Being a smartass is great fun, but you've got to know the limits. There's a time and place for snappy sass, and then there are situations where your smart mouth may get you beaten, expelled, arrested, or worse. Mostly, the level of lip you can get away with depends on your audience. So to help you burgeoning backtalkers out there, I've compiled a list of people with whom its better to turn the other cheek, rather than be cheeky. You cheeky little devils, you.

Law Enforcement Officers


The obvious first choice, as many of the men and women in blue carry firearms, billy clubs, tasers, deep-seated social grudges, and other weapons capable of inflicting serious boo-boos. I'd also include the somewhat less obviously 'dangerous' legal officials on this list, such as:

• judges, who are legally authorized to sentence you to thirty days in the pokey for every 'Asphinctersezwhat?' joke,


• truant officers, who know where you live and are often not above stalking your house to terrorize you, should you comment on their lousy hairpieces, and


• baliffs of the court, who take great pleasure in torturing smartasses by telling the lowlifes in the holding cell that 'this one's got candy in his pockets, boys'

Generally, it's best for smart alecks to avoid law enforcement at all costs, under any circumstances. And for the love of god, if you're ever subjected to a breathalyzer test, don't make the '*zzzzzzzzttttttt!*' party favor noise when you blow into the little tube. Sassy, drunk, and beaten into submission is no way to spend a night in the slammer, son.


High school principals


As kids in school, we generally know better than to screw around with the principal of the joint. We might get the occasional dig in on our home room teacher, or banter with Lunch Lady Doris over the origins of the 'mystery meat'. We might even screw a quarter to the floor in shop class, and bust our sides laughing as the teacher scrabbles at the loose change for his next coffee. But the principal is different. With him or her, not only will our insolence not be tolerated; it will go down on our permanent records.


Never mind that those 'permanent' records lasted until maybe graduation day, if even that. Or that the contents of said records were about as influential on our future as whether those nasty pancakes we made in Home Ec. were actually edible or not. The idea of that 'permanent record' was always hanging over our heads, keeping us in check.


As adults, the only people who deal with principals are the ones with kids in their schools. And if the situation has escalated to meeting wtih the principal, then there's likely little room for parental sass, either. Your kid's either been pulling fire alarms, putting IcyHot into the cheerleaders' pompoms, or turning the 'Mathletes' on to smoking pot and Super Mario marathons. If you make a smartass comment in the face of that, it'll be obvious from where the problem arises. And you might both get sent to detention hall, to think about what you've done.


Coaches


There is no level of athletic competition at which backtalking your coach is beneficial. As a pro, that sort of thing is labelled 'conduct detrimental to the team', and gets your pay docked. As a kid, your sass will cost you some laps, a few dozen pushups, or pulling laundry duty on 'jock strap washathon' weekend.


(And if your coach is also your dad, it might just get you the silent treatment. You do not want the silent treatment. Trust me.)


As an amateur in college, high school, or elsewhere, that same bit of lip will get your smart ass chewed out, and then benched. The thing to remember about coaches at that level is that they're often bitter, angry old men, unable to play the game or derive any real joy from seeing their players succeed on the field. They long ago gave up their dreams of achievement and stardom, and now can only hope to justify their interest with an encyclopedic knowledge of the game's esoterica.


In other words, they're like the rest of us, only they get paid to wear sweatpants to work. And that still doesn't make them happy. So don't screw with them; they're obviously not right in the head.


Bosses


Another obvious group to avoid offending, but it bears a mention. The key to not letting your boss know of your smart alecky tendencies is to be sure you never let a dig or crack slip around anyone else you work with, whether the boss is around or not.


Why is that? Because all those other employees would run right to your boss with a direct quote of your rude manners, and you'd land in hot employment water, that's why. Never forget that all of your officemates are:

A. out for your job,

2. secretly coveting your parking spot, or

iii. still pissed about that time you told the boss how they said her ass looked like two bags full of Jell-O in that skirt, and they're just itching to get you back.

So snarking on the boss to your coworkers is out. It is, of course, perfectly acceptable to snark on your coworkers with other coworkers. In some offices, it's nearly a sport.


