In the adorable film Christopher Robin, Christopher is an adult trying to concentate on his work while riding a train with his innocent but loud PoohBear. Pooh plays a game, looking out the window and calling out things he sees loudly. “Clouds! Trees! A Man! I don’t know what that is!”
It’s cute in a PoohBear. In grown adults young and old, not so much. And the words are far less interesting than “Clouds!”. It happens everywhere; in grocery stores, pharmacies, doctor’s office waiting rooms and restaurants and usually includes such exciting topics as “Foot Warts!”, “My grandchild’s senior photos”, “Apartment Fumugation of giant bugs”, “Fuckers!” and “Carpet String”.
At “Fuckers!” for the 3rd time at breakfast, I had had enough. As we moved by the Loudmouth table to a quieter one, I said, looking the offending Millenial in the eye and putting my finger to my lips, “Shhh…Indoor voices…”
Neither Mr. W nor I recall experiencing this in the South aside from bars where the Fbomb and loudmouth soup ensure loud voices.
The West is ruder.
Just the other day, in fact, Mr. W. was minding his own business driving when a lady decided he needed to be flipped the bird. Careful, your Marxist envy is showing.
“Why not just move back to the South then?!” Well, hurricanes, 8 million people, humidity and no RedRocks. Plus we have lots of super nice friends & healers here now.
I feel empowered to try “Indoor Voice” out at the doctor’s office when the Taties and men “between jobs” begin to drone on and on about carpet strings, warts and all.
I promise to include a photo of my black eye if I get decked…