Small Talk Is Hitler
So we’re standing at the counter in this hotel lobby, staring into space. The girl’s name is Irina and she’s plump, the guy’s name is Erik and he’s important, my name is Marcel and I want to go home. But that’s not possible. Business appointments are essential for business. So instead of telling Irina that I want to penetrate her anally in her single room at around 9 p.m. tonight and carefully stapling my bank details to Erik’s forehead so he can transfer his inherited fortune to me, we first have to perform the social dance of dances.
I hate small talk. And I hate the attentive I don’t really give a shit about your life, but yes, nice weather smile with the dull looks, all of which have been trained so as not to yawn at each other. And I hate most people anyway. So why bother? Dogs sniff each other’s behinds, humans get closer through small talk. Which is definitely less fun. Imagine how many wonderful hours we could save if we got straight to the point.
Because let’s be honest. Rudimentary conversations are a fraction of the general German chatter. Exchanging information is important. Your aunt’s cute dog is not. Yelling at someone out of deep hatred because they dropped my ice cream on the ground is important. Farmer Wants a Wife is not. When I throw myself drunk in front of a girl in the park at night to tell her how much I love her and that she has the most beautiful knees in the world, that’s important. Ninety-nine percent, no, what am I saying, 100 percent of all tweets are not.
However, I am also the master of double standards. While I would like to push my way to the top without saying much, I can’t stand people who try to do the same to me. Anyone who wants something from me had better know my favorite color, rant about Munich in the summer, and say something the moment I think it. The importance of this rule decreases in inverse proportion to the chest size of my counterpart and the number of hours on my cheap Swatch watch.
Let’s summarize. Small talk is Hitler when I have to endure it, but it’s a fucking law if anyone else even thinks about ignoring it. Immediately acting like buddies without preparing your face for a counterattack. Stand in front of me, shake my hand, and tell me who you are. And give me money. Lots of money. Then we can continue talking.
So while skinny Erik babbles on about his plans for some idiotic web project and Irina’s lips seem to melt, I try to telepathically convey to the bartender that he should bring me a sharp knife or set off the fire alarm or recite dirty jokes in opera form at the top of his lungs. None of that happens; I’m handed a glass of champagne. I nod amiably, clink glasses with the two of them, and laugh insincerely at a more than lousy pun. God, I’m fake.