There three important things that you should probably know about me:
- I am not very bright.
- I am a perfectionist.
- I am very lazy.
Numbers 2 and 3 are particularly important, because it explains things like why I live in filth both at work and at home. With a little effort, I could clean, and make things “good enough.” But I want things to be absolutely perfect, which would require a LOT of effort, like mopping and vacuuming and things. This is where #3 comes into play: things that require a lot of effort are NOT things that I’m going to actually be doing. So the little man with OCD that lives inside me is constantly in a state of panic attack, because the large fat man with cirrhosis that actually pushes the buttons is willing to live with a certain amount of panic.
Also related to #2 is the fact that I don’t like when I can’t figure something out. If I see a problem, I want to figure out the solution on my own, and here I am hampered strongly by numbers 1 and 3. Because of #1, I can’t really solve anything beyond the most rudimentary Su Doku puzzles, and because of #3, I don’t want to waste time trying at it when there’s TV that needs watching and beer that needs drinking. So now, Little OCD Man has been set all a-flutter by James Lileks (coincidentally an undersized individual with a propensity for cleaning). You can read the original here in his archives, which I have been slogging through in an effort to really get to know the Man and the Legend, but permit me to quote:
“So did you know the Titanic carried a shipment of condiments?” Peter said, leaning over my cubicle. No introduction, no hello – the set-up of the joke is the introduction, it is the hello.
“Why, no,” I said, adopting a mask of fascination. When I smell a joke coming I instantly adopt the role of the vaudeville straight man, all exaggerated curiosity.
“It had thousands of gallons of mayonnaise,” he said. “It was supposed to be delivered to Mexico.”
“Really.”
“But of course the ship hit the iceberg, and we all know what happened. But to this day in Mexico they remember that event every year, and they call it -“
That’s when I picked up my Harwood State Bank letter opener, which is sharpened to a bright point, and bolted from my chair; I assumed the knife-fighter’s crouch. “No,” I said. “I don’t want you to say it.”
He backed away.
I chased him down the aisle, waving my letter opener.
“I saw that punchline coming from across the Atlantic,” I shouted, and he laughed and turned the corner. I saw him run into someone else and immediately begin a spiel – no doubt telling that hapless victim the joke. I’d broken the unspoken rule, after all. No matter how bad it is, you let the teller drop the punchline. You can groan afterwards, you can berate them, but you let them tell it. For some reason this punchline made me pull a knife.
I hate puns.
I sat here for roughly 3 minutes thinking, “What the hell is the punch-line to this joke?” Unfortunately, #1 took hold, so I came up with nothing. At least, nothing good. The best I could invent with was “The Day La Mayonesa Died,” but that’s about as funny as a myocardial infarction. Someone out there must know the answer, and I beg you, email me or comment or something. Else I will go crazy.
Oh. Wait. If I had merely read down his post a little bit, I’d see where he reveals it. “Cinco de Mayo.” #1 and #3 lead me astray yet again.
Matt, I’m afraid #2 and #3 seem mutually exclusive. In the general sense of perfectionism, it usually carries a mild case of obsessive-compulsive. Perfectionists are OC in their appearance, the appearance of others, their environments, their hair… In your case, I might suggest you modily this to a more guy-ish quality – A stickler for accuracy. It conveys that that same feeling “If you ain’t doing it right, you’re not doin’ it at all” without the requirement for tidyness.