Toll booth operators


Granted, mouthing off to a toll monkey isn't likely to get you shot, jailed, benched, or fired. They're generally a peaceful, harmless lot, ready to take your pocket change, fix you with their bored glassy stare, and wave you through to your destination.


However.


Remember that these are people with a lot of free time on their hands, and very few options available in the way of entertainment. Also remember that they are in sole possession of the button or lever that will raise the toll gate to let you pass. So if you jokingly offer to pay with pennies, or ask if they 'come here often', or wonder aloud whether there are any cookies in the 'toll house', consider yourself screwed.


You're now a captive audience for whatever the hell they want to rant about, very probably including what a miserable unoriginal douchebag you are. And the salt in the wound is, they can keep you there as long as they want, and all of the people in the cars snaking into line behind you will think that you're the jackass causing the problem.


Which, indeed, you are. But only indirectly. Just try explaining that to a semi driver giving you the finger at seventy miles an hour. Go on, try it.


Professional boxers


Consider the following catcalls:


'Hey Oscar de la Hoya! I heard your CD, man. I hope your cross is better than your crooning!'


'Hey Lennox Lewis! Don't they make china called Lennox? What are you, fragile?'


'Hey Mike Tyson! I heard you didn't mean to bite that ear; you were just trying to steal an earring to sell on eBay to cover those debts. Is that true?'


Saying these things in the presence of one of these pugnacious pugilists is a phenomenally bad idea, and could result in you being reduced to a small greasy stain on the sidewalk or carpet.


On the other hand, it's quite possible for the daring smartass to taunt an amateur boxer, if one plans the encounter carefully. These non-pros are far less likely to have hangers-on readily available who would be willing to chase you down and hold you while steel-fisted retribution is delivered. Also, these amateurs can't be that scary, or they'd have gone pro by now, right? They're probably punchdrunk and slow-witted already.


Just remember, if push comes to boxing glove -- bob left, weave right, and run like hell. But probably not in that order.


Morticians


You wouldn't think sassing an undertaker would be especially dangerous. But it's always the quiet ones.


Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I tend to watch what I say around people who don't get out very much, work long hours, spend their days with dead people, and know several ways of draining all of the blood from a human body. I mean, look at Norman Bates, just as a 'for instance'.


Let's not even get started on the creepy makeup or the 'buried alive' possibilites, should you piss one of these guys off. Just address all undertakers as 'sir' or 'ma'am', keep your nose clean in the funeral parlor, and get the hell out of there as fast as you can. *shudder*


Truck stop waitresses


This one's not so much for your physical protection as for your mental and emotional state of mind. It's fairly unlikely that a truck stop waitress is going to hurt or maim you, should you step into her diner with your sassy pants on. She probably won't even spit in your scrambled eggs.


Instead, she'll destroy you.


These truck stop servers and bartendresses are lethal smartasses. They've worked there for thirty years or more, have seen it all, and eat punks like you for breakfast. You can't shock 'em, outsmart 'em, or get a step ahead. And if you try, they'll have you blubbering in your Sanka before you can say 'life preservers with a side of joe'. Steer clear, or thou shalt be schooled.

So how many of these lessons did I learn from personal, painful, and potentially permanently scarring experience? I'd rather not say. Let's just say that I've run an awful lot of laps in my time, never use the turnpike any more, and these days I eat my hash browns in my own kitchen, with a bruised ego and a side of orange juice. Lessons learned, my friends. Lessons learned.

As an unrepentant smartass, I've gotten into more than my share of sticky situations. I've never actually been physically beaten for my insolence -- though there were several times I probably should have been.


(Remind me sometime to tell you the 'steelworker at the dive bar' story. I'm lucky I wasn't pounded with my own severed arm that night. Jesus, was he mad.)


Of course, there was one form of beating from which I was not exempt -- the spanking. The bane of a young smart aleck's existence, a spanking is the only real deterrent to running your mouth in clever and inappropriate ways. Until you grow up, of course. As adults, we could get fired, slapped, arrested, divorced, fined, stabbed, sued, pistol-whipped, run over, or banned. Or worse, sent to 'sensitivity training'.


As a kid, there were less serious repercussions. Though at the time, my father threatening to take off his belt was just as frightening as a cop today asking, 'What did you just say, sir?' At least the cops don't ask me to drop my pants and bend over their knee. Most cops don't, anyway.


