"21 Questions Minus 18"

This next one is just a series of stupid questions that we all hear from time to time, but never say anything about. For instance, how many times have you gone to a barber shop and the “hair stylist”, who’s been trimming your hair every other week for the last two years asks you, “So, what do you want done to your hair?” “Oh I don’t know, how about we go for the mullet look, I hear that it’s hot in the trailer parks this year!” My inward response is always, “I want the same damn thing that I’ve gotten for the last two frickin’ years, idiot! Finger-length on the top and a number one faded up the side! What, do you have Alzheimer’s or something?! In the time that I’ve taken out of my life to tell you the same thing over and over again, I could have trained a monkey with Parkinson’s Disease and a palsied paw to do it for free!”
But then again, that type of question isn’t nearly as stupid as a question asked by a Highway Patrolman. “Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?” And as you look up into the mirrored shades of a man or woman that was obviously way, way too into C.H.iP.s as a kid, you silently think to yourself, “No, sir I’m not quite sure. Did you see me shooting up heroin and doing shots of tequila with my invisible friend while snorting lines of meth off of the dash, or was it because I was speeding?!”
And finally, my personal favorite stupid question, “So, what’re you drawing?” I have to preface this by stating that I like to draw while I’m in the bar, don’t ask me why… I just do. Most of the time, I don’t mind this one, but when I’ve had a few drinks and I just want to draw and not be bothered by other drunks… it becomes irritating. Here’s the stupid part of this question: If you can’t tell what I’m drawing by looking at it, maybe I’m not done with it yet, so don’t ask. Do I come up to people in the bar and ask them, “Hey, so what’re you talkin’ about there?” or, “So, you guys into sloppy, drunken sex?” No, I don’t. But then again, I mind my business when alcohol is involved. Last thing I want is a big, drunk pro-wrestling fanatic with a bad haircut and no shirt-sleeves putting me in a full-nelson and slamming my face into a men’s urinal and making me eat the urinal cake. But then again, that’s just me.