I think even the most jaded observer of this irregular column will confess that I am nothing if not a sensitive and sympathetic chronicler of the infinite variety of human tools who walk through the door of the store where, a couple of nights a week, I engage in an elaborate charade of employment. I don't blame tools for being tools: I don't ascribe to them genetic defects, neither do I suggest their parents shared a degree of relationship closer than that which you'd typically find in, say, Arkansas or far north Queensland. No, I am conscientious and kind: tools are just tools, and I deal with them in a responsible and grown-up manner.
Until now, that is. I, dear reader, have had a gut full. And it's not just because I'm writing this at the end of a long and tiring day that has left me exhausted and cranky. On the contrary, I wake up exhausted and cranky, so that's no excuse. Neither have I lost my instincts toward the charitable and decided to become a born-again bastard; there are plenty of people out there who will suggest that I have been doing that my whole life long.
No, the plain old simple truth is that I'm fed up and I've had enough. The tools have worn me down; my patience is at an end, kaput, done, gone. I'm as mad as hell, and I've decided that attack is the best form of defence; so I'm going to name and shame. Well, I'm going to describe and shame, if you want to know the complete truth. I'm going to tell you all about the kinds of tools who walk into the store, and who blight my shifts with their ineffable toolishness.
So if you find yourself recognising yourself in the following descriptions, I have only one thing to say: shame on you! Well, okay, two things: shame on you; and sod off. I don't want to see your tool-benighted faces any more. I've only got nine or so months to go before I get out of having to do this job, and I'd like to pass it with an absolute minimum of frustration, annoyance, and general f*ing about caused by your toolish selves. And by absolute minimum, I mean none at all. So pay close attention to what follows; you may be in it. And if you are, you'd better stay far, far away from me!
No IDers
Naturally, being responsible corporate citizens, the multinational corporation by whom I am ultimately employed abides by Australian law and declines to sell cigarettes and smoking-related products to persons under the age of 18. Indeed, its sales staff are required to ask for ID when they have reason to believe the putative purchaser may be under the legal age. And so it comes as no surprise that Yours Truly has his fair share of annoyingly baby-faced adults from whom he must ask ID because they look under age; that, and the obvious under agers who are just trying it on because they think that wearing a shirt with a company logo embroidered in it automatically makes you a moron.
It is from both categories that the No IDers spring, and it's difficult to decide which of the two are more pathetic. From the legally-aged but disgustingly youthful brigade you often get protestations that they are over-age, and besides, they've always bought cigarettes here and they've never been asked for ID before. They might be right on both accounts; but the thing is, once ID has been asked for, it must be produced before the sale can proceed. Yes, sir, it might be bullshit, but it's the law. Yes, madam, I know you may be old enough to have children, but around here the age at which people start having kiddies is also somewhat below the legal age of consent. And anyhoo, you might have previously purchased your daily dose of throat cancer from this store, but you haven't purchased it from me. And I'm the one asking: so cough up or step off.
The under agers usually try to bluff their way out of the situation - yes, mate, I am for f*ing real - and then try and get one of their mates who happens to be above age to use their ID. Except that, once it is explained to aforesaid mate that since he/she is the one producing the ID, he/she is the one who'll have to pay for the cigarettes (and once again, yes mate, I am for f*ing real), they baulk at the near king's ransom it costs to indulge the nicotine habit these days and tell their under age mate to take a hike. Which usually results in a mouthful of deleted expletives heading my way from the frustrated law breaker; but hey, what the hell do I care?
But the thing that elevates (or should that be relegates?) No IDers from annoying inconveniences to outright tools is the little ritual they then perform in yet another attempt to get the cigarettes without having to show proof of age. Having been busted with no ID, they proceed to go out to their cars, where they make an unconvincing attempt to look as though they're going through their glove box, looking under the seats, and generally investigating every nook and cranny in search of the missing ID. How unconvincing is this display, you wonder? Put it this way: my attempts to look as though I give a toss about customer service are more convincing!
Anyhoo, having wasted another five minutes, the No IDer then returns to the store and explains that they must have left their ID at home. In other words, they expect me to say: Oh, that changes everything! Of course you can have some cigarettes! Except, of course, that I don't, much to their dismay and puzzlement. But here's the interesting point: having confessed that they don't have ID with which to buy cigarettes, the No IDer then confesses to being in possession of, and driving, a motor vehicle while not having their driver's licence on their person! And yes, folks, you're not mistaken: driving a car while without a driver's licence is illegal. These people are such tools they're willing to confess to one illegality in order to try and co-opt me into perpetrating another.
Excuse me, but I don't believe my name changed to Cletus, nor did I suddenly take to wearing blue overalls and a straw hat, or develop a liking for pork belly and Biblical literalism. Ergo, I'm not a moron, you moron! But, try as I may to dissuade the No IDer from their particular brand of Tom Toolery, they continue to try it on in the vain hope of feeding their nicotine addiction. The only question that remains is: did they take up smoking because they were born congenital tools to begin with; or did smoking, insidiously and by degrees, turn them into idiocy's equivalent of the Bride of Chuckie?
PIN Heads
The next category of tool to plague my life is the PIN Head. These are the people who step up to the counter, usually during a rush period, and, try as they might, can either not remember the PIN number to their cash/credit card, or who repeatedly get it wrong. The end result is a queue that started out long but grows to proportions so large passers-by join it because they think its the line to get into Sexpo, a surprise discount give-away, or both.
It used to be that I had some sympathy for PIN Heads. Afterall, who among us in this digital age of swipe cards, security access, and internet banking isn't plagued by an ever-expanding list of PIN numbers, personal ID codes, and passwords? Afterall, security experts tell us to never use the same PIN number or identification code twice, don't they? But what they don't tell us is how we're supposed to avoid the inevitable embolism that results from trying to keep track of all the numbers, letters, and combinations of same we're required to use in order to prevent ourselves from being ripped of or mistaken for someone we're not. Because we can't, not unless we write them all down - and we're not allowed to do that either, are we????
So, anyhoo, I used to sympathise. But not anymore! Because the thing I've noticed about the PIN Heads is that it's the same people every time! Whether it's the little old lady who isn't functioning properly because she hasn't had her recommended daily dose of G&T, or the party-too-hard twenty-something for whom life outside a rave, five cans of Red Bull, and a blister-pack of little yellow tabs resembles a permanent exercise in somnambulism, the PIN Head can be relied upon to turn up at the most inconvenient moment possible and turn what had been a typically mundane and mind-numbing shift into living hell.
Because, of course, the PIN will strike out twice and then come to the dilemma of trying to decide whether or not to risk a third attempt at getting their PIN number right (and potentially voiding their card) or else go to the ATM and get some cash with which to pay for their purchases. Except, of course, the ATM neds a PIN number in order to dispense the bucks, doesn't it? So that means the PIN Head will just dither in an ever-increasing welter of anxiety, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile, the other customers start getting impatient as the mood in the store deteriorates from bored indifference to hostile aggravation.
Oooooh, you can just feel the love. And you all know at whom it's directed, don't you? WRONG! Not at the PIN Head, but at Yours Truly. As if I had any say in the fact that our customers belong to various sub-species of tool! Believe me, I wish I could restrict our clientele to the members of MENSA. But I don't have that kind of power. I wonder who does...
Wrong Numbers
This particular tool used to be relatively rare, but has now grown to plague proportions. Indeed, so ubiquitous have they become that I'm thinking of calling in the exterminators to deal with the problem. Yes, I am aware that having this variety of tool eradicated will qualify - just - as mass murder; but I'm sure that, given the inestimable benefits to humanity to be derived from their elimination, any trial of Yours Truly would result in triumphant acquittal.
The variety of tool known as Wrong Numbers are characterised by a propensity to confuse the dollar amount on the bowser with the litres readout whenever they put fuel in their car. I know, I know: of course it's absolutely reasonable for anyone to confuse the spinning numbers next to the large "$" sign with the spinning numbers next to the large "litres" sign. I mean, what, afterall, is there to tell you that one indicates the amount of money you're spending, while the other details the amount of fuel you've pumped into the tank? It's not as if there's a large "$" sign for one and a large "lites" sign for the other! Oh, wait, yes, there is...
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! It's bad enough when this happens once on a shift, because invariably the tool, having confused the cost indicator for the fuel indicator, has also completely ignored the fact that we're now in the 21st century and that a $20 purchase will not result in 33.24 litres of petrol. And so into the shop they blithely waltz, only to discover their error and the fact that they don't have enough money and that - surprise! surprise! - they've left their bloody credit card at home. Which means they then have to fill out a whole lot of paperwork giving their details, offering proof of identity (another occasion on which the No IDer makes an appearance), and committing to making repayment within 24 hours (in default of which they get a nasty phone call from the wallopers). Yours Truly then has to record the whole thing as a drive off, and fill in sundry other bits and pieces in order to assure my employer that I haven't actually recorded a false entry and bunked off with the cash myself.
So, as you can see, it's an administrative nightmare. But when it happens not once, or twice, but three times on the same shift (a shift, incidentally, made all the more wonderful by system failures and the usual procession of dweebs and delinquents who make my life the existential joyfest that it is) you'll appreciate the desperate need I experience to strangle the crap out of the next person who even speaks to me. And this need is made all the more urgent by the fact that the Wrong Numbers tool invariably argues with you, insisting instead that they were looking at the right indicator and that my computer screen must be wrong. Even when I walk them out to the bowser and show them that I'm not making a mistake (achieved by pointing out to them the "$" and "litres" signs and explaining the difference) some of them still insist that they were not mistaken and that the "computer" must have somehow "changed" the amounts!
And that, Your Honour, is when I went berserk and ripped their tonsils out through their nostrils...
Be Seeing You
In many respects, the Be Seeing You tool is the worst one of all, because you don't even get an inkling that you're in their presence until it's far too late. And that's because this variety of tool doesn't expose themself until after they've swiped their card in the reader and try to enter their PIN number. No, I know what you're thinking; but it's not No IDer syndrome again. These tools know their PIN numbers all too well - they just can't see the keypad in order to enter the wretched thing!
No kidding, this is the tool who drives to the store, fills up with petrol, and then can't enter their PIN number because they've left their glasses at home! Yes, let me say that again: these tools have driven their car without being able to see further than the distance between their face and the card reader which is right there in front of them on the counter! Which part of this proposition is the more frightening, I wonder: the fact that these tools get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle to begin with, already a dangerous thing in itself; or that they do so thinking that it's okay to drive said vehicle while possessing less visual capacity than Mr Magoo!
I jest not, ladies and gentlemen, watching these tools as they myopically fumble with the card reader and ask if they've pushed a 9 or entered their account type is more terrifying than the prospect of spending eternity locked in a room with Eddie Maguire, Kyle Sandilands, and Pauline Hanson while endless repeats of Buffy the Tool Slayer play in the background. Because you just know these visually challenged morons are going to repeat this behaviour over and over again. No, it's not just occasional forgetfulness or a "senior's moment" - they're judgementally deficient, permanently!
I'm just waiting for the day when a car comes sailing through the front door and, before I can think: shit! I'm being ram-raided and try and call the cops, some tool sticks his head out the drivers side window and asks if this is the car wash entrance. One certainly wonders what, in their befuddled state, they think traffic lights are: pretty, twinkly lights in the sky, maybe? I tell you, it gives me the shudders...
So there are, another run down of the weird and wonderful world of tools who walk into a convenience store on a regular basis. And it doesn't end there. But that's a rant for another day...