To be fair, my spankings were reasonably few and far between. I generally knew when I could get away with mouthing off, and when 'sassback' would lead to 'sore ass'. And I'm happy to report that I was never spanked by the principal in school.


(Yes, that's right. I was in school before they outlawed corporal punishment. We rode to class on brontosauruses, and learned about painting caves and controlling fire and how cool life would be if we ever invented something called a 'wheel'. Eat me.)


With the family, though, I'd occasionally slip up. I remember one incident vividly, more than twenty years later:


I was about eleven years old. We lived just across the street from my elementary school, which also housed a baseball field. I was on a Little League team, and my father was also our coach.


(You'd think that would be a whole other set of horror stories, but Dad did a pretty good job of not putting me into uncomfortable situations with the other kids.


At least from my perspective. Maybe they all wanted to give me a big fat wedgie and hang me from the left field fence, but I thought we got along okay. Maybe he was paying them off in Three Musketeers or Slushie coupons, or something.


Back to the story at hand.)


Needless to say, we practiced quite a bit. Besides working drills with the team, I spent a lot of time throwing and fielding balls off the garage, or the front steps, or any wall I could find. We didn't have one of those fancy balls-on-a-string that would come back to you for hitting practice, so I spent much of my youth beating the hell out of a large cherry tree in our back yard with an aluminum bat.


(The tree was fine; I took a little of the bark off one side, but the thing's probably still standing today.


On the other hand, I developed an unfortunate reputation around school for 'beating the cherry tree' in my spare time. That took years off my social life.)


Like I mentioned, I was a big baseball fan, and I genuinely liked playing, or even practicing. Most of the time. But I was also a ten-to-twelve year old kid, with cartoons and toys and a brand spanking new Mattel Intellivision to play with. So I was lazy sometimes, too.


(Yes, dammit, I said 'Intellivision'. I'M JUST THAT FREAKING OLD, ALL RIGHT? LET IT GO! Sheesh.)


One Saturday, Dad asked if I'd like him to pitch me a few balls over at the field. It was a generous offer, just the sort of thing every young ballplaying kid would want ol' Dad to ask. It's heartwarming, if you think about it.


Only, I was watching TV. Captain Caveman, maybe, or Speed Racer -- the details are lost to the ages, but the fact was, I wasn't much interested in practicing baseball just then. It was hot, it was humid, and how the hell were Scooby and Shaggy and the gang going to get out of this mess, anyway? No, thanks.


The next bit of time is a little fuzzy. Either he asked me again later, or I realized a good offer when I thought about it, or he made it clear that my butt was to get off the damned couch and pick up a bat, if I knew what was good for me. All I know is that twenty minutes later I found myself, sweaty and petulant, swinging at curveballs on a dusty baseball diamond.


Apparently, I wasn't swinging very well, though. Why? I'd give it about fifty-fifty odds between 'having a bad day at the plate' and 'acting pissy about being dragged out when I didn't want to be'. Make that forty-sixty. Or thirty-seventy. I was eleven. Cut me some slack.


Anyway, after a couple of dozen balls, Dad decided to give me a little nudge. Now, my father is many things, and he has a number of talents. 'Great motivator' is not one of them. He yelled from the mound:


'Hey, don't hurt your arms flailing at those pitches, son.'


The sarcasm dripped like the sweat down my back. I forgot where I was and who I was sassing to, and replied:


'Well, don't hurt that candy arm throwing them in here, Alice.'


That pretty much wrapped up our baseball session for the day.


My dad gets quiet when he's pissed. Very quiet. After a short, clipped sentence to let me know that was 'it', we gathered the equipment in silence, and walked home. In silence. I went straight to my room. I don't remember whether he sent me there, or I just figured it was the safest place I could be at the time. I even put the Intellivision away under the bed. You never want to be beaten with your own game console.


I'm pretty sure he never spanked me for what I came to call 'The Incident'. But he let me sweat for a while, that's for sure. He might -- might -- have spoken to me again by dinnertime, or bedtime, or sometime the next day. Things weren't quite back to normal for another couple of weeks. And to his credit, he continued to coach, and -- after a few days -- work with me one-on-one, too.


