Be nice, f*cker.

(Originally published 3/9/2006)

I am from the south. And although the south is eat up with belligerent hillbillies who can’t differentiate between Jesus and Dubya, I am grateful for the heritage. I was brought up to understand the fine line between unnecessary honesty and simple politeness, something sadly absent from most other societies in the world. Once, at a Halloween party in Yankee Chicago, I got into an argument with someone who dared to call me Two-faced. I couldn’t make him understand that just because I may smile and tell someone, "What a pleasure to see you!" then turn and say to the nearest listener what a filthy slut that particular someone is doesn’t make me Two-faced. It makes me polite. No good would have come from me saying to the previously mentioned slut, "If you double dip in the salsa we’re all gonna need penicillin." So, I just smile and beam with goodness, just like my parents brought me up to do.

Naturally, I gravitated towards professions where there is no room for honesty, where politeness is 90% of my workload. I waited tables for almost ten years and now I am in Human Resources. Honesty has no place in food service. Consider the following honest remarks flowing as freely as the daily specials:

"You really shouldn’t eat that. You’re huge. I’ll get you some ice cubes and a piece of lettuce. Then maybe your husband will wanna f*ck you again."

"How’s the fish? It is good? Are you sure? Well, I owe Larry five bucks. I told him that you’d gag on that piece of catfish that we found behind the Coke machine. I was gonna give it to my dog, but you know Larry! Always out to save a dollar!"

"Your Chicken Surprise will be out in just a minute, Sir. I’m having Jose the dishwasher sh*t in it because I don’t like the color of your sweater. Surprise!"

Or the following comments coming from the person who conducts your next job interview:

"It says here that you played Rugby in college and that you were the president of your fraternity. I’m not gonna lie to you, Buddy. I think that’s hot and I wanna see you naked."

"You smell like the south end of a northbound mule! Seriously, I don’t think a goat could even bare to sit here without its eyes watering! If that smell is from something you ate, Lord have mercy, you have gotta major lawsuit on your hands!"

"What we’re really looking for, Tammy, is someone to join our team who is in his early to mid-thirties, comfortably gay, attractive, but not so attractive that I have to worry whether or not he’s cheating on me all the time, masculine. Someone who thinks I’m hysterical and the smartest boy he’s ever met. Someone who’ll insist that I quit my job and take up shopping for shoes full time. Dimples are preferred but not mandatory. So basically, Tammy, that PhD must look fabulous on your wall but it’s not gonna get me a husband and therefore ain’t getting you this job."

Television has relentlessy endorsed the demise of being polite. Only the rude characters get the punchlines on most television shows. We would much rather watch someone call someone else a fat cow then punch them in the nose on "The Real World" than watch "The Thank You Note Writing Channel." I often see people on TV, on reality TV in particular, that boast of, "keeping it real!" Does this impress anyone to know that this particular individual would rather cross the street in an unjustified rage to verbally assault a stranger rather than smile and go about his or her own day?

I don’t like people who "keep it real." Their real-keeping usually ends up deflating people like me with fragile egos and soft exteriors. For example, a friend of mine’s mother said to me recently upon meeting me for the first time, "29? Are you kidding me? I would’ve guessed much older! Look at your hairline!" Hector’s Mom was keeping it real. B*tch.

However, sometimes being honest is the polite thing to do. Telling your friend that they have food in their teeth or that their boyfriend just gave you oral sex in the restroom, for example. Or steering someone clear of wearing something unflattering by suggesting that they try on something black, or with vertical stripes, or maybe a veil. I know that I’d rather have my friend Hector tell me to change my shirt before we go out than some stranger who keeps it real telling me how stupid I look later, someone like his mother. But I’m not bitter.

I think as societies swell in volume and shrink in distance from one another, politeness will become a causality of the entire world’s having meshed into one global community. And that behind the shield of "being honest," people will then even more freely spurt their hurtful truths to anyone who accidentally looks them square in the eye. Being polite is more than holding a door open for someone, or letting an old woman have the cab you both hailed down rather than shoving her out of the way (like you did to that old woman the day before). Politeness is a way of life. It’s a philosophy that stems from the Golden Rule. Be polite to me and I’ll be polite to you. Tell me that I look great despite my burn scars and I’ll tell you that your wife’s a lucky woman to have you (even though everybody knows that you’ve been impotent for twenty years).