’t confirm who her husband was, thus alleviating the situation? HELL NO. I was only sorry that I hadn’t told her no one knows who in the hell her husband was, in effect telling her we didn’t know who she was, and in conclusion letting her know we couldn’t physically give her two shits over the entire ordeal. Now I believe there’s a segue here, and it’s the sole reason people who ask this question really chap my buns. You think that because there’s a completely astronomical chance someone knows of you or your kin you get to act like a pan of lasagna that’s been left on the counter overnight? Come on, you all know how awful that realized mistake is the next morning. Nothing worse than having to take a chainsaw to a dried up dish you had enjoyed only hours before.

I should also quickly point out that this crustacean had a Mercedes, but you’d all likely drawn that conclusion already. I feel as though most Mercedes owners thought they purchased the phrase “Do you even know who I am?” right along with the keys to that fine piece of German engineering. What they really bought was a second asshole. Lick it like a stamp and stick it to your forehead ya henchman.

At this moment let’s extrapolate the situation to really highlight the absurdity of the question. Say you’re at a bar with some friends and Barrack Obama strolls in, ponies up to the bar next to your group, and orders a beer. First off, holy Founding Fathers! You’d be dead inside if you didn’t want to at least ask that smooth SOB about his experience as Commander in Chief. And he’s cool, so he politely obliges. As the night wears on you’re all forming what some might call a bond. Innocent jabs are being thrown, (“Hey Barrack, wanna show us those US citizenship papers?” or “What was it like handing off the presidency to a man with the mental capacity of a lab rat?”) personal stories are shared, and of course the beer keeps flowing. A few of your buddies start exchanging light elbow jabs noticing that the 44th president is getting a wee bit tipsy, and kinda turning into a sleeze. Holy Star Spangled Banner Batman! What shall you do? Nothing for the time being, because everything up to this point has been innocent enough. Ah, but the tides of the great Potomac start shifting. The big O starts hitting on a group of ladies at the table behind you and they want nothing to do with him. You witness shock set in and actually feel some of it yourself. I mean, it IS the president. Can you not at the very least let him buy you all a drink? After the shock comes fear; a slow approaching fear. Like a storm on the horizon creeping toward you. Your fear is what has the potential of happening next. The president just got Stonewall Jackson’ed, almost as if he weren’t being acknowledged as the 44th pres of the US of A. It’s Obama, so you don’t think he has the impudence to let the worst formulated question in history spill from his lips. Alas, like the rocket’s red glare it comes shooting out….”Do you even know who I am?!” NOOOOOOOO! WHY?! End scene.

I know, I know. That depiction of B Rock was more fictional than all 40 Harry Potter books combined. Just looking to drive home the point here people. And the point? Even if someone with the pristine stature of Obama utters that phrase, all respect is lost. NO ONE reserves the right to say it. It’s an asinine question. Might I point out that the aforementioned fable would be the ONLY time someone making that inquiry is well known. When it comes to the reality in which we live, no one knows who you are and wouldn’t likely care if they did. The actions never justify the arrogance.

Just like the joker telling people they don’t know them, the one asking the similar comment in the form of a question needs to disappear. First takeaway? Never use either of those phrases. Second takeaway, don’t own a Mercedes. Third takeaway, go away. When confronted with either of these idiotic statements, just walk. That barrel of dead fish will melt faster than Frosty the Snowman on the 4th of July, and he won’t be back again someday. Fourth takeaway, if Barrack Obama comes into a bar you’re at, buy the man a drink.

Fifth takeaway? Good day.

The Main Ingredient

The Main Ingredient

Sports Obsessions.  We're Past Absurd.

Sports Obsessions. We're Past Absurd.

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