And I never complained a word about baseball practice again. I think if I had, he'd have beaned me and left me on the field. And I wasn't so sure about that 'candy arm' to risk it.

I really enjoy being a smartass. Of all the things I do that don't involve grain alcohol, life-size inflatables, or old Sears-Roebuck catalogs, being a smartass is probably my favorite.


I've realized, though, that being a full-time smartass is a dangerous job. There are a lot of ways to bite the big one in this world, but smartasses seem to have more ways than most. We're right up there with 'bomb squad trainee', 'parachute tester', and 'Kenny from South Park' on the list of suckers likeliest to die in the line of duty.


Here are just a few ways in which your average smartass might croak, while your typical civilian citizen probably won't:


Gunshot wound on a dare


On TV, you always see smartasses taunting gun-toting thugs, maniacs, and cops. They ask, 'what're ya gonna do... shoot me?' And no one ever seems to.


Don't try this at home, sass-mouthed kids. Trust me -- in the real world, most people are just begging for an excuse to line their sights up on you. And no jury's going to convict your killer if your last words are, 'you don't have the guts!' Don't push your luck.


Eaten on an expedition


When things go south for Arctic explorers or a mountaineering party, who do you think gets cannibalized first? Whoever draws the short straw? The fat guy? The horses?


Hardly. It's the loudmouth; the one who keeps yapping about how he told everyone to turn left back there, and boy, wasn't this trip a good idea, and ooh, 'snow... imagine that.'


Incidentally, this is why I can never go on camping trips. I won't even walk through the park without a GPS and a team of sherpas. You can never be too careful out there.


Impaled at the blood bank


Even smartasses can be the generous sort, and donate plasma and platelets to the less hematologically fortunate. But we can't do our good deed without being pissy about it, and what better gripe than a nurse who struggles with getting the needle into your arm?


'What am I, a patient or a pincushion?'


'You gonna drain my blood, or just poke it out one drop at a time?'


'I haven't felt this many pricks since I climbed into the hot tub at the YMCA.'


Don't be surprised if you find yourself stabbed through the forearm and pinned to your chair. They'll put down a bucket -- no need to waste good blood -- but don't expect any medical treatment. Or cookies and orange juice. The treats are for the non-smartassed patients. Or so they tell me.


Pulverized by a professional athlete


Men and women at the highest level of sports competition face an enormous amount of pressure and abuse. From opponents, from coaches, from teammates, from themselves -- and certainly, from the fans. At some point, one of them is going to lose it, and go completely berserking mental.


And who do you think they'll go after? The big hulking player next to them? The family of four out for a game? The little old lady in the cheap seats? Or will it be the smartass sitting behind the bench all game, chanting:


'Steh-roids. Steeeeeeeeh-roooooooids.'


I'll give you four guesses who's getting a baseball bat to the babymakers, and the first three don't count.


And let me tell you -- when it happens, that athlete's going to hurt somebody, and bad. Because, you know, they're all hopped up on the juice these days.


Heart attack on April 1st


You'd think April Fools' Day would be a smartass' paradise. You can say or do anything, and people have to chalk it up to the calendar, for one day only.


But what if something really goes wrong that day? With the whole world expecting shenanigans from you, who's going to flinch if you take a gasping header onto the floor? Nobody, that's who. Here's your 'first aid' treatment: 'Get up, fool. You look like a jackass.'


You just have to hope you can survive until the 2nd, when someone might actually take you seriously. Smartass.

People often ask me: 'How can I become a smartass like you?'


Not in so many words, of course. Often they ask: 'Why the hell are you such a smartass?'


Or: 'You think you're so cool, don't you?'


Or even: 'You know the restraining order says one hundred feet! Would you get out of my panties drawer?!'


But the intention is clear -- they want to be a smartass, just like me. And in the interest of sneering petty snarkophiles everywhere, I'm going to tell you how.


Being a smartass is very simple; there are only two rules you need to follow.

1. Tell people what they most want to hear, with a straight face.

2. Then tell them the truth.

(The South Park fan inside me wants very much to add: '3. Profit!'. To which I say:


'What the hell is this South Park fan doing inside me? You know the restraining order says one hundred feet!!'


