Every day job I've worked has had the unspoken requirement that I be impeccably polite. Most of them have also included clueless customers who feel the need to either ask me overly personal questions or make blatantly sexist remarks. Standard protocol requires that I either deflect such remarks or answer them politely while offering very little actual information. 
However, my rather active inner snarky curmudgeon (can one be a curmudgeon at 33, or must one wait until they would be considered old by the majority of people over 25?) would just love to be able to unleash a few zingers with an extra helping of snark. I have decided to post them for your viewing pleasure, organized by what they respond to.

I often get asked if I'm married. In some cultures, that's as normal a question as "what's your favorite football team," so I answer politely that I'm not, even though I'm sometimes tempted to say, "Should I be?". Some, however, won't leave it at that. They follow up with

Why not?

Well, let me see...
  • I can't find a husband who would match my taxidermy collection.
  • I'm waiting for (insert attractive celebrity's name here) to move to my state. As soon as he does, I'll marry the first person who happens to ask me.
  • I killed the last two, and I think the police are getting a bit suspicious.
  • None of the men I've met can get along with all 17 of my cats. 
  • Oh dear. I knew there was something I forgot to pick up at the grocery store. Here. Just let me add it to my list: coffee, milk, cereal, husband...
  • Walmart was out of quirky artistic men last time I went. But maybe next week they'll be on sale again.
You don't have a boyfriend? Don't you like boys?
  • I like them well enough when paired with a nice white wine and some Italian seasoning, but sometimes, they just won't stay in the oven long enough, and I don't particularly liked undercooked food.
  • Nope. At this stage in my life, I prefer men.
  • I don't. But the starving lions in my basement do!
What? You're a woman and you (insert overgeneralized gender stereotype here.)
  • You mean that my uterus was supposed to short-circuit the part of my brain that knows soccer positions? Oh dear. That must mean it's not working. Maybe I should get a new one.
  • (Or any version of the above that includes the phrase "Bad uterus! No chocolate!")
  • My manual on how to be a woman had a misprint and I thought I was supposed to want to buy tons of socks, not shoes. Maybe I should write the editors and complain.
And, just as an added bonus, if anyone ever does something stupid and then apologizes by saying it was the beer, I will say, "No, actually it wasn't. The beer was clearly sitting on the table minding its own business."