I shan't say more

No, sir, no ma’am, no how.

About my sister Kathleen’s husband Greg’s heroin habit?

Consider me like Fort Knox.

See, the thing is, I don’t go in for talking about other peoples’ personal business.

Whether it’s my friend Ricky and his mom’s menopause-related depression, or my wife’s binge showering, it makes no difference.

I guess you could say its like a “thing” with me. An avoiding-talking-about-other-peoples’ -business thing.

I know that my co-worker Jeannette Sanchez (the one who lives at 1506 Meadow Ln) having this secret side that’s into the whole furry kink isn’t going to mean anything to anyone who doesn’t know her. But it might be disturbing to some of the people who do.

And that’s why you’ll not catch me flapping my gums about it.

After all, just because I overheard my best friend Steve’s wife tell her friend she was thinking of killing him, is that any reason to go blabbing about it to him or anyone else? I mean, how embarrassing would that be for him? And how do I know she wasn’t just trying to be funny?

I’m not trying to get all Ron Paul up in here, but I’m a live and let live kinda guy. If my neighbor Madelyn just got fired from her six-figure salary job for failing to disclose her convictions for theft, assault, theft by assault, and burning her last employer’s house down, who does it hurt? I mean besides the victims.

Just because it disgusts me when I hear my pal Dave says things like, “I’m voting for Romney because even though I’m part of the one percent, it’s my ambition to be part of the one percent of the one percent,” is no reason for me to go around talking like Dave’s a crass, greedy asshole.

And when I say it’s a matter of principle, this discretion of mine, I’m not going to make a cheap point by contrasting it with my Aunt Mary’s stealing change out of charity collection boxes.

So don’t even go there.