Talk to you soon,
BB
Thought for the Day: Hell is other people. (Jean-Paul Sartre)
Showing posts with label Foibles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Foibles. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
There's a Moose Loose in the Hoose
I have a confession to make: this week, I have been killing other living beings.
Now, before you reach for your mobile phones to start calling the police, let me clarify. The living beings I have been killing are mice.
This is the second infestation of mice we've had in the last six months. It's a matter of disagreement between my Dearly Beloved and I as to their origin: she insists that there's been a mice plague this year and the little buggers are sneaking into the house by the various devious ways known only to mice; whereas I am convinced that we've been transporting them to our house via the tons of stuff we've lugged from her mother's house now that her mum has moved into a retirement home. My conviction is sustained by the fact that mum-in-law lived on a semi-rural property with plenty of acreage and lots of long grass and sheds - in other words, all the things that mice love. And there has, in fact, been plenty of mouse-related activity at her house of late. Moreover, both appearances of mice in our humble abode have coincided with occasions when we have transported stuff from MIL's digs to ours. Until we started doing so, we had no trouble with mice at all; now we've had them twice in 12 months. QED.
But how, I hear you ask, have they ended up at casa nostra? Quite simply, the same way that mice stow away in ships' holds and planes' cargo bays and cars' luggage boots. On at least two occasions when we've carried things from MIL's place to ours, we've also carried mice, secreted away in whatever nooks and crannies mice can find in bags, containers, furnishings and fittings. And once at our place, they've fanned out to locate all the wall-spaces, skirting-board gaps, and hidden thoroughfares our little home has to offer.
So...we've had rodents in our nest, and it has fallen to Yours Truly to exterminate the unwelcome guests. Not that I volunteered for the job, you understand. It's just that my Dearly Beloved has been so catatonic with fear that I've simply had no choice.
Actually, catatonic is the wrong word. Hysterical would be a more accurate description. Except hysteria doesn't quite capture the paroxysms of screaming, jumping-on-the-furniture, climbing-up-the-walls frenzy that is evoked in my Dearly Beloved at even the hint of a suspicion that she's seen a mouse. Indeed, she doesn't need to actually see a mouse - just catching sight of a drift of dog hair wafting across the floor is enough to send her spiralling into a whirlpool of panic that makes an anxiety attack look like the acme of calm serenity.
No kidding, I always thought that old stereotype of women standing on the kitchen table and shrieking their lungs out at the first sign of a mouse was just a tired old sexist caricature from 50s TV shows. Little did I know that the spirit of Bewitched is alive and well in my life-partner!
Anyhoo, this little black duck has been stuck with the job of dealing with our unwelcome house guests. Not that I was anticipating much trouble. A few mouse traps, some bait, and WHAM! Dead mice, solved problem.
Not so fast, smart guy! No matter what I tried, I couldn't catch any mice. Which didn't mean the cunning little sods were staying away from the baits - they were stealing them without tripping the traps! Didn't matter what I tried - cheese, ham, peanut butter - the furry blighters were just waltzing up to the bait trays and swiping whatever was on offer. Smorgasbord for mice!
I was explaining all this to my brother and bemoaning the fate that had me encountering the world's first species of mice with an IQ, when he laughed and suggested I try Cheetos Cheese and Bacon Balls. I looked at him like he'd just turned into an alien who'd slipped through a crack in the space-time continuum and landed unexpectedly in my lounge-room; but he insisted that he'd had experience with the anti-rodent capacity of Cheetos and assured me of their efficacy.
Well, it's a
n understatement to say I was reluctant to try this proffered solution, especially since all my previous baits had been the result of "expert" advice from various people who assured me of the mouse-killing power of their favoured lure. But with the mice becoming so bold as to start making appearances while we were still awake, and with my Dearly Beloved's caterwauling becoming ever more ear-splitting as a consequence, I was desperate. So the next time I went within cooee of a store, I grabbed a bag of Cheetos and set my traps.
Well, shut my mouth and stuff me full of chitlins if they didn't work a treat! Within 48 hours, every last one was defunctus est. And this has happened twice now: both times the mice have appeared the Cheetos have cleaned them up faster than you could say bubonic plague. I'd be sitting in the lounge watching the TV and there would be this distant snap followed by a quiet and short-lived thrashing. I'd wander over to one of the traps to discover a mouse wedged by the trap arm in the cold embrace of rodent death. No mouse could resist the Cheetos; no mouse could escape the fate held in store for them.
Now, before you reach for your mobile phones to start calling the police, let me clarify. The living beings I have been killing are mice.
This is the second infestation of mice we've had in the last six months. It's a matter of disagreement between my Dearly Beloved and I as to their origin: she insists that there's been a mice plague this year and the little buggers are sneaking into the house by the various devious ways known only to mice; whereas I am convinced that we've been transporting them to our house via the tons of stuff we've lugged from her mother's house now that her mum has moved into a retirement home. My conviction is sustained by the fact that mum-in-law lived on a semi-rural property with plenty of acreage and lots of long grass and sheds - in other words, all the things that mice love. And there has, in fact, been plenty of mouse-related activity at her house of late. Moreover, both appearances of mice in our humble abode have coincided with occasions when we have transported stuff from MIL's digs to ours. Until we started doing so, we had no trouble with mice at all; now we've had them twice in 12 months. QED.
But how, I hear you ask, have they ended up at casa nostra? Quite simply, the same way that mice stow away in ships' holds and planes' cargo bays and cars' luggage boots. On at least two occasions when we've carried things from MIL's place to ours, we've also carried mice, secreted away in whatever nooks and crannies mice can find in bags, containers, furnishings and fittings. And once at our place, they've fanned out to locate all the wall-spaces, skirting-board gaps, and hidden thoroughfares our little home has to offer.
So...we've had rodents in our nest, and it has fallen to Yours Truly to exterminate the unwelcome guests. Not that I volunteered for the job, you understand. It's just that my Dearly Beloved has been so catatonic with fear that I've simply had no choice.
Actually, catatonic is the wrong word. Hysterical would be a more accurate description. Except hysteria doesn't quite capture the paroxysms of screaming, jumping-on-the-furniture, climbing-up-the-walls frenzy that is evoked in my Dearly Beloved at even the hint of a suspicion that she's seen a mouse. Indeed, she doesn't need to actually see a mouse - just catching sight of a drift of dog hair wafting across the floor is enough to send her spiralling into a whirlpool of panic that makes an anxiety attack look like the acme of calm serenity.
No kidding, I always thought that old stereotype of women standing on the kitchen table and shrieking their lungs out at the first sign of a mouse was just a tired old sexist caricature from 50s TV shows. Little did I know that the spirit of Bewitched is alive and well in my life-partner!
Anyhoo, this little black duck has been stuck with the job of dealing with our unwelcome house guests. Not that I was anticipating much trouble. A few mouse traps, some bait, and WHAM! Dead mice, solved problem.
Not so fast, smart guy! No matter what I tried, I couldn't catch any mice. Which didn't mean the cunning little sods were staying away from the baits - they were stealing them without tripping the traps! Didn't matter what I tried - cheese, ham, peanut butter - the furry blighters were just waltzing up to the bait trays and swiping whatever was on offer. Smorgasbord for mice!
I was explaining all this to my brother and bemoaning the fate that had me encountering the world's first species of mice with an IQ, when he laughed and suggested I try Cheetos Cheese and Bacon Balls. I looked at him like he'd just turned into an alien who'd slipped through a crack in the space-time continuum and landed unexpectedly in my lounge-room; but he insisted that he'd had experience with the anti-rodent capacity of Cheetos and assured me of their efficacy.
Well, it's a
n understatement to say I was reluctant to try this proffered solution, especially since all my previous baits had been the result of "expert" advice from various people who assured me of the mouse-killing power of their favoured lure. But with the mice becoming so bold as to start making appearances while we were still awake, and with my Dearly Beloved's caterwauling becoming ever more ear-splitting as a consequence, I was desperate. So the next time I went within cooee of a store, I grabbed a bag of Cheetos and set my traps.Well, shut my mouth and stuff me full of chitlins if they didn't work a treat! Within 48 hours, every last one was defunctus est. And this has happened twice now: both times the mice have appeared the Cheetos have cleaned them up faster than you could say bubonic plague. I'd be sitting in the lounge watching the TV and there would be this distant snap followed by a quiet and short-lived thrashing. I'd wander over to one of the traps to discover a mouse wedged by the trap arm in the cold embrace of rodent death. No mouse could resist the Cheetos; no mouse could escape the fate held in store for them.
I'll confess that I was delighted with the results, not least because it put my Dearly Beloved at ease. But I'll also admit that there was an aspect of me that was anything but elated to be killing mice. As mice go, these guys I was slaughtering were actually handsome little chaps, with soft light brown fur and small dark eyes. I could see why mice feature so often as positive characters in children's literature; there was nothing obviously nasty about these mice - as I say, they were handsome little chaps.
But perhaps the most poignant moment occurred on the occasion when I heard that sharp, significant snap! one day and went to investigate. On the kitchen floor lay a little mouse; instead of being pinned by the bar and having his spine broken, he'd tried to pull out of the way and been brained by the bar as its swung downward in its deathly arc. He lay on his side, a small halo of blood around his head - a sad, touching little sight. In that moment, the immediacy of death bore down on me; it occurred to me that we humans are just like mice, not knowing that we play within the jaws of a trap that could wipe us out in an instant. We have the power of death over mice; other things - sometimes even mice - have the power of death over us.
But now the second batch have been duly exterminated, the thing that puzzles me is the amount of mouse dirt these critters leave behind. I mean, they must be constantly shitting themselves to judge by the amount of crap they leave in their wake. Mind you, the sound of my Dearly Beloved's screaming would be enough to turn a commando's bowels to water; maybe the mice just copped an earful of her ear-splitting screeching and it had a permanent effect on their innards. In any event, clearing up the mess afterwards is a worse job than prising their bodies out of the traps and dumping the corpses in the garbage bin!
Anyhoo, we are mice-free for the time being - pending, that is, the transport of any more stuff from MIL's house to ours, no matter what my Dearly Beloved says! I just hope that's the last we see of them, too; I can think of much better uses to which to put Cheetos than feeding them to mice.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote of the Day: Hunting - the most effective way of getting rid of vermin, provided a sufficient number of them fall off their horses and break their necks. (Hugh Leonard)
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tool Time
At the convenience store where I pretend to work, it is a truism that we get all sorts walking through the door, especially on the night shift. But this truism is true only to the extent that it is incomplete: what we get walking through the door are all sorts of tools, twats, tossers, and morons of infinite variety.
Take, for example, the tool I encountered recently who just also happened to be a motorcyclist. Said tool and a number of other motorcyclists pulled up at the bowsers and attempted to fill up. However, I declined to authorise the pumps because said tool and his pals had not removed their crash helmets. It's a security policy at the store that motorcyclists attempting to use the pumps have to first take off their helmets - otherwise, what could be more useful for the purposes of a drive off than a face-enclosing helmet that completely masks the nascent felon's identity?
So, being the conscientious type, I promptly jumped on the PA and informed the gang of two-wheeled tools that they had to de-helmet first, after which time I would be happy to authorise the pumps. Well, they did as they were asked; but once they had finished filling up, it seems one of their number (the aforementioned tool) was deputed to not only pay their collective bill, but waste my time with a pre-eminent display of toolmanship.
