As Brits, we’re really great at the art of queuing patiently. It’s something of a national pastime in England – we look forward to arriving at things to find 20+ people standing stoically in line.

However, we appreciate folks in other nations are a tad more impatient. And that’s why we’re exploring the topic today.

Answers to your Queue-Based Questions

Today we have Cindy Sioux (28) of New York who’s here to ask us everything you need to know about the queue (NB: This FAQs session was conducted via Skype).

Hello, Professional Moron.

Hello.

Hello.

Yes, hello.

I read your blog before applying to your FAQs ad. I class your content as follows: “conceptually interesting”.

Yes, we take a lot of drugs. Now, begin as you please with questions about queuing. Bear in mind we’re veritable experts on this topic due to being English.

I’m from America and Queuing is typically, and occasionally atypically, thought of as a by-product of England’s colonial rule and how that lynching of a nation led to generalised, but chronic, fluctuating psychosomatic, hypomanic mood disorders such as aphasia and apraxia that now (stereotypically, at least) characterise the nation in the eyes of the watching world.

Yes. And… what’s your job, Cindy?

I flip burgers at McDonald’s.

Are you tempted to try a different line of employment? Like flipping burgers on a McDonald’s on Mount Everest.

Not really. I love burgers.

Okay. Are the queues big at McDonald’s?

That’s an irrelevance. It’s the polarity that is of nescient-based mediation. For your edification, How do the British stay so restrained?

Well, we’re kind of an awkward nation with a sense of repressed restraint brought about…

Hmmm. You think that’s noble?

Well, yeah. We guess. We mean, how else should you…

What, a simpering sense of self-congratulatory standing to celebrate the banality of your orderly serendipity?

Not really, it’s more about…

The national inability to take decisive actions, typified by the present Brexit fiasco?

Erm… well, we guess if that’s…

Has your nation ever made a laudable instantaneous decision?

Not that we can think of, but none of that relates to queuing and…

Oh, it’s all about the queue. the procession of life. And In the way your mundane happenstance in dealing with orderly formations is in direct relation to your lack of physicalism complementing Symbiotic phasma pertaining to the complimentary sense of accidentalism that merges uneasily with acosmisms of necessitarianism and…

Uh oh… Cindy… the connection is going! You’re breaking up…

It’s fine. you’re just detracting from the objectivist notion of…

Sorry, looks like we’ll have to end the conversation. Okay, is the connection cut? Good. Jesus Christ almighty, what an annoying woman. Phew.

Anyway, that’s all done with. We’ll have to complete the rest of this thing with a staff member, then…

Professional Moron’s Esteemed editor, Mr. Wapojif: I shall enter the fray, like a bold knight worthy of glory!

Oh, no… sir, can you put some clothes on, please, if we’re to do this?

Mr. Wapojif: Never! Don’t let my naked frame put you off from asking the most pertinent of questions!

But it is putting me off a great deal.

Mr. Wapojif: Snowflake.

Erm… okay. Anyway, the last time you were in a queue you set the building on fire. What do you know about this topic other than petty arson?

Mr. Wapojif: Tish and pish! That’s what happens when there’s a delay. You must be expedient. Speed up the process! I set the supermarket on fire and, consequently, the queue exponentially decreased in size due to customers fleeing in panic.

But then you went to jail, subsequently losing a week of your life.

Mr. Wapojif: That’s a small price to pay!

How, exactly? On every logical level you have to admit you merely added a delay to your day.

Mr. Wapojif: Well, I disagree. The art of queuing does not relate to the queue. If you are to master it, you must become the queue.

Okay. How do you do that?

Mr. Wapojif: Add “Oh, mighty one” to the end of your sentences.

Er… no. We’re not going to do that.

Mr. Wapojif: Do it, or I’ll cry!

How does one become the queue, oh mighty one?

Mr. Wapojif: You must talk to your fellow queuerers and understand their reason for queueing. Only then will you be at one with the queue, for you will understand its existence.

Okay. So small talk is your solution, oh mighty one?

Mr. Wapojif: Yes.

But we hate small talk, oh mighy one.

Mr. Wapojif: Then refer to our guide.

The guide to indulging in small talk? Can’t we just set the queue on fire instead?

Mr. Wapojif: No, that’s arson.

But a criminal act, apparently, you’re allowed to commit but I cant?

Mr. Wapojif: Foolish boy! Let me demonstrate. Let us create a makeshift queue here in the office.

Okay… all of us? We’re an office of five. That’s not much of a queue.

Mr. Wapojif: DO not merit a queue based on its size! Only an imbecile would make such a mistake. But, admittedly, that is a bit small. You, office apprentice, go out into the street and find several people to partake in this fake queue. Offer them a Jaffa cake for participation.

Office apprentice: Jaffa cakes are very tasty. But we don’t get any.

Mr. Wapojif: Well then just offer them some gravy. Do we have any of that left?

Office apprentice: Yes, 37 litres.

Mr. Wapojif: Good. Now, go forth into the street and find several people to formulate a queue. Then I will demonstrate.

Office apprentice: Oh… okay.

[The office apprentice disappears for an hour, reappearing with two haggard men – an obvious drug addict who is dribbling noticeably, and an obvious drunk who is clearly unconscious.]

Office apprentice: ‘ere we are, sir.

Mr. Wapojif: That’s all you could find?!

Office apprentice: Sir, no one else would accept the gravy offer. And that includes the one who’s passed out.

Mr. Wapojif: Fine! Arrange them in a queue. Stop that drug addict one from shaking, give him some crack or whatever from our stash, and get him up there he’s no use to us like some wobbly jelly. That unconscious one, drag him over here. Okay, the rest of you get in line. Yeah?

The rest of them: Yes.

Mr. Wapojif: Okay, this is how you queue. Pay attention!

The rest of them: Okay.

[Mr. Wapojif pours three litres of petrol onto the floor of the office, sets it on fire with his flamethrower, and chaos ensues.]

NB: News reports later confirmed there were no fatalities, but 71% of the Professional Moron office was destroyed and Mr. Wapojif was arrested again.