A simple open palm when I let you dip your vehicle’s snout in front of me, even though you deferred action until you were twelve undiplomatic feet from the on-ramp before merging because you felt your life-clock was more precious than the life-clocks of the other schmucks (yours truly included) stuck in this daily grind of pressed metal and boxed frustration.
A sub Mach-three conversational voice when you enter a telephonic tete-a-tete with some other urban housewife whose conversational topics-du-jour are limited to Us magazine’s latest cover fare and whether the second Prince of blah-blah-land shtupped Hollywood-actress/whore-of the-moment during an over-hyped ecstasy binge in some post-Oscar night bathroom-behind-Cabana-Two slutfest/get-together.
Not sticking your gum underneath the table.
Failing to purchase a pre-flight Tic-Tac.
Seeing, like actually noting and winking at, the people waiting for your table in the restaurant and taking a few extra minutes to finish your over-decibeled cell phone call before vacating your “accidentally” overturned salt-shaker and filthy-dished table so the grandmother with the walker-bound white knuckles can release her straining and shaking arms to sit for a spell.
Not flushing that thing.
Showing an unwillingness to spend the extra twelve seconds required to pull your vehicle back out and re-park after proving your driving acumen is slightly poorer than Stevie Wonder on a Whiskey bender.
Yesterday, I entered the Museum of Tolerance with a can of blood-red spray paint and a post-modern smile pasted upon my face, and wrote, Social tactfulness is obsolete on the bathroom wall, and then left, laughing loudly.