To some extent, I blame myself: I really should have seen it coming. As the tool approached the store, he eye-balled me with that manic I've-got-a-bigger-dick-than-you-have glare that tells you you're in the presence of an A-grade eunuch with a chip on his shoulder. To tell you the truth, I felt a little shiver run down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; Spiderman ain't the only one whose senses tingle when danger's immanent. But it was busy and I had lots to do, so I suppressed my premonition and got on with my award-winning impersonation of customer service.
Which was dumb. Which was a mistake. Which serves me own right. Because when the tool finally arrived at the counter, and before I could even tote up the bill for him and his moto-tool mates, he said: "I see you're discriminating against motorcyclists now."
To which I replied with my usual tact: "You bet".
His next line: "So what if a Muslim woman wearing a headscarf comes along? Are you going to tell her to take it off?"
I'll be honest: my immediate impulse was to burst into laughter and offer to wrap his head in toilet paper, this latter being his crown for having won the Moron of the Year Award. But then I saw from the expression on his face that he was absolutely serious. In fact, he was outraged by the thought that he should be required to take off his helmet while some Muslim woman might be allowed to stroll into the place willy nilly and remain covered.
Suppressing my laughter, I explained that it was a security requirement; I even went to the lengths of explaining that the same requirement to take off his helmet would apply if, for example, he just wanted to enter the store to buy a carton of milk. It wasn't about petrol - it was about security.
"So you wouldn't make someone take off their religious headdress, but I have to take off my helmet?"
I will confess that by this stage I was dumb-struck; not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because everything I wanted to say to him involved suggesting rather forcefully that he perform the kind of physical contortions that are either illegal, impossible, or both. But as I said, the store was busy, and I had no desire to insult other innocent customers simply because this tool had decided to exhibit his idiocy on my patch.
So instead I gently suggested that the instant Muslim women on motorbikes wearing hijabs started pulling drive-offs, that would be the instant we'd start discriminating against them, too.
You'll agree that, given the extremity of the provocation, I was the very embodiment of reason and sensitivity. But the tool, being a tool, took grave offence and demanded the right to make a complaint. I told him - rather casually, I'll admit, because by this time I was getting bored - that he should call the company's customer care line; they'd be glad to hear (indeed, would be fascinated by) his moral indignation at such harsh treatment. And, of course, I proffered this assurance with just enough of a hint of a smile, and with just the right inflection of voice, to suggest that he would be a) listened to; b) taken seriously; c) offered an apology and/or compensation; and, d) that the company policy would be changed forthwith.
Satisfied that I'd been put in my place, and that his penis had grown another three or four inches as a consequence, the tool departed - no doubt to tell his tool-brothers what a hero he'd been in the fight against the ongoing persecution of motorcyclists by the wicked petro-industrial complex. If there's anything that will warm the cockles of this old, cold heart, it's the sight of a self-satisfied tool riding triumphantly off into the sunset of his own delusions.
And what is the point of all this tool-bashing (if you'll pardon the expression)? Well, for one thing, it just goes to show you that the life of a convenience store console operator is rarely dull. On the contrary, it's very interesting - "interesting", that is, in the sense of the old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times. And for another thing, you're all meant to be hugely impressed by my restraint in suppressing the impulse to introduce this tool to the art of cleaning convenience store toilets - head first! But more important than any of these is a simple and profound lesson: just because some bloke sits astride a machine that could break the sound barrier doesn't mean he's either a scientist at the Large Hadron Collider, or Chuck Connors. It just means he's a dickhead, pure and simple.
Or, if you prefer it in politer terms, a tool. A complete, total, twatting, tossing, tool!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Moral indignation - that which, in most cases, is 2 per cent moral, 48 per cent indignation, and 50 per cent envy. (Vincent de Sica)
Take, for example, the tool I encountered recently who just also happened to be a motorcyclist. Said tool and a number of other motorcyclists pulled up at the bowsers and attempted to fill up. However, I declined to authorise the pumps because said tool and his pals had not removed their crash helmets. It's a security policy at the store that motorcyclists attempting to use the pumps have to first take off their helmets - otherwise, what could be more useful for the purposes of a drive off than a face-enclosing helmet that completely masks the nascent felon's identity?
So, being the conscientious type, I promptly jumped on the PA and informed the gang of two-wheeled tools that they had to de-helmet first, after which time I would be happy to authorise the pumps. Well, they did as they were asked; but once they had finished filling up, it seems one of their number (the aforementioned tool) was deputed to not only pay their collective bill, but waste my time with a pre-eminent display of toolmanship.
To some extent, I blame myself: I really should have seen it coming. As the tool approached the store, he eye-balled me with that manic I've-got-a-bigger-dick-than-you-have glare that tells you you're in the presence of an A-grade eunuch with a chip on his shoulder. To tell you the truth, I felt a little shiver run down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; Spiderman ain't the only one whose senses tingle when danger's immanent. But it was busy and I had lots to do, so I suppressed my premonition and got on with my award-winning impersonation of customer service.
Which was dumb. Which was a mistake. Which serves me own right. Because when the tool finally arrived at the counter, and before I could even tote up the bill for him and his moto-tool mates, he said: "I see you're discriminating against motorcyclists now."
To which I replied with my usual tact: "You bet".
His next line: "So what if a Muslim woman wearing a headscarf comes along? Are you going to tell her to take it off?"
I'll be honest: my immediate impulse was to burst into laughter and offer to wrap his head in toilet paper, this latter being his crown for having won the Moron of the Year Award. But then I saw from the expression on his face that he was absolutely serious. In fact, he was outraged by the thought that he should be required to take off his helmet while some Muslim woman might be allowed to stroll into the place willy nilly and remain covered.
Suppressing my laughter, I explained that it was a security requirement; I even went to the lengths of explaining that the same requirement to take off his helmet would apply if, for example, he just wanted to enter the store to buy a carton of milk. It wasn't about petrol - it was about security.
"So you wouldn't make someone take off their religious headdress, but I have to take off my helmet?"
I will confess that by this stage I was dumb-struck; not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because everything I wanted to say to him involved suggesting rather forcefully that he perform the kind of physical contortions that are either illegal, impossible, or both. But as I said, the store was busy, and I had no desire to insult other innocent customers simply because this tool had decided to exhibit his idiocy on my patch.
So instead I gently suggested that the instant Muslim women on motorbikes wearing hijabs started pulling drive-offs, that would be the instant we'd start discriminating against them, too.
You'll agree that, given the extremity of the provocation, I was the very embodiment of reason and sensitivity. But the tool, being a tool, took grave offence and demanded the right to make a complaint. I told him - rather casually, I'll admit, because by this time I was getting bored - that he should call the company's customer care line; they'd be glad to hear (indeed, would be fascinated by) his moral indignation at such harsh treatment. And, of course, I proffered this assurance with just enough of a hint of a smile, and with just the right inflection of voice, to suggest that he would be a) listened to; b) taken seriously; c) offered an apology and/or compensation; and, d) that the company policy would be changed forthwith.
Satisfied that I'd been put in my place, and that his penis had grown another three or four inches as a consequence, the tool departed - no doubt to tell his tool-brothers what a hero he'd been in the fight against the ongoing persecution of motorcyclists by the wicked petro-industrial complex. If there's anything that will warm the cockles of this old, cold heart, it's the sight of a self-satisfied tool riding triumphantly off into the sunset of his own delusions.
And what is the point of all this tool-bashing (if you'll pardon the expression)? Well, for one thing, it just goes to show you that the life of a convenience store console operator is rarely dull. On the contrary, it's very interesting - "interesting", that is, in the sense of the old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times. And for another thing, you're all meant to be hugely impressed by my restraint in suppressing the impulse to introduce this tool to the art of cleaning convenience store toilets - head first! But more important than any of these is a simple and profound lesson: just because some bloke sits astride a machine that could break the sound barrier doesn't mean he's either a scientist at the Large Hadron Collider, or Chuck Connors. It just means he's a dickhead, pure and simple.
Or, if you prefer it in politer terms, a tool. A complete, total, twatting, tossing, tool!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Moral indignation - that which, in most cases, is 2 per cent moral, 48 per cent indignation, and 50 per cent envy. (Vincent de Sica)
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Mr (Coffee) Bean
I'm afraid that, when it comes to coffee, I'm a bit of a snob. Actually, I'm a lot of a snob. Oh, alright, I'm a total snob.
The reason for this snobbery is quite simple: I like coffee, and I take my coffee seriously. No, don't bother telling me to get a life or a hobby. As far as I am concerned, coffee is part of the vocation of being, like reading a good book or sampling the finest single malt. I drink coffee, therefore I am: and therefore, don't even think about offering me instant - I'll take a cup of tea instead.
Ergo, I buy coffee in bean form in order to freshly grind said beans in the instant before they get immersed in hot water. I let the coffee brew, in order to bring out the rich flavour (and to bask in the luxuriant waft of coffee aroma). And then I gently stir and plunge said coffee in order to produce the perfect cuppa: rich, strong, and invigorating (a bit like me, really - except for the rich, strong, and invigorating bit).
Of course, if I had my druthers, I'd prefer to make coffee by brewing it in one of those dandy little pots where you put the coffee in the bottom before placing it on the stove and letting the combination of heat and steam from boiling water do their work. Now, that's coffee to die for - in fact, it's so strong it probably would kill you eventually. But what a way to go! But in the meantime, I'll content myself with the trusty old plunger, which really does work a treat.
And what I really love doing is mixing together beans of different coffee varieties before I grind them in order to produce a great blend. New Guinea highlands with Ethiopian arabica; East Timorese organic with Vietnamese mountain-grown; Costa Rican dark roasted with Kenyan mocha...yum! Blending coffee beans is the best!
Now, I know what you're thinking: you're thinking that I'm a coffee fanatic with no sense of perspective. Well, you're wrong. As it turns out, there is a lighter side to coffee, a lighter side that emerges by asking oneself what the type of coffee a person drinks says about their personality. Yes, yes, I know; this isn't a scientifically valid methodology for ascertaining individual personality traits. But then, neither is Myers-Briggs or the Enneagram, and yet people seem to have no trouble swooning over them and crying: "Oh, look, I'm an SIPD (Sad, Inadequate, Pathetic, Drip)!" Come to think of it, I reckon my coffee-personality index might have as much if not more validity than asking someone if they prefer parties to quiet nights in and extrapolating from the answer that they're an introvert (oooh, how insightful!).
And anyhoo, this is meant to be fun. So here goes - what drinking a particular type of coffee says about your personality:
Flat White. Well, the name says it all, really. You're dull, tedious, traditional (in the unoriginal, crushingly monotonous sense of the word), and about as straight-laced as an 80 year old virginal teetotling non-smoker whose idea of high times is crocheting and a cup of Horlicks before bedtime. The key words here are flat and white. In other words, you've got about as much personality as roadkill...in fact, to be fair to roadkill, they can be pretty interesting sometimes. You, on the other hand, are not; your idea of life is living a long time without actually engaging in any of the interesting bits (sex, hangovers, broken hearts, self-discovery, God, etc). So, you go on drinking your insipid brew; when future archaeologists discover your fossilised yet still-breathing remains 10,000 years from now, they won't actually realise you're alive - and neither will you. In fact, you never have. Drinkers of Caffe Latte also fall into this category.
