I am old, cranky, and pessismistic about society
A lady today approached me while I was trying to change a revolting garbage bag, a cardinal sin in and of itself, and as she was the third person to do so while I struggled with the same bag, I was loathe to be pleasant to her. All this before she even opened her mouth. This is roughly my conversation with her:
Idiot Lady: Is that the line to order drinks?
Me: Yep.
Idiot Lady, pointing out the obvious: It's really long.
Me: Yep; it's Boxing Day. We're really busy.
Idiot Lady, around whom the sun and all the planets revolve apparently: Do I have to wait in that long line? Isn't there some way I can get my drink faster?
Me: ... blank stare of incredulity ... No? (I was so confused with her lack of grip on reality, I must have said this as a question because she persisted)
Idiot Lady on whom I wish painful death by hailstorm: Are you sure?
Before today, I wasn't even sure that this type of person existed. But she does, and she is only one of the idiot people I dealt with today and in the last week.
On Christmas Eve Eve, I had to go to the bank for work to exchange large bills for small bills and coins. Apparently this is a common practice among businesses. As I exited the bank, clutching my precious sack of newly-exchanged change, I watched the middle-aged to old lady driving the enormous Buick Le Saber parked beside my little Honda swing her door open, smacking my door with hers. I was a little upset about that, but I said nothing, and I'm pretty sure that I didn't react at all, but then she saw me, and saw that I was coming to get into my car. Apparently, this was terribly offensive to her because she rolled her eyes in disgust and heaved a sigh as if to say, "For the love of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, your presence here as I damage your car through my idiotic and careless disregard for your personal property is entirely offensive to me. I wish that you had just stayed in that stupid bank, you walking pile of filth who would dare to park your despicable little hatbox of a car within 500 metres of my beautifully gleaming automobile. I think your personal hygiene atrocious and your haircut less than fashionable. You suck and I hate you, poop-head!" before slamming her door and driving away. Exactly how does one react to a situation such as this? My first inclination was to follow her to her (surely entirely important) destination, and then park next to her, wait for her to come out of wherever the crap she was and open my door recklessly before hitting her car door repeatedly with my 9 Iron. (To break off on a short tangent here, I originally was going to write Sand Wedge instead of 9 Iron, but decided to change my club of choice when the first thought that popped into my head at Sand Wedge was mmmm, I like sandwiches, a thought that of course repeated itself as soon as I wrote the word club earlier in this sandwich... I mean sentence... boy, I'm a mess...) I would then proceed to roll my eyes and peel out of the parking lot laughing like a lunatic. Instead, I calmly drove back to work.
I work with a Prima Donna... or a princess. I can't decide which. It is a boy. This boy is unable to operate a cash register or carry milk crates or fill whip cream containers or fill his milk fridge or change his own filthy cloths or clean up after himself or make drinks without making the counter look as if Hurricane Katrina has been preparing beverages instead of a human being or move past me without patting me on the shoulder and telling me exactly where he is so that I don't bump into him or get his own syrup bottle from the back room or make due with only a single bottle of vanilla syrup at his disposal or follow drink recipes instead of simply making up his own recipes or... actually, that's all I can think of right now. Check back later, I may have more. all this I think I might be able to handle. He'd just be one more moron, but at every turn, he acts entirely superior to me and feels the need to boss me around and generally try to prove to everyone around that his is bigger. Well, hurray for you, Princess Boy. Yours is bigger, and you look much better in that pink frilly dress than I do. Now stop slopping milk all over my pants and shoes.
I want to play Dodge-ball with all the people that fill me with rage during the course of a day. I'd line them all up and smoke them in the face with one of those red rubber playground balls. Then I'd walk away and call it even. Of course I'd roll my eyes first and heave a sigh.
Oh yeah, one more thing. It seems that he is also unable to make drinks without spilling hot milk on my head as I stock the milk fridge that he is unable to stock. I think I'd hit him with two red rubber playground balls. Told you I was cranky.
Idiot Lady: Is that the line to order drinks?
Me: Yep.
Idiot Lady, pointing out the obvious: It's really long.
Me: Yep; it's Boxing Day. We're really busy.
Idiot Lady, around whom the sun and all the planets revolve apparently: Do I have to wait in that long line? Isn't there some way I can get my drink faster?
Me: ... blank stare of incredulity ... No? (I was so confused with her lack of grip on reality, I must have said this as a question because she persisted)
Idiot Lady on whom I wish painful death by hailstorm: Are you sure?
Before today, I wasn't even sure that this type of person existed. But she does, and she is only one of the idiot people I dealt with today and in the last week.