That's a 'callback', folks. It's one of those comedical techniques you read about in the books. No extra charge for that.


This time.)


Those two simple rules are all you need, really. With a bit of practice and some loving encouragement, even a child could become a serviceable smartass .Hell, a monkey could do it. Maybe even a telemarketer -- though Darwinism dictates that we really shouldn't interact with their kind in any way that doesn't involve heavy blunt objects. And possibly a taser.


The key thing to remember about being a smartass is the turning point between 'sugary sweet' and 'brutally honest'. It's crucial to be polite and helpful, right up until the key word comes out of the victim's mouth: 'Really?' Then, all bets are off.


Let's see the rules in action, shall we? We'll need a patsy for this -- a clueless sort, naive and oblivious to the gathering stromclouds. So I'll make up a rube, our smartass foil du jour -- we'll call her 'Jilly'.


Now, imagine Jilly out there trying on pants somewhere. Possibly in a mall. You, the budding smartass, have somehow been roped into tagging along. You'd much rather be doing something else. Maybe there's football on TV, or garbage to take out, or fresh poodle plop to rub in your hair while you sing 'I'm a Little Teapot'. Basically, anything to get away from yammering Jilly and her shopping-spree shenanigans. So, when she emerges from the dressing room with a pair of capris stretched around her frame, straining and groaning at the seams, you could play it thusly:


Jilly: Do these pants make my butt look big?

Smartass: No, not at all. Really, they're quite fetching on you.
Jilly: Really?

Smartass: No, not really. They're squishing your enormous ass like an oversized pressed ham. Maybe if you'd tuck the bottom of your cheeks into your socks, that would be better.


See how easy? And after that exchange, you'll never have to suffer through another trip to the mall ever again. Trust me.*


(* Technique not recommended for use on wives, steady girlfriends, women who carry mace, ladies with canes, 'foxy boxers', or large black women prone to saying 'Oh no you di'n't!!!'.)


So, that was an easy one. Let's try another.


Say you're over at Jilly's house, helping her out. She's not the wiggliest dildo on the nightstand, remember, so you're trying to do your civic duty and assist the less clueful in the neighborhood. Maybe you're there, opening her mail -- because otherwise, she might stab herself in the eye with the letter opener, or lose her virginity to one of those AOL CDs they're always sending around. In this scenario, she might see you opening a 'Publisher's Clearing House' letter, and say:


Jilly: Ooh! Ooh! It says I may have won! I may have won! Did I win? I bet I did.
Smartass: Why... yes! Look at this -- you won! It says right here, eleven million dollars!

Jilly: Wow! Really?
Smartass: No. You didn't win, and you never will. And if you do, they won't give you any money. Ed McMahon will come to your house, pee in your orange juice, and leave. You're a moron. Now put down that AOL CD, and for crissakes, put some pants on.


See, that's public service, there. Making idiots more realistic about the poor, sad, lonely, peed-in-breakfast-drink kind of life they're likely to lead. Being a smartass is not only loads of fun, it's also good for society. We're, like, doctors or therapists or strippers or something.


And you don't have to wait for an opening to be a smartass. Oh, no. You can pull smartassery out of thin air, in most any situation. Say, for instance, that our friendly rube Jilly can't find her cat. She's lost it, or eaten it, or squished it under those capri tents she's wearing -- who knows? But you've been recruited to help find the finicky feline; what better time to practice your smartass lessons? To wit:


Smartass: Oh... hey! I think I found it! I found your cat!

Jilly: Omigawd! I thought I'd never see Mr. Fluffers again! Really?
Smartass: No. Not really. Your cat's probably in somebody's moo goo gai pan by now. Hah!


Mean? Yes, I suppose. But really, should the morons of the world be trusted with pet ownership in the first place? I think not. That's how yappy lap terrier rats and crazy cat ladies get started. Why not nip the nonsense in the bud, with a well-aimed verbal jab or two?


I hope these lessons have helped you see that just about anyone can be a smartass. Why, with a little hard work and practice, even the nicest and most unassuming among us can make a contribution, and become a smartass. Hey, maybe even you!


(Did you just say, 'Even me? REALLY?'



Sheesh.)