Long Black. You have a serious personality disorder. Either you have delusions of grandeur and think you're some kind of stud-muffin gigolo before whom the babes can't wait to get on their knees and venerate, or you are beset by feelings of such deep insecurity that you think everyone is whispering about you and giggling behind your back. Of course, there's a third possibility: that people actually are whispering about you and giggling behind your back because they recognise you have delusions of grandeur about your babe-pulling capacity - and that, in point of fact, the only thing you pull is that which is the cause of your insecurity. Hence your pathetic attempt to "advertise" your self-proclaimed virility, or compensate for your perceived shortcomings, by drinking pints of super-strong, iron-floating coffee. But we're wise to you, buster; because us real men, who know we can pull the babes and understand everyone admires and envies us, drink straight black coffee for the sheer enjoyment of unadulterated caffeine. We don't need to pretend; we know...
Macchiato. Short or long, the only reason you drink this is because you're a procrastinator. Like most things in your life, you can't decide what you want and are too afraid to make a decision in case you realise later that what you chose isn't, afterall, your heart's desire, and you really want that which you chose not to have. And so you order a macchiato, because you can't decide if you want a long black or a flat white; so you get what is, in effect, a black coffee with a smidge of milk; or, looking at it another way, a short white coffee with extra caffeine. Naturally, your life is plagued with similar mind-bending problems like: should you get the 1.5kg bag of flour at $2 or the 1.25kg bag at $1.50; should you go with the blue jacket and white blouse or the black jacket and red blouse; should you get the car wash with the hot wax or the car wash with the cold wax? And, naturally, since you can't make up your own mind, you'll inflict your uncertainties on everyone within a million square kilometre radius and ask them to do it for you; but then you won't be able to decide whose opinion is more authoritative, and whose advice you should go with. In short, drinking macchiato says this about you: you need to make a f#!*^!*!g decision and live with it! And you need to do it quickly - before that lynchmob of frustrated acquaintances coming into view over the horizon hoists you on the petard of your own indecisiveness!
Espresso. Like the coffee itself, the message of espresso drinking is short, simple, and to the point: you are a pretentious git. You're the kind of knob who thinks drinking espresso (especially if done while seated at a roadside table in South Yarra or Carlton) makes you "European" or sophisticated. But unless you are actually European, or, failing that, unless you actually understand that the joy of espresso is the invigoration which a shot of the good stuff provides the drinker, imbibing this brew says one thing, and one thing only: you are a wanker. In fact, you're a self-abuser of such monumental proportions that blindness is an inevitability, if, indeed, it hasn't occurred already. Certainly, you are blind to what a total clot you are, sipping your espresso in its tiny cup, all the while serenely surveying the world and imagining that it is your oyster. You not only need to get a life, you need a reality check as well; because that babe who sauntered past your table just now wasn't checking you out, she was thinking what a tragic waste it was that such a good table should be occupied by such a bad joke.
Cappuchino. You really are the Kath and Kim of the caffeine world. In fact, it's probably not too much to say that you spend far too much time in shopping malls, sitting at those little coffee bars that occupy the middle of the cavernous avenues between stores, thinking you're having such a fun time simply because you're here watching all the other anodyne drips wandering aimlessly about, instead of being back home cooing over daytime TV and the latest "must have" offerings of Dickheads Direct. Any person who thinks froth and chocolate sprinklings over milky coffee constitutes a vibrant drinking experience really doesn't have much going for them; and it's probably just as well for the species as a whole that natural selection will inevitably ensure that you and your kind leave fewer surviving descendants than the rest of the general population. In the meantime, enjoy your simple "pleasures" - it's all you've got left while waiting for extinction to arrive.
Mocha. You're here for a good time, not a long time. Over-indulgence isn't a sin for you; it's your middle name. Your idea of restraint is not adding sugar to your already saccharine loaded blend of coffee and chocolate syrup. Like a pig in a mud pen, life for you is one long, glorious rollick as you wallow in your self-generated mire of hedonistic pleasure. Well, make that one short and glorious rollick - 'cause you ain't gonna be around for long. Even as you imbibe your latest orgiastic brew, your arteries are hardening, your cardio-vascular system is going south for the winter, and blood clots are forming and rushing with determined gait towards the sugar-coated embolism-to-be that passes for your brain. But what they hey? If you're going to go out, you're going to go doing what you love, right? Yeah, right - except for that one nagging micro-second just before you die when you realise that life is sweeter than all that sugar you've been ingesting, and you wish - you just wish - you had maybe not given the good things in life such a nudge. Oh, well, carpe diem and all that; and quite literally, too, because you don't have that many diems to carpe left...
Well, there you have it. If you find yourself identifying with any of the categories contained herein, you only have yourself to blame. And as for Yours Truly...well, naturally, none of the above applies to me. I just drink coffee for the hell of it.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Coffee - that which, in England, tastes like a chemical experiment. (Agatha Christie)
The reason for this snobbery is quite simple: I like coffee, and I take my coffee seriously. No, don't bother telling me to get a life or a hobby. As far as I am concerned, coffee is part of the vocation of being, like reading a good book or sampling the finest single malt. I drink coffee, therefore I am: and therefore, don't even think about offering me instant - I'll take a cup of tea instead.
Ergo, I buy coffee in bean form in order to freshly grind said beans in the instant before they get immersed in hot water. I let the coffee brew, in order to bring out the rich flavour (and to bask in the luxuriant waft of coffee aroma). And then I gently stir and plunge said coffee in order to produce the perfect cuppa: rich, strong, and invigorating (a bit like me, really - except for the rich, strong, and invigorating bit).
Of course, if I had my druthers, I'd prefer to make coffee by brewing it in one of those dandy little pots where you put the coffee in the bottom before placing it on the stove and letting the combination of heat and steam from boiling water do their work. Now, that's coffee to die for - in fact, it's so strong it probably would kill you eventually. But what a way to go! But in the meantime, I'll content myself with the trusty old plunger, which really does work a treat.
And what I really love doing is mixing together beans of different coffee varieties before I grind them in order to produce a great blend. New Guinea highlands with Ethiopian arabica; East Timorese organic with Vietnamese mountain-grown; Costa Rican dark roasted with Kenyan mocha...yum! Blending coffee beans is the best!
Now, I know what you're thinking: you're thinking that I'm a coffee fanatic with no sense of perspective. Well, you're wrong. As it turns out, there is a lighter side to coffee, a lighter side that emerges by asking oneself what the type of coffee a person drinks says about their personality. Yes, yes, I know; this isn't a scientifically valid methodology for ascertaining individual personality traits. But then, neither is Myers-Briggs or the Enneagram, and yet people seem to have no trouble swooning over them and crying: "Oh, look, I'm an SIPD (Sad, Inadequate, Pathetic, Drip)!" Come to think of it, I reckon my coffee-personality index might have as much if not more validity than asking someone if they prefer parties to quiet nights in and extrapolating from the answer that they're an introvert (oooh, how insightful!).
And anyhoo, this is meant to be fun. So here goes - what drinking a particular type of coffee says about your personality:
Flat White. Well, the name says it all, really. You're dull, tedious, traditional (in the unoriginal, crushingly monotonous sense of the word), and about as straight-laced as an 80 year old virginal teetotling non-smoker whose idea of high times is crocheting and a cup of Horlicks before bedtime. The key words here are flat and white. In other words, you've got about as much personality as roadkill...in fact, to be fair to roadkill, they can be pretty interesting sometimes. You, on the other hand, are not; your idea of life is living a long time without actually engaging in any of the interesting bits (sex, hangovers, broken hearts, self-discovery, God, etc). So, you go on drinking your insipid brew; when future archaeologists discover your fossilised yet still-breathing remains 10,000 years from now, they won't actually realise you're alive - and neither will you. In fact, you never have. Drinkers of Caffe Latte also fall into this category.
Long Black. You have a serious personality disorder. Either you have delusions of grandeur and think you're some kind of stud-muffin gigolo before whom the babes can't wait to get on their knees and venerate, or you are beset by feelings of such deep insecurity that you think everyone is whispering about you and giggling behind your back. Of course, there's a third possibility: that people actually are whispering about you and giggling behind your back because they recognise you have delusions of grandeur about your babe-pulling capacity - and that, in point of fact, the only thing you pull is that which is the cause of your insecurity. Hence your pathetic attempt to "advertise" your self-proclaimed virility, or compensate for your perceived shortcomings, by drinking pints of super-strong, iron-floating coffee. But we're wise to you, buster; because us real men, who know we can pull the babes and understand everyone admires and envies us, drink straight black coffee for the sheer enjoyment of unadulterated caffeine. We don't need to pretend; we know...
Macchiato. Short or long, the only reason you drink this is because you're a procrastinator. Like most things in your life, you can't decide what you want and are too afraid to make a decision in case you realise later that what you chose isn't, afterall, your heart's desire, and you really want that which you chose not to have. And so you order a macchiato, because you can't decide if you want a long black or a flat white; so you get what is, in effect, a black coffee with a smidge of milk; or, looking at it another way, a short white coffee with extra caffeine. Naturally, your life is plagued with similar mind-bending problems like: should you get the 1.5kg bag of flour at $2 or the 1.25kg bag at $1.50; should you go with the blue jacket and white blouse or the black jacket and red blouse; should you get the car wash with the hot wax or the car wash with the cold wax? And, naturally, since you can't make up your own mind, you'll inflict your uncertainties on everyone within a million square kilometre radius and ask them to do it for you; but then you won't be able to decide whose opinion is more authoritative, and whose advice you should go with. In short, drinking macchiato says this about you: you need to make a f#!*^!*!g decision and live with it! And you need to do it quickly - before that lynchmob of frustrated acquaintances coming into view over the horizon hoists you on the petard of your own indecisiveness!
Espresso. Like the coffee itself, the message of espresso drinking is short, simple, and to the point: you are a pretentious git. You're the kind of knob who thinks drinking espresso (especially if done while seated at a roadside table in South Yarra or Carlton) makes you "European" or sophisticated. But unless you are actually European, or, failing that, unless you actually understand that the joy of espresso is the invigoration which a shot of the good stuff provides the drinker, imbibing this brew says one thing, and one thing only: you are a wanker. In fact, you're a self-abuser of such monumental proportions that blindness is an inevitability, if, indeed, it hasn't occurred already. Certainly, you are blind to what a total clot you are, sipping your espresso in its tiny cup, all the while serenely surveying the world and imagining that it is your oyster. You not only need to get a life, you need a reality check as well; because that babe who sauntered past your table just now wasn't checking you out, she was thinking what a tragic waste it was that such a good table should be occupied by such a bad joke.
Cappuchino. You really are the Kath and Kim of the caffeine world. In fact, it's probably not too much to say that you spend far too much time in shopping malls, sitting at those little coffee bars that occupy the middle of the cavernous avenues between stores, thinking you're having such a fun time simply because you're here watching all the other anodyne drips wandering aimlessly about, instead of being back home cooing over daytime TV and the latest "must have" offerings of Dickheads Direct. Any person who thinks froth and chocolate sprinklings over milky coffee constitutes a vibrant drinking experience really doesn't have much going for them; and it's probably just as well for the species as a whole that natural selection will inevitably ensure that you and your kind leave fewer surviving descendants than the rest of the general population. In the meantime, enjoy your simple "pleasures" - it's all you've got left while waiting for extinction to arrive.
Mocha. You're here for a good time, not a long time. Over-indulgence isn't a sin for you; it's your middle name. Your idea of restraint is not adding sugar to your already saccharine loaded blend of coffee and chocolate syrup. Like a pig in a mud pen, life for you is one long, glorious rollick as you wallow in your self-generated mire of hedonistic pleasure. Well, make that one short and glorious rollick - 'cause you ain't gonna be around for long. Even as you imbibe your latest orgiastic brew, your arteries are hardening, your cardio-vascular system is going south for the winter, and blood clots are forming and rushing with determined gait towards the sugar-coated embolism-to-be that passes for your brain. But what they hey? If you're going to go out, you're going to go doing what you love, right? Yeah, right - except for that one nagging micro-second just before you die when you realise that life is sweeter than all that sugar you've been ingesting, and you wish - you just wish - you had maybe not given the good things in life such a nudge. Oh, well, carpe diem and all that; and quite literally, too, because you don't have that many diems to carpe left...
