I’m not feeling too kindly disposed toward my fellow man at the moment. Here are some of the character types that I wish would just get the hell off my planet. If I could push a button to eject them into Deep Space, I would.

Mr. I-Know-Something-You-Don’t-Know: it doesn’t matter what you’re talking about, he knows more than you. It may be the obscure 18th century poet who was the subject of your PhD dissertation, a movie you’ve watched twelve times that he’s never even seen, what you do for a living or your favorite hobby, but he has wisdom to impart. No, certainly it’s not impossible for him to have something new to share, but Mr. I-K-S-Y-D-K (a) knows more than you no matter what subject is being discussed and (b) imparts his knowledge with such a pompous air of superiority. He’s never so much as changed the oil in his car by himself, but I’m talking with a mutual friend who’s a mechanic about my adventure pulling and rebuilding the starter on my sports car (myself), and Mr. I-K-S-Y-D-K interrupts to say superciliously, “What you really need to do is flush your cooling system.” He doesn’t have kids, himself, but he can tell you what you’re doing wrong in disciplining yours. He turns to my brother, who has a PhD in music, to impart a few corrections to Bo’s observations regarding the use of the twelve-tone system in Arnold Schoenberg’s ‘Waltz’ (5 Piano Pieces op.23), then spies Alan (former chef) and heads over to give advice on the most superior brand of comfortably-handled boning knives.

Ms. Recurring-Theme: the precise nature of the Recurring Theme itself may vary, but when someone has one, you know it. The Recurring Theme of an ex-coworker of mine was “bad service in restaurants”. I have wondered aloud to mutual acquaintances why she and her family EVER bothered to go out to dinner, because they NEVER had good service whether it was a local restaurant, a national chain or a brand-new place. While her reports on the quality of the food itself might change (okay/good/outstanding), each and every time she would disparage the service and list the crimes in detail. Whenever she’d open the conversation with, “We went to Chili’s on Friday” her listeners knew (as Polonius to Laertes) that it must follow, as the night the day, thou hadst then had bad service. It got to the point that we would finish her sentences. “We tried that new Japanese place on Saturday –“ ”And you had bad service!” we would chorus. “Oh, you’ve been there too? Well lemme just tell you –“ and off she’d go. She never realized we were making fun of her.

Mr. It’s-A-Competition: this guy has to make everything a competition or a debate even if it’s not a particularly competitive topic and you’re not interested in debating him. Suppose we have a mutual interest in music and he asks what bands I like. Upon hearing my reply, he recoils, aghast, and exclaims, “King Crimson! I can’t believe you like them! They’re so [insert pejorative observation]! Don’t you think so?” Why no, I don’t. I just said I liked them. “But they’re so [pretentious, derivative, whatever]! How can you like them?!? You need to listen to Pearl Jam!” Uh, no, I don’t because I don’t care for their music - which is the absolute wrong thing to say, because next he launches into a point-by-point comparison which disparages King Crimson and points out Pearl Jam’s excellence. He never notices that I don’t care, I’m not interested in his in-depth analysis and I’m not particularly bothered by his preference. I like what I like and he’s welcome to like what he likes. My feeling is, if you hate KC so much, why then, don’t buy any King Crimson CDs. Next time I see Bob Fripp, I’ll buy him a beer and offer him a cocktail napkin to wipe the tears I know he’s going to shed at the news. But Mr. I-A-C is even more incensed by this attitude because he wants to argue about it and, more importantly, he wants me to argue back - like there is only one possible winner because stores never stock more than one band’s music at a time. He will continue to ask, “But don’t you think XYZ?” “Can’t you see [whatever]” “You’ve gotta like [song]!” to try to get me to defend my band or force me to admit that his band is superior. It’s not only music, either - Mr. I-A-C is ready for you, whether you want to talk about food, movies, books, beer, dog breeds, cars or cigars, so long as the correct answer is merely a matter of opinion.

Ms. Go-You-One-Better: it doesn’t matter what story you have, she can top it. If you sprained your ankle, she broke her leg. If you broke your leg, she broke hers in two places. If you broke your back, she fractured four vertebrae, broke her pelvis, had a reaction to the antibiotic and nearly died, and has to undergo seven years of rehabilitation. If you have a dog, she’s got a purebred. If you’ve got a purebred, she’s got a purebred they had to drive six states over to obtain. It doesn't matter to Ms. G-Y-O-B if it's bad or good, either; if you paid $350,000 for your house, she paid $395,000 for hers, but if you suffered storm damage to your roof and porch, a tree fell through into her living room and her porch has disappeared.

Mr. I’d-Rather-Be-Miserable: he laments his problem ad nauseam but don’t dare spoil things for him by suggesting an alternative. Suppose he can no longer find his favorite wine. If I mention that I went by Store X and they had a good many bottles in stock, he says, "I was just there yesterday and they were ALL GONE!” If I say, “I tried Wine XYZ which was very similar,” he’s already tried it, it's not even close and he hates it. If I send him a link to order his favorite from a website, he’s already done that but got a message that they’re backordered. If my friend Song who owns a liquor store says he'd be happy to order it, Mr. I-R-B-M won’t even call because it will be too expensive and it will take too long (not that he knows this for sure, because he is too busy bemoaning the vagaries of Fate to even call to inquire).

Ms. Got-You-On-A-Technicality: she listens attentively but ignores the point of your story to focus on a minor, irrelevant detail. For example (two for the price of one) I’m speaking to Ms. G-Y-O-A-T about my annoyance with Ms. The-Price-Is-Wrong and I say, “You know the kind of person I mean? Every time I go to Target, I manage to get behind the woman who wants to argue that aspirin is $4.49, not $4.99, this purse is $11.99 not $12.99, this DVD is $14.99 not $15.99. She challenges the price of every single item in her cart. Ms. T-P-I-W won’t back down, either, and if they show her that the price she was charged is correct, then she wants to argue that it was in another place or the sign was misleading or whatever, until my fifteen minute trip to buy two pairs of pantyhose has turned into an all-afternoon ordeal! It drives me crazy! Do you know what I mean?” And Ms. Got-You-On-A-Technicality smiles serenely and says, “Oh, I don’t shop at Target.” Well, pardon me all to hell. You have no idea what I’m talking about because you’ve never had to wait in line while that sort of thing was happening, at any store, ever in your life? Or Ms. G-Y-O-A-T remarks about the horrific traffic jam last Friday and asks, "How long did it take you to get home?” to which I reply, “Over an hour and a half. I got so hot and thirsty, all I could think of was how much I wanted a Diet Coke. When I finally got home and grabbed an ice-cold one, it was the best Diet Coke I’ve ever tasted, you know?” And Ms. G-Y-O-A-T answers, “No. I don’t drink Diet Coke.” AAAAGH, so substitute Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper or frickin’ Mott’s Clamato for all I care, but admit that you GET MY POINT!

Hmpf - where's that Fling-Into-Deep-Space button?