On Christmas Eve Eve, I had to go to the bank for work to exchange large bills for small bills and coins. Apparently this is a common practice among businesses. As I exited the bank, clutching my precious sack of newly-exchanged change, I watched the middle-aged to old lady driving the enormous Buick Le Saber parked beside my little Honda swing her door open, smacking my door with hers. I was a little upset about that, but I said nothing, and I'm pretty sure that I didn't react at all, but then she saw me, and saw that I was coming to get into my car. Apparently, this was terribly offensive to her because she rolled her eyes in disgust and heaved a sigh as if to say, "For the love of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, your presence here as I damage your car through my idiotic and careless disregard for your personal property is entirely offensive to me. I wish that you had just stayed in that stupid bank, you walking pile of filth who would dare to park your despicable little hatbox of a car within 500 metres of my beautifully gleaming automobile. I think your personal hygiene atrocious and your haircut less than fashionable. You suck and I hate you, poop-head!" before slamming her door and driving away. Exactly how does one react to a situation such as this? My first inclination was to follow her to her (surely entirely important) destination, and then park next to her, wait for her to come out of wherever the crap she was and open my door recklessly before hitting her car door repeatedly with my 9 Iron. (To break off on a short tangent here, I originally was going to write Sand Wedge instead of 9 Iron, but decided to change my club of choice when the first thought that popped into my head at Sand Wedge was mmmm, I like sandwiches, a thought that of course repeated itself as soon as I wrote the word club earlier in this sandwich... I mean sentence... boy, I'm a mess...) I would then proceed to roll my eyes and peel out of the parking lot laughing like a lunatic. Instead, I calmly drove back to work.
I work with a Prima Donna... or a princess. I can't decide which. It is a boy. This boy is unable to operate a cash register or carry milk crates or fill whip cream containers or fill his milk fridge or change his own filthy cloths or clean up after himself or make drinks without making the counter look as if Hurricane Katrina has been preparing beverages instead of a human being or move past me without patting me on the shoulder and telling me exactly where he is so that I don't bump into him or get his own syrup bottle from the back room or make due with only a single bottle of vanilla syrup at his disposal or follow drink recipes instead of simply making up his own recipes or... actually, that's all I can think of right now. Check back later, I may have more. all this I think I might be able to handle. He'd just be one more moron, but at every turn, he acts entirely superior to me and feels the need to boss me around and generally try to prove to everyone around that his is bigger. Well, hurray for you, Princess Boy. Yours is bigger, and you look much better in that pink frilly dress than I do. Now stop slopping milk all over my pants and shoes.
I want to play Dodge-ball with all the people that fill me with rage during the course of a day. I'd line them all up and smoke them in the face with one of those red rubber playground balls. Then I'd walk away and call it even. Of course I'd roll my eyes first and heave a sigh.
Oh yeah, one more thing. It seems that he is also unable to make drinks without spilling hot milk on my head as I stock the milk fridge that he is unable to stock. I think I'd hit him with two red rubber playground balls. Told you I was cranky.
posted by Sam at 9:56 PM
4 Comments:
People are stupid. (And I'm really sorry that they are.)
hmm... sometimes I wonder whether this job of yours was a good idea. Yeah, money is good. That's true. But cranky Sam isn't. :( And yes. People are definately stupid.
I would be able to understand the first person, if she was slipping a $20 into your breast pocket. Otherwise, she can forget it.
And did I ever tell you about the time my presence guilted someone into leaving a note after hitting someone? Some lady pulled through a spot at Sobey's and for some idiotic reason, decided that the spot one row and two spots closer was a better idea, so she drives around the row to get into that spot. Instead, somehow she forgot how to turn her SUV and turned much to sharply scraping up against the driver side nose of the car. There I was sitting and watching, I saw her get out of her car and she saw me see her. Now I wasn't sure if there was damage to this car (though I'm surprised there wasn't more) or whether the black mark that was there was there from before (her vehicle doesn't seem like it would've made the mark). So she comes over, inspects the damage, goes back to her SUV, and searches for some paper or something. Now I didn't stick around to see if she had left the note, or if the note was anything more than "Oops", but I felt I had done my duty sticking around longer than I needed to so that the person fessed up to their mistake.
Mmmmm... sand wedge...
Seriously. Everyfriggingone else gets Boxing Day off; why not the people in retail? Boxing Day should be reclaimed by the lowly working class, and should be turned in a day to promote peace and a lack of commercialism and lattes. That is how I feel about that.
We could eradicate December 27, as well. What a useless turd of a day. It's the wishy-washiest of days, except for perhaps December 28. They're not Christmas or New Years, they're just hanging around them trying to hook up with the girls that Christmas and New Years decide are beneath them. December 27 and 28 are those skeevy cousins that you "forget" to invite to family functions because they hit on their hot cousins.
Honestly.
(amy)
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