“Wassup?”
Or other variations of that irritating word.
Nothing can be more annoying than that single word popping up on my cellphone. Is it a greeting? An expression of concern for my well-being, perhaps?
For the most part, it appears to be a handy substitute for all those who have trouble making any semblance of decent conversation – and there are plenty of that sort out there as I’m beginning to find out all over again.
“I would like to lynch the next person who sends me that singularly most annoying word again as a text message”, I cribbed to Terror#1 this afternoon. “What is with the word anyway? What is one expected to say in response?”, I spat.
Terror#1, who often shares my sentiments on a lot of things like this – blame it on our “hilly-billy” backgrounds (as BC puts it) – reasoned that it probably stemmed from people being in AIESEC, where it is supposedly a way of greeting. He then went on to explain that since the word is used in Budweiser advertisements, the “Wassupers” were probably hoping to star in the brewer’s next commercial. I suspect Terror#1 might have had one too many Buds to come up with that explanation!
I would even venture that one’s usage of “wassup” is a keen indicator of one’s social prowess. Take for instance the little episode the other day as BC and I shared a couple of laughs and a chinwag over some fruity cocktails and chicken wings.
Well into the pleasant evening (pleasant up to that point at least, eh, BC?), a waiter came up and looking rather apologetic told me, “Ma’am, your bill has been paid already”. “What?”, I asked feeling rather stupid. “That guy at the bar insisted on paying the bill”, the waiter replied sheepishly as BC and I exchanged slightly alarmed but flummoxed glances.
“Can we reverse that?”, we pleaded, sneaking a peek at our benevolent benefactor, who leaned against the bar watching us expressionlessly. The waiter shook his head, his face mirroring our confusion and angst. I considered giving him an earful for not having checked with us before being a total pushover and acceding to the man’s demand.
My inner bitch grappled with my inner goody-two-shoes – should we ignore the bill payer or go over and say thank you? The Pushover brought us a note from the guy, who continued eyeing us uncertainly. The note said something to the effect of “Could I join you guys? I only want some conversation.” We gave it the once-over, noting the bad handwriting, awkward sentence construction but decent grammar and perfect spelling. We nodded our approval to the Pushover, who then plonked another chair next to BC and not me. Was I ever glad! (Guess who was in line for a fat tip that night?)
For the next what-seemed-to-be-eternity, our benefactor waxed on about social media and made some polite chit-chat – the major part of which I refused to contribute to, opting instead to feign deafness as the music was “too loud”. In doing so, I put BC in a spot – she took it upon herself to act as an interpreter of sorts until I told her to give it up. Each time he asked me something, I would signal “Loud music, I cannot hear! Forget it!” BC has yet to forgive me but loves me still, bless her good little heart.
To his credit, Social Media Bloke was decent and had played his cards well up until then – our basic courteousness compelling us to give the man and his near-monologue on social media a patient listen. We are nice like that. It could have continued to be that way. However, he made one catastrophic mistake – he sent us both a few text messages with that singularly annoying word – “Wassup”.
Almost needless to say, Social Media Bloke has never seen or heard from us since. Yes, my inner bitch won – and after some wrestling with her conscience, so did BC’s.
Death to all Wassupers is all I can say at this point – and no prizes for guessing what their one-word epitaph will read.