Well, there you have it. If you find yourself identifying with any of the categories contained herein, you only have yourself to blame. And as for Yours Truly...well, naturally, none of the above applies to me. I just drink coffee for the hell of it.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Coffee - that which, in England, tastes like a chemical experiment. (Agatha Christie)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Vertically Challenged
I've decided that, while it may not be proof-positive you're a moron, the fact that you do your shopping at a convenience store displays a tendency toward the moronic. Indeed, there seems to be a mathematical relationship: the more frequently you shop at a convenience store, the higher the likelihood that your personality is skewed toward the defective end of the scale.
Now, dear reader, I realise that this statement represents a rather sweeping generalisation, especially given most of the population have, at one time or another, shopped at a convenience store. Therefore, let me demonstrate the truth of my thesis by regaling you with examples from my own experience as a humble convenience store employee.
The first type of moron I call disabled parkers. Not, I hasten to add, because they happen to suffer the misfortune of being disabled; rather, because their brains seemingly cease to function as soon as they drive onto the forecourt in front of the store. And this brainlessness manifests itself in the way they park their cars; they are seemingly unable to park in anything like a logical and reasonable manner. Hence, disabled parkers. These are the people who park vertically in the horizontal parking bays; and who park horizontally across the vertical bays. These are the people who think its perfectly appropriate to park where there are no parking bays at all: in front on the security bollards near the front entrance, for example; or across the driveway providing access to the fuel pumps. These are the morons who take no account of the fact that parking bays are provided for a reason: to ensure that all stationary traffic not actually parked next to a fuel pump is safely out of the way! No kidding, I wish I had a buck for every time I've shaken my head in disbelief over their escapades: I'd be a rich man by now. Maybe even rich enough to compensate for the ulcers I'm developing as a consequence of contemplating their stupidity.
The next species of moron I call whingers. There are two types of whingers: those who complain about the prices; and those who moan because such-and-such a product isn't in stock. Both do so on a regular basis; indeed, so regularly that you could set your watch by them. The same day each week, the same time each day, in they trundle to complain about the same thing they've always complained about. You're much more expensive than the supermarket! Really? Well, then, f**k off to the supermarket! You don't have any widgets in stock! Really? Maybe that's because we've never had any f*****g widgets in stock! Lord forgive me, but I've almost succumbed more than once to the temptation to strangle the living crap outta these morons. Why can't they appreciate that a "convenience store" is "convenient" because it's local and open - not because it has the economies of scale to carry a wide stock range or the "cheaper" prices you'll find at the big chain stores?
A third variety of moron are the pullers. Now, I know what you're thinking; and while it may just be possible that these selfsame pullers also practice self-abuse in the store's public toilet, that's not why I've given them this particular epithet. No, these morons are so called because when they encounter the store's locked security door (it gets locked after a certain time at night in order to ensure the staff don't bunk off for a smoke behind the car wash) their midget-sized brains tell them: hey, that door's locked - better pull HARDER! No kidding, some of these prize fools have almost pulled the door off its hinges in their desperate attempts to get into the store (and complain about the prices and/or our pitiably small stock), all the while valiantly ignoring the clearly visible sign instructing them that, should the door be locked, they need only ring the bell in order to gain access. Of all the classifications of moron, the pullers exert a kind of compelling fascination: you can't help but wonder what passes through their pathetic excuse for a mind as they yank away - what, at any rate, compels them to persist in tugging at a door that clearly won't open. I don't think congenital stupidity - or even anything as mundane as plain, old drunkenness - resolves the conundrum; I think their idiocy approaches depths that are truly existential.
There are many, many more classifications of moron. For example, the jerks who think it's okay to jump-start their broken-down vehicle while it's still parked next to the fuel pump - clearly, heroically ignoring the fact that sparks and fuel vapour don't mix. Or the related delinquents who think it's okay to ignore the prohibitions against smoking or talking on their mobile phones while standing at the fuel pumps. Or the tools who, because the store is located on a relatively busy intersection controlled by traffic lights, are intent on saving a whole 2 seconds travelling time by tearing across the forecourt in order to avoid having to wait for the lights to change, somehow by the grace of God narrowly avoiding collisions with every other vehicle - and pedestrian - on the forecourt.
But I suspect you're starting to get the picture, right?
Anyhoo, while I'm prepared to concede that while not everyone who shops at a convenience store is in consequence a moron, there does seem to be something about the experience that insidiously, ruthlessly destroys the brain cells, rendering the victim a zombie disguised as a consumer. And for all I know, the malaise could be entirely localised: once they leave the store's bounds, maybe they revert to normal, intelligent, thinking human beings. Maybe - but maybe the effect is permanent. Forget swine flu - conveniencestore moroniosis could be the biggest thing to hit humanity since the Black Death.
And as for the effects on the people who work in convenience stores - well, I'll leave that to your over-active imaginations!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: See the happy moron, he doesn't give a damn; I wish I was a moron - my God, perhaps I am! (Anonymous)
Now, dear reader, I realise that this statement represents a rather sweeping generalisation, especially given most of the population have, at one time or another, shopped at a convenience store. Therefore, let me demonstrate the truth of my thesis by regaling you with examples from my own experience as a humble convenience store employee.
The first type of moron I call disabled parkers. Not, I hasten to add, because they happen to suffer the misfortune of being disabled; rather, because their brains seemingly cease to function as soon as they drive onto the forecourt in front of the store. And this brainlessness manifests itself in the way they park their cars; they are seemingly unable to park in anything like a logical and reasonable manner. Hence, disabled parkers. These are the people who park vertically in the horizontal parking bays; and who park horizontally across the vertical bays. These are the people who think its perfectly appropriate to park where there are no parking bays at all: in front on the security bollards near the front entrance, for example; or across the driveway providing access to the fuel pumps. These are the morons who take no account of the fact that parking bays are provided for a reason: to ensure that all stationary traffic not actually parked next to a fuel pump is safely out of the way! No kidding, I wish I had a buck for every time I've shaken my head in disbelief over their escapades: I'd be a rich man by now. Maybe even rich enough to compensate for the ulcers I'm developing as a consequence of contemplating their stupidity.
The next species of moron I call whingers. There are two types of whingers: those who complain about the prices; and those who moan because such-and-such a product isn't in stock. Both do so on a regular basis; indeed, so regularly that you could set your watch by them. The same day each week, the same time each day, in they trundle to complain about the same thing they've always complained about. You're much more expensive than the supermarket! Really? Well, then, f**k off to the supermarket! You don't have any widgets in stock! Really? Maybe that's because we've never had any f*****g widgets in stock! Lord forgive me, but I've almost succumbed more than once to the temptation to strangle the living crap outta these morons. Why can't they appreciate that a "convenience store" is "convenient" because it's local and open - not because it has the economies of scale to carry a wide stock range or the "cheaper" prices you'll find at the big chain stores?
A third variety of moron are the pullers. Now, I know what you're thinking; and while it may just be possible that these selfsame pullers also practice self-abuse in the store's public toilet, that's not why I've given them this particular epithet. No, these morons are so called because when they encounter the store's locked security door (it gets locked after a certain time at night in order to ensure the staff don't bunk off for a smoke behind the car wash) their midget-sized brains tell them: hey, that door's locked - better pull HARDER! No kidding, some of these prize fools have almost pulled the door off its hinges in their desperate attempts to get into the store (and complain about the prices and/or our pitiably small stock), all the while valiantly ignoring the clearly visible sign instructing them that, should the door be locked, they need only ring the bell in order to gain access. Of all the classifications of moron, the pullers exert a kind of compelling fascination: you can't help but wonder what passes through their pathetic excuse for a mind as they yank away - what, at any rate, compels them to persist in tugging at a door that clearly won't open. I don't think congenital stupidity - or even anything as mundane as plain, old drunkenness - resolves the conundrum; I think their idiocy approaches depths that are truly existential.
There are many, many more classifications of moron. For example, the jerks who think it's okay to jump-start their broken-down vehicle while it's still parked next to the fuel pump - clearly, heroically ignoring the fact that sparks and fuel vapour don't mix. Or the related delinquents who think it's okay to ignore the prohibitions against smoking or talking on their mobile phones while standing at the fuel pumps. Or the tools who, because the store is located on a relatively busy intersection controlled by traffic lights, are intent on saving a whole 2 seconds travelling time by tearing across the forecourt in order to avoid having to wait for the lights to change, somehow by the grace of God narrowly avoiding collisions with every other vehicle - and pedestrian - on the forecourt.
But I suspect you're starting to get the picture, right?
Anyhoo, while I'm prepared to concede that while not everyone who shops at a convenience store is in consequence a moron, there does seem to be something about the experience that insidiously, ruthlessly destroys the brain cells, rendering the victim a zombie disguised as a consumer. And for all I know, the malaise could be entirely localised: once they leave the store's bounds, maybe they revert to normal, intelligent, thinking human beings. Maybe - but maybe the effect is permanent. Forget swine flu - conveniencestore moroniosis could be the biggest thing to hit humanity since the Black Death.
And as for the effects on the people who work in convenience stores - well, I'll leave that to your over-active imaginations!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: See the happy moron, he doesn't give a damn; I wish I was a moron - my God, perhaps I am! (Anonymous)
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Bitter Sweet
This old fart was - for one, brief, bright-shining moment - a happy old fart indeed.
The attentive among you will remember that Yours Truly works a couple of nights a week at the local servo in order to make some sort of contribution to the household finances. And it was in this capacity that I recently made a discovery that temporarily warmed the cockles of this old, cold heart.
Maybe it was due to the fact that it was late at night, it was near the end of my shift, and I was dog tired. But having completed my shift duties, and with not a customer in sight, I was drifting listlessly up and down the aisles pretending to check that the stock was correctly arrayed on the shelves when suddenly I spotted them. There, in the midst of the confectionery were three relics from my childhood that I had never thought to see again.
A Chokito bar. A Polly Waffle. And a Peppermint Crisp.
Now, in case you're wondering how it is that my life could be so empty as to result in my going all gooey over three chocolate bars from my childhood, you have to understand a couple of things. The first is that, given the modest economic circumstances in which I grew up, in which 20 cents could by you a positively ginormous bag of mixed lollies (and how could it fail to do so, given most of them were priced at half a cent each), these chocolate bars were the creme-de-la-creme of confectionery, a legendary and only-to-be-longed-for indulgence which only the super-rich could afford. The second is that, as a child, a Chokito bar or a Polly Waffle was an adult treat (the fact that they were mostly consumed by teenagers was a moot point; to get your hands on one was to be grown up), and so had an added prestige beyond their actual worth.
Of course, once I actually did grow up (and, yes, I'm aware of the body of opinion out there that suggests this is an event yet to be accomplished), these things lost their allure; and gradually, the products themselves seemed to disappear from the shelves, fading into the golden afterglow of my childhood memories. So you can imagine my surprised delight when late on this particular night, I saw them sitting once again like golden eggs amid the monochrome glow of confectionery wrappers.
