In the interest of teaching rather than preaching, I have taken the time to write down some Unwritten Rules from the New Social Contract that I think You might want to look over. Since I live in New York City, where there are myriad Unwritten Rules that go ignored millions of times each day during rush hour alone, more than a few of these rules pertain to living here. They can be applied elsewhere, such as in cities with mass transit, but forgive me if I'm geographically alienating some of You.
This list is incomplete, never-ending, and subject to change at my own discretion.
Article #553-J of the New Social Contract officially declares that the Central Park loop runs counter-clockwise. Clearly not everyone knows this, including the ambulances I see on their way to rescue people who have been forced into a ditch while riding clockwise. "Look at me! I'm going against the grain! Look at me! I've got a broken neck!" From now on, violators will receive a lifetime ban from city parks and streets.
Article #904-C of the New Social Contract disallows pets at work. This may be a city phenomenon, but no matter: these arrogant pricks who waltz into the office with their doggies must be stopped. First of all, I have allergies and don't like dogs biting me. I don't like them getting in my way and I don't like them much at all. Would You like it if I brought my green mamba to work and it bit You, and You got sick? Exactly. Mostly I'm jealous of the attention these coddled mongrels get, but these are MY rules, so there's gonna be some personal shit here. Leave your pet at home. If You can afford fifty cans of Alpo each week, You can afford a dogsitter.
I was at a place that had a giant Rottweiler mascot galloping around the halls. This dog would use the stairs to go up and down between floors, and once he sprayed hot diarrhea all over the stairwell. He miraculously blasted some on the metal banister and I slid my hand right through it. Hence, no more pets at work. To show that the New Social Contract is not discriminatory, any human who shits on the banister will also be ejected from that place of business.
Article #187-U: New Social Contract between me and anyone else who is speaking to me: stop telling me about the colorful, richly textured History of Your Family. It may be interesting and full of swash & buckle, but I just can't reciprocate. I know nothing about my family history and if I bothered to find out anything I'm sure it wouldn't be anymore tantalizing than the maze on the back of a cereal box.
Man With a Puffy, Fat British Accent: See here old boy, my grandfather was a Flying Johnny in the Battle of Britain, you know, and he commandeered two crack RAF squadrons. Jolly good chaps, called themselves the Boxwell Boys, yeeeesss. During a ferocious dogfight over the banks of Chestershire, my grandfather's Hawk Hurricane was shot down into the Channel by a Messerschmitt manned by Rudel himself, the bastard. Glorious, tricky bastard. My grandfather and his gunner, a young laddy named Parker whom the men nicknamed Laddy Parker, were trapped as their plane began to sink. Down, you know, down, down, DOWN they sank into the cold waters. It was all looking very bleak, so Laddy Parker and my grandfather began singing that old British fight song, "Crack 'Em Down, Jonsey, And Tell Sergeant-Major I've Gone Off." Fortunately, it was the favorite song of a young minnow that was thrown back just the day before by my grandmother, who was working in the local cannery in Brighton! (She was doing her part, just doing her part, you know.) Anyway, this minnow was not regulation length, so she walked down to the end of the pier and tossed the little bastard back. Glorious, swimmy little bastard, he was. And then that very same minnow followed the sound of my grandfather and Laddy Parker singing at the bottom of the Channel, rescued them and dragged them ashore to safety. It was was brilliant, you know! Just brilliant, yeeeesss.... So what about YOUR family, eh, old boy?
Me: Uh...once we were in the car, and my mom ran over a cat and kept going. We cried.
Next: The New Social Contract Rides the C Train