I sure tend to write about the asshole side of life, don’t I? It’s not that nice people don’t inhabit my life, they do. But I guess it’s human nature to dwell on the negative. What do people remember most about you from junior high school? The ‘A’ you got after working very hard on a project? No. They remember the time that kid wiped a booger in your hair.
How come the fact this kid was walking down the hall with a booger at the ready isn’t part of the group psyche? Why doesn’t everyone there remember that? But, for whatever reason, they don’t. They just remember you, Mr. Booger Hair.
I think some of it is self-preservation. They can relax because the flicker finger of fate didn’t deposit it’s load on them. But why do they all remember you but are hard pressed to come up with the name of the carrier? Because it’s easier to think about your snot encrusted scalp than some bug-eyed loon loping down the hall with a fistful of nose goblins.
I think it comes down to comedy: it’s not funny to have a goo slinging goon but get a head full and it’s hilarious!
Then there’s a rumination factor. How that one situation, out of the billion good and bad situations you’ve had, lingers within your very fiber. It’s because people, generally, gravitate toward retaining bad memories. You’ve baked a thousand cakes but the one you remember is the one that fell when you took it out of the oven.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m pretty much like that fallen cake. You may have all kinds of great expectations when you approach me but all it takes is a gravel truck to pass by and you’ve got a jumble of crumble.
A woman, a stern lady, was lecturing me on the correct methods of my industry. I’ve heard it all before. The biggest experts I’ve ever run into are people who’ve never had anything to do with the subject they are pontificating on. The major factor in the expertise of these people is they want whatever they want in the exact manner they prescribe. In other words, selfish fucks.
When they slowly begin to realize that I do not agree with their new work order that’s when we arrive at the crossroad. They are thoroughly distressed with my lack of vision while I am totally bored because, no matter how they express themselves, I know I am going to win.
No matter which path this woman took I was there with a gate and an armed guard. There was nothing she could say or do that would open the gate. She had made her desire crystal clear and it was very one sided. She left me no option but to refuse.
Sensing she was faced with an immovable object she began the last refuse of the lost: berating. But, unlike so many other, she decided to come straight out and insult me. Usually there is some pussyfooting around. Maybe try to get me to side with her in our battle against The Man. Possibly try to get me to subvert the silly, arbitrary rules.
But no. She went right to it.
“You’re a small and spiteful man.”
“And if you were my mother I’d have used the umbilical cord to hang myself in the womb.”
Hey! No one calls me small and spiteful without getting a sample!
I don’t know what it was, the vision of a baby scrawled suicide note left on the uterine wall or maybe a sense that I’d be tough to sway, she decided to lay ruin to the customer service industry,
“You are the reason you don’t hear about good customer service.”
I am? I should get a raise or a poster or something. I smile, sensing closure in our relationship, and decided to leave her with one last thought.
“You know what else you never hear about? A masturbating lobster.”
I don’t think she appreciated it and, by her reaction, she’s still out looking for that elusive good customer service.