Naturally, I grabbed a fistful of each and, as soon as my shift was over, transported them home in a rapture of joy. And that, alas, is when the dream died and reality shot home with maliciously gleeful vengeance.
The first thing I noticed was the size. Or, should I say, the distinct lack thereof. Size may not matter for other things (at least, that's what I've heard; I wouldn't know, personally), but I can tell you, when it comes to a Polly Waffle or a Chokito bar, size is everything. While still in their wrappers, nothing seemed amiss. But once my trembling fingers had removed the product from their glittering foil sheaths, an involuntary gasp of disappointment escaped my quivering lips. The emaciated excuses for chocolate bars I now beheld were positively tiny. Okay, I could still see them with the naked eye - but that was the extent of their extent. What had once been massive logs of chocolate and nuts and waffle and nougat and caramel were reduced to pathetic imitations of their former selves. These weren't chocolate bars, they were chocolate fingers - and skinny ones, at that!
I was devastated.
But what really killed off any lingering hopes for the revival of a treasured childhood memory was the taste. Again, though, this was a concept encountered in the negative. By taste I mean the distinct absence thereof. Where was the smooth texture of chocolate? The sweet bite of the fluffy nougat? The unique, only-vaguely-describable-as-caramel swirl of the Chokito's filling? The crunch of the nuts? I don't think I've tasted anything more anodyne since the last time I walked into a certain well-known fast food chain that begins with "M" and ends in "cDonalds" - and that was years ago! Sheesh, it wasn't even like I was eating plastic - plastic would have tasted much better!
So next time you want to know why I'm so bitter and twisted, this is it. Not only have precious childhood memories disappeared from the world - they've been resuscitated into a hideous, zombie-like corpse. It's bad enough that the world was robbed of Polly Waffles and Chokito bars and Peppermint Crisps in the first place; that they've been adulterated into bland shadows of their former selves is a crime against humanity.
Well, my humanity, at any rate. And once I've finished bashing out this post, I'm going to email the International War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague - I want to know who's responsible for this travesty. And I want them to spend the rest of their lives in solitary confinement, up to their nose in the refuse of my ruined dreams. And then I want the punishment to get really harsh.
Bamboo stalks under the fingernails should do the trick. And then something seriously vicious: I'm going to force the perp to consume their own product.
Or would that be going to far?
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Childhood: a series of happy delusions. (Sydney Smith)
The attentive among you will remember that Yours Truly works a couple of nights a week at the local servo in order to make some sort of contribution to the household finances. And it was in this capacity that I recently made a discovery that temporarily warmed the cockles of this old, cold heart.
Maybe it was due to the fact that it was late at night, it was near the end of my shift, and I was dog tired. But having completed my shift duties, and with not a customer in sight, I was drifting listlessly up and down the aisles pretending to check that the stock was correctly arrayed on the shelves when suddenly I spotted them. There, in the midst of the confectionery were three relics from my childhood that I had never thought to see again.
A Chokito bar. A Polly Waffle. And a Peppermint Crisp.
Now, in case you're wondering how it is that my life could be so empty as to result in my going all gooey over three chocolate bars from my childhood, you have to understand a couple of things. The first is that, given the modest economic circumstances in which I grew up, in which 20 cents could by you a positively ginormous bag of mixed lollies (and how could it fail to do so, given most of them were priced at half a cent each), these chocolate bars were the creme-de-la-creme of confectionery, a legendary and only-to-be-longed-for indulgence which only the super-rich could afford. The second is that, as a child, a Chokito bar or a Polly Waffle was an adult treat (the fact that they were mostly consumed by teenagers was a moot point; to get your hands on one was to be grown up), and so had an added prestige beyond their actual worth.
Of course, once I actually did grow up (and, yes, I'm aware of the body of opinion out there that suggests this is an event yet to be accomplished), these things lost their allure; and gradually, the products themselves seemed to disappear from the shelves, fading into the golden afterglow of my childhood memories. So you can imagine my surprised delight when late on this particular night, I saw them sitting once again like golden eggs amid the monochrome glow of confectionery wrappers.
Naturally, I grabbed a fistful of each and, as soon as my shift was over, transported them home in a rapture of joy. And that, alas, is when the dream died and reality shot home with maliciously gleeful vengeance.
The first thing I noticed was the size. Or, should I say, the distinct lack thereof. Size may not matter for other things (at least, that's what I've heard; I wouldn't know, personally), but I can tell you, when it comes to a Polly Waffle or a Chokito bar, size is everything. While still in their wrappers, nothing seemed amiss. But once my trembling fingers had removed the product from their glittering foil sheaths, an involuntary gasp of disappointment escaped my quivering lips. The emaciated excuses for chocolate bars I now beheld were positively tiny. Okay, I could still see them with the naked eye - but that was the extent of their extent. What had once been massive logs of chocolate and nuts and waffle and nougat and caramel were reduced to pathetic imitations of their former selves. These weren't chocolate bars, they were chocolate fingers - and skinny ones, at that!
I was devastated.
But what really killed off any lingering hopes for the revival of a treasured childhood memory was the taste. Again, though, this was a concept encountered in the negative. By taste I mean the distinct absence thereof. Where was the smooth texture of chocolate? The sweet bite of the fluffy nougat? The unique, only-vaguely-describable-as-caramel swirl of the Chokito's filling? The crunch of the nuts? I don't think I've tasted anything more anodyne since the last time I walked into a certain well-known fast food chain that begins with "M" and ends in "cDonalds" - and that was years ago! Sheesh, it wasn't even like I was eating plastic - plastic would have tasted much better!
So next time you want to know why I'm so bitter and twisted, this is it. Not only have precious childhood memories disappeared from the world - they've been resuscitated into a hideous, zombie-like corpse. It's bad enough that the world was robbed of Polly Waffles and Chokito bars and Peppermint Crisps in the first place; that they've been adulterated into bland shadows of their former selves is a crime against humanity.
Well, my humanity, at any rate. And once I've finished bashing out this post, I'm going to email the International War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague - I want to know who's responsible for this travesty. And I want them to spend the rest of their lives in solitary confinement, up to their nose in the refuse of my ruined dreams. And then I want the punishment to get really harsh.
Bamboo stalks under the fingernails should do the trick. And then something seriously vicious: I'm going to force the perp to consume their own product.
Or would that be going to far?
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Childhood: a series of happy delusions. (Sydney Smith)
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Cracking Up
Ever since God invented female comedians (and some say Eve was the first), women have been getting huge chuckles at men's expense over the phenomenon commonly known as "plumber's crack". This is the apparently natural law that states that any tradesman (especially plumbers and electricians) will inevitably expose the upper portions of their backside (and, in particular, the "crack" by which their "cheeks" are divided) whenever they bend over - such exposure usually occurring in the immediate vicinity of a woman, who is thereby justified in subsequently relating the experience of her exposure to masculine slobishness to all her girlfriends (accompanied, of course, by the requisite scornful sarcasm and sense of existential superiority).
This phenomenon, however, has developed a life of its own and extended its scope beyond tradesblokes to men in general - especially men of a particular girth who vainly or foolishly try to convince themselves they are still capable of wearing pants in their teenage size range, and who thus invariably expose more of themselves than the rest of the population cares to see. It's sad, I know, and painful to view: if some dude has to have a mid life crisis, why can't he get a comb-over or buy a Harley? Why does he have to parade in skin tight jeans, exposing all and sundry to the back of his front every time he bends down to tie his shoelaces?
And so it gives me no pleasure at all to tell you that women are well and truly in on the act. No doubt, many of you are already aware of this, but I can convey the news from a unique perspective: that of the petrol station console operator. Not only do we get to see more "plumbette's crack" than is good for us, we get to see it in its particular and varied species. Ever since Brittany Spears started poncing about in "hipster" jeans singing thinly disguised songs about sex while pretending she was still an annoyingly cute and innocent Mouseketeer (and really, did any of us believe that for a microsecond?), hordes of women and teenage girls have been brainlessly copying her bad taste and traumatising the general population as a result. And trust me, they come in all sorts, to wit:
The fashion tragic. These come in two sorts: the big (or even just average) sized girl who refuses to believe she looks bad wearing hipster jeans; and the masochists, the ones who are clearly in a good deal of physical pain from wearing tight-fitting pants, but who would be in even greater mental anguish if they thought for a minute they might wear something comfortable but unfashionable (or apparently "unsexy"). The former usually compound their error by wearing one of those body-hugging tops that only just manages to cover their midriff, leaving you wondering if the folks at Life. Be In It managed to clone a twin sister out of Norm's excess body fat. The latter usually have the fixed smile and glazed eyes of a person whom you just know is frantically telling herself I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay and who, in her more self-aware moments, is beginning to wonder why she's getting abdominal cramps even though it's not time for her period. The former are sad: you want to grab them and shake them until they understand that they can look good without the hipsters and the belly-overhang that is the preserve of pregnant women and truckies. The latter are potentially tragic and make you long for a government advertising campaign highlighting the damage to be done to spleen and kidney and other vital internal organs by inappropriately tight attire.
The wedgie. This appears to be a uniquely feminine variation on the "plumbette's crack": the woman who combines high-riding undies with low-riding jeans. The result is a strip of undie (sometimes quite a large strip of undie) peeking over the top of the pants waistband. No doubt, for knicker fetishists, this is a dream come true: no need to pinch undies off a woman's clothes line, she'll just parade them for you, risk free. And the other thing I've noticed is that the undies in question always seem to be pale blue. No kidding; just as it invariably appears that the butt framing the "plumber's crack" is pale, hairy, and heftily on the larger-than-life scale, so the wedgie variant of "plumbette's crack" invariably involves blue undies. Don't ask me why; I don't know. I figure it must be some sort of natural law, like gravity. And don't call me weird, either; you notice this sort of thing when you're a console operator. And besides, you should be asking these women why they feel it necessary to expose their undergarments in public!
The drunk. This individual is not only the bottom-feeder of the "plumbette's crack" universe, they're the saddest as well. This is usually the woman of a "certain age" who is also well past the first flowering of youthful beauty, and who turns up having spent most of the evening (and day) at a pokies bar, an "over 40s" nightclub, or other similarly salubrious establishment. Needless to say, they're well and truly lubricated, inclined to either quarrelsomeness or inappropriate familiarity, and attired in a fashion that in all charity can only be described as "Skanks R Us". Naturally, hipster jeans feature prominently in the assemblage, as do low-cut tops, bad plastic surgery, fake tans, too much make-up, and hair teased and coloured to within an inch of its life. The overall effect is pitiable, and perhaps the less said about them the better...
But what all these variations have in common is the phenomenon of "plumbette's crack". As soon as a woman representative of one of these categories leans over to take something off a shelf, or grab something from the fridge, you're exposed to a "crack" so prominent your instinctive reaction is to mistake it for a slot machine and start furiously inserting coins. And, yes, I blame "hipster" jeans for this blight of unwanted feminine butt cleavage. And, yes, I blame the fashion industry for putting self-indulgence and profit ahead of dignity and health. And, yes, I blame women for being so shallow and mediocre as to allow themselves to be enslaved to this kind of aesthetic and existential stupidity. And, yes, I blame men for encouraging women in the delusion that they look "sexy" in these jeans (when in truth the blokes probably just want to get them whipped off ASAP).
