However you say it, whatever charming idiom you select, the message is the same.
But I get ahead of myself.
Happens every time.
Put three women together who don’t know one another well or long.
And one won’t shut the fuck up.
One has Diarrhea of the Mouth. A Mucky Mouth (“muck” = a poetic reference to that brown stuff.)
Instruct each woman to briefly introduce herself and one’ll yammer on and on on and on and on.
The world is her stage: all the time.
She’s stage center: all the time.
Everything she says is important: in her mind.
In her verbiage, she has no sense of measure, proportion, value or lack thereof of content, sharing, fairness or equal air time for others.
Her self-importance fills the room like fumes from a toxic spill. She has no awareness that (a) her listeners exist and (b) are human beings with their own needs.
She has no sense of what needs to be shared in a group and what is better put into a journal or spilled into the ears of family and friends — poor them.
A basic introduction is, what, 3 minutes. The Mucky Mouth’ll yak yak yak ramble ramble ramble ramble for 3-4 times that, convinced that everything she says is interesting, important, valuable.
She’s wrong 99.9% of the time.
The world’s divided into two kinds of people, my wise and not-very-talkative dad imparted once at the dinner table.
The Takers and the Givers, he said.
At 10 years old or so, I didn’t yet have life experience to prove or disprove. That came later and soon enough.
He was spot on.
The world IS filled with Takers.
Givers are a distinct minority.
A TRUE listener (which I am, my sister is) the rarest minority of all.
The Yakkers, The Yammerers, the Ones Who Won’t Shut the Fuck Up, the Diarrheas of the Mouths, the Mucky Mouths.
Call ’em what you will, it’s all the same. Women are far more guilty of ceaseless yammering than men.
Excepting generally gay guys, put three men (who aren’t close or longtime familiar) in a group and know what you’ll get?
Eventually someone’ll grunt. A second may add his grunts to the first.
Then the next. But no guy’ll go on and on and on until the universal clock itself expires or a black hole sucks him in, whichever comes first, shutting him up — finally.
In groups, outside of bars, racetracks, sports fields and the sort, guys don’t vomit banal, boring verbiage into the laps of listeners, across the table, over the chairs and floors.
It’s a women’s thing.
I hate it. Just one of many traits that make me unlike most women.
I’ve theories about why women won’t shut the fuck up while getting men to talk in identical situations can be like pulling teeth.
This topic rankles since Sunday night, Halloween eve. A new moon — in Scorpio no less! Rita held a New Moon gathering/ritual for women to plant seeds for desired manifestations.
Of course “sharing” was involved.
Some 34 women showed, most strangers to one another. So we went around the room doing brief introductions.
At least two women yakked and yakked. Eating up valuable time. Adding, really, nothing to the group. One diarrhea-ed (made-up verb) on.
When my turn came, I stated my name, nothing more or else.
Women are generally extremely social creatures. Social and verbal. The mix lends itself to EXACTLY WHAT WOMEN DO: Talk too much. Talk endlessly. AND AT THE EXPENSE OF OTHERS — the most damaging of all. They won’t listen. Can’t listen.
But they sure can fucking talk!!
A definitive characteristic of a Talker is Zero Listening.
Biology lesson. Females socialize. They talk a lot and too much. They attach to one another, they bond — even when it’s no genuine bond. They congregate. Form groups, nee cliques. Then they become all catty and backstab and exclude. They become Mean Girls.
I digress somewhat. The moon circle. So that Mucky Mouth went on and on. I looked at the clock. I turned my attention away from her, scanned the group, basically turn my attention away in hope that she might read the signal that her time was up. 10 minutes ago.
But she didn’t notice.
The Talkers never do. They’re oblivious.
Had I had my phone, I’d-a started researching Brazil’s soccer scores from the 1970s.
I couldn’t care less about Brazil. Or soccer. Or scores from 4 decades ago. That’s how much that Mucky Mouth needed to zip it.
Just as snow must stop falling in summer, the Mucky Mouth finally shut it. But as every female group has one that she will be revealed, so it went on moon night.
So that Mucky Mouth at the gathering and EVERY one past and future, to your spillage of 4,000-words, I’ve got but 4, simple and concise: