I had a friend in school who was one of the sweetest, kindest dudes I've ever met. He was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken Asian dude. Always polite and kind and quick with a favor. I also hated his guts, because he was the most infuriating person to tell a story to. Especially if it was a complaining type of story, because every problem you ever had was always somehow your fault. He would never support you. We'll call him Adam, because I've forgotten his real name, and because only weasels are named Adam.

Your Story: Oh, my God. I just got back from Best Buy, and right as I bought the computer, I realized I had to return it for a different one. I hadn't even left the store yet. I was literally getting handed the computer in line when I realized, and they still charged me a 15 percent restocking fee for the return.

The Devil's Advocate: Well, y'know, that makes sense, because there are a lot of people making returns and sometimes that increases overhead because a;lkfna;lskdfj a;sdfkja;lsdkfjalfa;l.ad.fa.sdfka'sdfkja ...

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"a;lkfna;lskdfj a;sdfkja;lsdkfjalfa;l.ad.fa.sdfka'sdfkja ...": phrase indicating a lazy Internet writer's attempt to convey worthless words.

It really didn't matter what the story was; it was always somehow your fault, especially in the service industry context -- mostly because Adam worked in a camping supplies retail store and hated everyone all the time (despite being so sweet and kind and seemingly mild-mannered). Eventually, it became sort of a joke among us and we tried inventing stories he couldn't possibly pull his Devil's Advocate bullshit on. But he did, over and over, until the day I bested him. It was glorious.

"Hey, I just got back from Burger King and they totally messed up my order," I said.

"Well," Adam replied, "did you have like a special order?"

Yes," I conceded. "I ordered my Whopper without onions."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Yeah, well, y'see, there you go ..."

"Adam, this is America. I'm allowed to ask for something without onions without inviting a 20-minute delay and a still-messed-up order."

"Well, y'know, that's not really what fast food is about."

"It's not? Burger King's slogan is 'HAVE IT YOUR WAY'!"

*For younger readers: It totes was. Totes. That's what you kids say, right? Totes? Yeah, it totes was, fo sho. Tru dat.

The True Believer lets you tell your story. He might even laugh at all the right parts and listen patiently for the ending while you tell it. But that's because he has a point to make. See, the True Believer is a devout Christian or an ardent vegan or a strict libertarian -- it doesn't matter. He is a member of some belief that systematically runs through every single thing he does in his life. There is nothing, not even your story about buying shoes, that does not tie back directly to his central beliefs. So when you finish your tale, instead of having a laugh and a beer, you get this:

Your Story: ... so anyway, I was just about to leave the shoe store because they didn't have my size when a box fell off the shelf, nearly hitting me on the head. But when it hit the ground, the black Kenneth Coles I was looking for popped right out of the box. They'd been put back in the wrong spot, and by sheer coincidence one of the workers accidentally knocked them off the wall as I walked by!"

True Believer 1: Yep. It's funny how God is always looking out for you.

True Believer 2: Yeah, fucking corporate America, man, cutting wages so that no one does a good job anymore. Throwing boxes where they don't belong and nearly killing customers.

True Believer 3: Wait, you still wear leather? Do you know what they do to cows to get that?

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"You lost your thumb using a table saw without a guard? Thanks, Obama!"

Your Story: So anyway, I had no money in my wallet. I also had no idea how I was gonna get home. Then suddenly, I find a hundred-dollar bill in the street!"

The One-Upper: Oh, man, I'll do you one better: I once found a 20!"

But there is another kind of Interrupter who's a lot harder to define. He's the clarifying kind of Interrupter. There's a good chance he is paying attention -- even actively listening. He's not interrupting so much as clarifying. See, he wants to make sure he gets every vital detail so that when you get to the big finish of your story, he gets it. I can appreciate that. Sometimes, I'm even the Clarifier, because I don't want that whole story to get told with no payoff. And sometimes, especially if you're dealing with a weak storyteller, the Clarifier can be helpful for all. For example, someone might be telling a story about how some woman in a crowd was describing the shape of the birthmark on his ass without ever first explaining to his audience that he went to the Thanksgiving Day Parade without wearing pants.

But more often than not, the Clarifier is asking for clarification on worthless points that are completely irrelevant to the story.

Your Story: Did I ever tell you guys about that time I got a Mercedes-Benz for free? Oh, man, you won't believe it. OK, so I was in Bethesda, Maryland, to visit my aunt, and-

The Clarifier: Wait. Father's sister or mother's sister? Or by marriage?

Your Story: What? Oh, father's sister, I guess. Anyway, I got lost on my way, so I drove my shitty 1988 Honda Accord into this dealership just to get directions, and-

The Clarifier: Was it an automatic or a shift? I just want to make sure I follow ...

Your Story: Automatic. It's not important. Anyway, this salesman takes a liking to it. He apparently has been restoring a 1988 Honda in his spare time, part by part, because, and I shit you not, that's the car he lost his virginity in, and so he says-

The Clarifier: In Maryland?

Your Story: Yes! Who cares?

The Clarifier: Sorry, go on ...

Your Story: Nothing. He just gave me a car in a straight trade and blah blah whatever. I have to go fuck your mom now. Your mom in Chicago. I'm going to use Trojan condoms with spermicidal lubricant. I'm going to take American Airlines to get there and probably sit in business class. She'll reach orgasm in four minutes and nine seconds. OK? OK?!