But, lest I'm accused of being entirely sexist (and the less charitable among you probably already think that I am), I must confess that I have started noticing a similar trend among young men. Except that in their case, it's not so much a case of hipster jeans causing "plumber's crack" as daggy pants causing "full crack exposure". By which I mean that young men seem to have taken to into their heads in the last couple of years that wearing ultra baggy pants represents an especially attractive look - not only this, but that wearing said baggy pants not around their hips but around their thighs is an indicator of their fashionability! More than once in recent times I've had to none-too-gently require some gangling youth to be so unfashionable as to wear his pants properly and spare the rest of the sight of his boxer shorts. I just dread the day when some fool decides it's even more fashionable to go au naturale under his wilting tweeds...
So, as you gather, I'm not a fan of current fashions, pants-wise. I just hope women start following Jessica Simpson's lead (and whoever thought I'd say that) and decide that wearing jeans around their waist can be equally sexy and fashionable - but, more importantly, more consonant with their dignity as human beings. And let's hope the blokes do, too!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Sure, deck your lower limbs in pants; yours are the limbs, my sweeting. You look divine as you advance - have you seen yourself retreating? (Ogden Nash)
This phenomenon, however, has developed a life of its own and extended its scope beyond tradesblokes to men in general - especially men of a particular girth who vainly or foolishly try to convince themselves they are still capable of wearing pants in their teenage size range, and who thus invariably expose more of themselves than the rest of the population cares to see. It's sad, I know, and painful to view: if some dude has to have a mid life crisis, why can't he get a comb-over or buy a Harley? Why does he have to parade in skin tight jeans, exposing all and sundry to the back of his front every time he bends down to tie his shoelaces?
And so it gives me no pleasure at all to tell you that women are well and truly in on the act. No doubt, many of you are already aware of this, but I can convey the news from a unique perspective: that of the petrol station console operator. Not only do we get to see more "plumbette's crack" than is good for us, we get to see it in its particular and varied species. Ever since Brittany Spears started poncing about in "hipster" jeans singing thinly disguised songs about sex while pretending she was still an annoyingly cute and innocent Mouseketeer (and really, did any of us believe that for a microsecond?), hordes of women and teenage girls have been brainlessly copying her bad taste and traumatising the general population as a result. And trust me, they come in all sorts, to wit:
The fashion tragic. These come in two sorts: the big (or even just average) sized girl who refuses to believe she looks bad wearing hipster jeans; and the masochists, the ones who are clearly in a good deal of physical pain from wearing tight-fitting pants, but who would be in even greater mental anguish if they thought for a minute they might wear something comfortable but unfashionable (or apparently "unsexy"). The former usually compound their error by wearing one of those body-hugging tops that only just manages to cover their midriff, leaving you wondering if the folks at Life. Be In It managed to clone a twin sister out of Norm's excess body fat. The latter usually have the fixed smile and glazed eyes of a person whom you just know is frantically telling herself I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay and who, in her more self-aware moments, is beginning to wonder why she's getting abdominal cramps even though it's not time for her period. The former are sad: you want to grab them and shake them until they understand that they can look good without the hipsters and the belly-overhang that is the preserve of pregnant women and truckies. The latter are potentially tragic and make you long for a government advertising campaign highlighting the damage to be done to spleen and kidney and other vital internal organs by inappropriately tight attire.
The wedgie. This appears to be a uniquely feminine variation on the "plumbette's crack": the woman who combines high-riding undies with low-riding jeans. The result is a strip of undie (sometimes quite a large strip of undie) peeking over the top of the pants waistband. No doubt, for knicker fetishists, this is a dream come true: no need to pinch undies off a woman's clothes line, she'll just parade them for you, risk free. And the other thing I've noticed is that the undies in question always seem to be pale blue. No kidding; just as it invariably appears that the butt framing the "plumber's crack" is pale, hairy, and heftily on the larger-than-life scale, so the wedgie variant of "plumbette's crack" invariably involves blue undies. Don't ask me why; I don't know. I figure it must be some sort of natural law, like gravity. And don't call me weird, either; you notice this sort of thing when you're a console operator. And besides, you should be asking these women why they feel it necessary to expose their undergarments in public!
The drunk. This individual is not only the bottom-feeder of the "plumbette's crack" universe, they're the saddest as well. This is usually the woman of a "certain age" who is also well past the first flowering of youthful beauty, and who turns up having spent most of the evening (and day) at a pokies bar, an "over 40s" nightclub, or other similarly salubrious establishment. Needless to say, they're well and truly lubricated, inclined to either quarrelsomeness or inappropriate familiarity, and attired in a fashion that in all charity can only be described as "Skanks R Us". Naturally, hipster jeans feature prominently in the assemblage, as do low-cut tops, bad plastic surgery, fake tans, too much make-up, and hair teased and coloured to within an inch of its life. The overall effect is pitiable, and perhaps the less said about them the better...
But what all these variations have in common is the phenomenon of "plumbette's crack". As soon as a woman representative of one of these categories leans over to take something off a shelf, or grab something from the fridge, you're exposed to a "crack" so prominent your instinctive reaction is to mistake it for a slot machine and start furiously inserting coins. And, yes, I blame "hipster" jeans for this blight of unwanted feminine butt cleavage. And, yes, I blame the fashion industry for putting self-indulgence and profit ahead of dignity and health. And, yes, I blame women for being so shallow and mediocre as to allow themselves to be enslaved to this kind of aesthetic and existential stupidity. And, yes, I blame men for encouraging women in the delusion that they look "sexy" in these jeans (when in truth the blokes probably just want to get them whipped off ASAP).
But, lest I'm accused of being entirely sexist (and the less charitable among you probably already think that I am), I must confess that I have started noticing a similar trend among young men. Except that in their case, it's not so much a case of hipster jeans causing "plumber's crack" as daggy pants causing "full crack exposure". By which I mean that young men seem to have taken to into their heads in the last couple of years that wearing ultra baggy pants represents an especially attractive look - not only this, but that wearing said baggy pants not around their hips but around their thighs is an indicator of their fashionability! More than once in recent times I've had to none-too-gently require some gangling youth to be so unfashionable as to wear his pants properly and spare the rest of the sight of his boxer shorts. I just dread the day when some fool decides it's even more fashionable to go au naturale under his wilting tweeds...
So, as you gather, I'm not a fan of current fashions, pants-wise. I just hope women start following Jessica Simpson's lead (and whoever thought I'd say that) and decide that wearing jeans around their waist can be equally sexy and fashionable - but, more importantly, more consonant with their dignity as human beings. And let's hope the blokes do, too!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Sure, deck your lower limbs in pants; yours are the limbs, my sweeting. You look divine as you advance - have you seen yourself retreating? (Ogden Nash)
Monday, July 28, 2008
My Life As A Cartoon
Another gem from Wiley... (click on the image to enlargen it)
'Nuff said!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: A satirist is someone who discovers unpleasant things about themselves and then says them about other people. (Peter McArthur)
Monday, June 09, 2008
And Just To Prove That I'm NOT Procrastinating...
See, this is important and relevant...
QED: I'm not stuffing about when I should be studying, I'm being abstract and sequential...
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Procrastination: putting off until tomorrow what you put off yesterday until today. (Laurence Peter)
| Your Thinking is Abstract and Sequential |
 You like to do research and collect lots of information. The more facts you have, the easier it is for you to learn. You need to figure things out for yourself and consider all possibilities. You tend to become an expert in the subjects that you study. It's difficult for you to work with people who know less than you do. You aren't a very patient teacher, and you don't like convincing people that you're right. |
QED: I'm not stuffing about when I should be studying, I'm being abstract and sequential...
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Procrastination: putting off until tomorrow what you put off yesterday until today. (Laurence Peter)
The Analysis Continues Unabated....
I told you I wasn't &*!@&!! negative!!!
You Are a Little Negative... |
 You can be negative from time to time, but you rarely go overboard. You have a realistic view of the world, and most people appreciate your honest insights. Like everyone else, you have your darker moods. But when you're feeling super negative, you keep your feelings to yourself. |
And anyway, apophatic theology is good for you!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: A pessimist is merely what an optimist calls a realist. (Anon)
Saturday, June 07, 2008
And Just To Prove To You That I'm NOT A Nutbar...
See, I told you so!
Live long and prosper!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: I don't believe in aliens living on planets as such, but I do believe there's stuff going on in this room that none of us have any idea about. (Barry Sonnenfeld)
There's a 16% Chance You've Been Abducted By Aliens |
 There's virtually no chance you've been abducted by aliens. But there's always hope for the future! |
Live long and prosper!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: I don't believe in aliens living on planets as such, but I do believe there's stuff going on in this room that none of us have any idea about. (Barry Sonnenfeld)
And Just To Show You All That It's A Load Of Bollocks....
Index fingers, take note!
You get the point?
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: One finger in the throat and one finger in the rectum makes for a good diagnostician. (Sir William Osler)
| You Are a Ring Finger |
 You are romantic, expressive, and hopeful. You see the best in everything. You are very artistic, and you see the world as your canvas. You are also drawn to the written word. Inventive and unique, you are often away in your own inner world. You get along well with: The Pinky Stay away from: The Index Finger |
You get the point?
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: One finger in the throat and one finger in the rectum makes for a good diagnostician. (Sir William Osler)
The Rum n Raisin Personality Test...
As I have just completed an outstanding task, I thought I'd reward myself by posting one of those blogthing quizzes (and besides, it's been a while since I indulged). And speaking of indulgence, I couldn't go past the Ice Cream Personality Test. And this is what resulted:
Personally, I think it's a tad contradictory in parts. On the other hand, I suspect many of you who know me will think it's spot on!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. (Wallace Stevens)
Your Ice Cream Personality: |
 You are a bit of a bragger. Your personality is larger than life - and you really enjoy showing off. You are incredibly cautious. You rather miss out on something than make a mistake. No one would ever call you wild... but they would call you responsible. You are a somewhat open minded person, but deep down you're fairly conservative. You don't like trying new things very much. And if you do find something new you like, you stick with it. You tend to have a one track mind. You prefer not to multitask. You can be a big dramatic and over the top sometimes. You are bold in every way |
Personally, I think it's a tad contradictory in parts. On the other hand, I suspect many of you who know me will think it's spot on!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. (Wallace Stevens)
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
How Do I Follow THAT?!?
I have something of a dilemma.
I have now received back all my assignments for this semester, and although the mark for one was a little disappointing (high Credit), by some miracle of cosmic proportions I have managed to score High Distinctions for the other two.
Now, I know that HD's are every students dream and aspiration - the Everest, as it were, of the academic scale of achievement. And, believe me, it's not that I'm not grateful, it's just that...well, how do I follow a result like this?
Let me put it this way: over the course of a three year degree, one assumes one will gradually acquire more skills and knowledge, and, through the rigour of the academic process, lift one's work from a first year to a third year level of competence. Which means you expect to start with relatively modest scores and gradually build your way up to something more impressive.
I know, I know - there are always the favoured few who through talent and/or dedication, achieve top marks right from the off. But as Bruce Springsteen would say: get it straight now, mister - hey, buddy, that ain't me. I'm not an academic genius. My results are what you would call solid, not spectacular. So where in the heck do I come off achieving not one, but two HD results for my assignments?
Of course, this outcome doesn't mean that my final mark for the semester will be a HD in the two subjects concerned. I still have to get past the exams, and perform in said exams at a sufficient level to sustain the HD rating. And, in an ironic kind of way, that's the dilemma - because I can only go downhill from here!
Have I peaked too soon? Is the universe playing one of its cruel jokes, raising my hopes only to dash them on the rocks of the mediocrity I know are lurking beneath?
I know what you're thinking: I should be grateful and take the mark for what it is. And I do. It's just that...well, it's just that I now run the risk of every assignment I do being an anti-climax at best, a disappointment at worst! And, no, I'm not being paranoid or hypersensitive. I'm just feeling a little bit confronted at present...
It could be worse - I know it could be worse. But, gee, you know: two HDs...
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Failure is anyone seen on a bus after the age of thirty. (Nicholas Ray)
I have now received back all my assignments for this semester, and although the mark for one was a little disappointing (high Credit), by some miracle of cosmic proportions I have managed to score High Distinctions for the other two.
Now, I know that HD's are every students dream and aspiration - the Everest, as it were, of the academic scale of achievement. And, believe me, it's not that I'm not grateful, it's just that...well, how do I follow a result like this?
Let me put it this way: over the course of a three year degree, one assumes one will gradually acquire more skills and knowledge, and, through the rigour of the academic process, lift one's work from a first year to a third year level of competence. Which means you expect to start with relatively modest scores and gradually build your way up to something more impressive.
I know, I know - there are always the favoured few who through talent and/or dedication, achieve top marks right from the off. But as Bruce Springsteen would say: get it straight now, mister - hey, buddy, that ain't me. I'm not an academic genius. My results are what you would call solid, not spectacular. So where in the heck do I come off achieving not one, but two HD results for my assignments?
Of course, this outcome doesn't mean that my final mark for the semester will be a HD in the two subjects concerned. I still have to get past the exams, and perform in said exams at a sufficient level to sustain the HD rating. And, in an ironic kind of way, that's the dilemma - because I can only go downhill from here!
Have I peaked too soon? Is the universe playing one of its cruel jokes, raising my hopes only to dash them on the rocks of the mediocrity I know are lurking beneath?
I know what you're thinking: I should be grateful and take the mark for what it is. And I do. It's just that...well, it's just that I now run the risk of every assignment I do being an anti-climax at best, a disappointment at worst! And, no, I'm not being paranoid or hypersensitive. I'm just feeling a little bit confronted at present...
It could be worse - I know it could be worse. But, gee, you know: two HDs...
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Failure is anyone seen on a bus after the age of thirty. (Nicholas Ray)
Thursday, October 11, 2007
A Tight Squeeze!
It has been a heck of a week here at Comfy Couch Central!
The cause of all this excitement has been the dreaded malaise known as assignment deadlineitis!
Every semester, I begin by saying that this time I'll be organised: I'll study properly, I'll get stuck into the research for the assignments early, I won't leave anything until the last moment.
And this semester, I did - I actually did! I had two of my three assignments properly researched, with oodles of notes. And I was on the verge of getting stuck into the third - when the retina in my left eye decided it was a great time to detach again. Which in turn necessitated surgery, which also necessitated a week lying immobilised on my left side, which finally necessitated getting used to reading and writing with one eye. And then, just as a semblance of normality was returning, I came down with a chest infection - the result of which was another three weeks out of action!
Which, of course, meant all my planning - and good intentions! - went down the drain. I had to swallow my pride and ask my lecturers for extensions - which they all gladly provided with ready grace and concern for my welfare. They even asked if I needed longer than I asked for! Stupidly, I decided not to take advantage of their generosity, confident that I could get the work done in time.
WRONG! Well, almost. The deadline was this week - Friday, to be precise. And I had two of the three assignments unfinished. Well, I managed to knock over one by Tuesday, and today I've (miracle!) managed to complete the second.
Phew! It was a stretch! But I can also tell you this much: I sure appreciate the generosity and understanding of my lecturers, and their readiness to give me every possible assistance. It makes one hell of a difference to your confidence!
So here's a vote of thanks to my lecturers - I hope what I've produced justifies their generosity!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Teachers open the door; you must enter by yourself. (Chinese proverb)
The cause of all this excitement has been the dreaded malaise known as assignment deadlineitis!
Every semester, I begin by saying that this time I'll be organised: I'll study properly, I'll get stuck into the research for the assignments early, I won't leave anything until the last moment.
And this semester, I did - I actually did! I had two of my three assignments properly researched, with oodles of notes. And I was on the verge of getting stuck into the third - when the retina in my left eye decided it was a great time to detach again. Which in turn necessitated surgery, which also necessitated a week lying immobilised on my left side, which finally necessitated getting used to reading and writing with one eye. And then, just as a semblance of normality was returning, I came down with a chest infection - the result of which was another three weeks out of action!
Which, of course, meant all my planning - and good intentions! - went down the drain. I had to swallow my pride and ask my lecturers for extensions - which they all gladly provided with ready grace and concern for my welfare. They even asked if I needed longer than I asked for! Stupidly, I decided not to take advantage of their generosity, confident that I could get the work done in time.
WRONG! Well, almost. The deadline was this week - Friday, to be precise. And I had two of the three assignments unfinished. Well, I managed to knock over one by Tuesday, and today I've (miracle!) managed to complete the second.
Phew! It was a stretch! But I can also tell you this much: I sure appreciate the generosity and understanding of my lecturers, and their readiness to give me every possible assistance. It makes one hell of a difference to your confidence!
So here's a vote of thanks to my lecturers - I hope what I've produced justifies their generosity!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Teachers open the door; you must enter by yourself. (Chinese proverb)
Thursday, September 20, 2007
I Know I'm Bookish, But...
You can blame this one on Caro...although I'm actually quite pleased with the result, as this is one of my favourite books of all time...
You're To Kill a Mockingbird!
by Harper Lee
Perceived as a revolutionary and groundbreaking person, you have
changed the minds of many people. While questioning the authority around you, you've
also taken a significant amount of flack. But you've had the admirable guts to
persevere. There's a weird guy in the neighborhood using dubious means to protect you,
but you're pretty sure it's worth it in the end. In the end, it remains unclear to you
whether finches and mockingbirds get along in real life.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
And Now For Something a Little Less Serious...
You Are a Blue Crayon |
 Your world is colored in calm, understated, deep colors. You are a loyal person, and the truest friend anyone could hope to find. On the inside, you tend to be emotional and even a bit moody. However, you know that people depend on you. So you put on a strong front. Your color wheel opposite is orange. Orange people may be opinionated, but you feel they lack the depth to truly understand what they're saying. |
| You Are 72% Good |
 You are a good person. You do the best you can to be ethical, fair, and moral. And as you know, being a good person means making hard decisions... and following them through. If you're confronted with an ethical dilemma, you will usually do the right thing. Of course you do slip up. No one's perfect. But you do your best to correct your missteps. You are also probably: incredibly honest, especially with yourself Right now you are on track to being: A respected leader To be a better person: Be kind to someone who is not very kind to you |
| You Are a Haunted House |
 You are a deeply complicated and sometimes deeply disturbed person. You can't help but be attracted to the dark side of life - even when it's pretty gruesome. In relationships, you are honest and real. So real that it's definitely a little scary. You don't fake it or play along just to get along. And people either respect this... or deeply resent it Your life is thoughtful, deep, and even philosophical at times. You see the world as it is. You don't sugar coat anything. Facing and fighting your fears is important to you. You believe that too much of life is whitewashed. You're not too morbid... you just believe that you can't enjoy life without exorcising a few demons first! At your best, you are brave, intense, and fearless. Not only do you face the abyss head on - you challenge your friends to do the same. At your worst, you are depressed and morose. If you're not careful, your thoughts take over your mind... and they aren't pretty! |
| You Are Sunrise |
 You enjoy living a slow, fulfilling life. You enjoy living every moment, no matter how ordinary. You are a person of reflection and meditation. You start and end every day by looking inward. Caring and giving, you enjoy making people happy. You're often cooking for friends or buying them gifts. All in all, you know how to love life for what it is - not for how it should be. |
| You Are a Centaur |
 In general, you are a very cautious and reserved person. However, you are also warm hearted, and you enjoy helping others in practical ways. You are a great teacher, and you are really good at helping people get their lives in order. You are very intuitive, and you go with your gut. You make good decisions easily. |
Thursday, August 30, 2007
A Brief Interlude
I'm afraid I'm going to be off air for a short interlude.
Last weekend, the retina in my left eye decided it would be a good time to detach itself from the rest of the eye, necessitating my having to undergo surgery tomorrow. Mildly inconvenient, given my Dearly Beloved and I are scheduled to attend the Selection Conference of the Victorian-Tasmanian Synod of the Uniting Church in Australia the weekend after next - the final stage of our applications to candidate to the ordained ministry!
Who says the universe doesn't have a sense of humour?
While the operation itself is only a day procedure, I'll not only end up looking like I've gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, the restricted vision will militate against me being able to put up any posts for a while.
But fear not - normal service shall be resumed shortly. So I'll see you on the flip side once my own personal approximation of 20:20 vision has been restored.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. (Erasmus)
Last weekend, the retina in my left eye decided it would be a good time to detach itself from the rest of the eye, necessitating my having to undergo surgery tomorrow. Mildly inconvenient, given my Dearly Beloved and I are scheduled to attend the Selection Conference of the Victorian-Tasmanian Synod of the Uniting Church in Australia the weekend after next - the final stage of our applications to candidate to the ordained ministry!
Who says the universe doesn't have a sense of humour?
While the operation itself is only a day procedure, I'll not only end up looking like I've gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, the restricted vision will militate against me being able to put up any posts for a while.
But fear not - normal service shall be resumed shortly. So I'll see you on the flip side once my own personal approximation of 20:20 vision has been restored.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. (Erasmus)
Monday, August 27, 2007
Language, please!
This weekend just gone, my Dearly Beloved and I played host to Jason, a Chinese teacher presently in Australia on an exchange visit.
Jason teaches English at a school in central China; most young Chinese are keen to get ahead in life and live a more "luxurious" Western lifestyle, so having good English skills is seen as vital to getting the kind of employment that can facilitate this ambition. My Dearly Beloved, being amongst other things, an Australian who teaches Chinese to young Australians wanting to learn a second language, has taken a number of student groups over to China to provide some cultural context to the language. The school at which Jason teaches and my Dearly Beloved's school have a sister school relationship; and so, this weekend, we showed Jason some of the sights of Melbourne.
It has been an interesting experience meeting Jason. He English skills are very good, and he displays a quick-wittedness and sense of humour in English that can take you unawares because of his normally gentle and disarming manner. For example, Jason very kindly offered to cook us dinner on Saturday night, and whipped up a beautiful dish of stir-fried noodles, vegetables, and lamb. As I was watching him expertly stir the food in the wok with a pair of chopsticks, I decided to be a smart-arse and said:
"What is it with Chinese civilisation? You guys invented paper, and gunpowder, and government, and a whole heap of other stuff. How come you never invented the knife and fork?"
A slow smile spread across Jason's face, and without taking his eyes off the wok, he said quietly: "I don't know. How come you guys never learned to use chopsticks?"
I had to laugh. Not only was it a great comeback, it also made a cogent point: us Westerners have learned lot of things from Chinese civilisation, yet those aspects which we've never managed to make our own we have tended to adopt a rather superior attitude towards. Jason's riposte was a lovely little lesson in humility.
Mind you, it appears that the Australian idiom has been causing Jason some head-scratching moments. As we were eating the meal Jason had prepared, and were engaging in general conversation, he asked in his usual unassuming manner: "Can you tell me what wanker means?"
I nearly chocked on my noodles. Oh dear, I thought, some of the kids at school have been introducing Jason to the local colloquialisms...
Fortunately, my Dearly Beloved was able to explain the meaning using a compound Chinese term that meant "to use by hand" and "the airplane" (I'm sure you'll be able to work it out!). Don't ask me how she knew; I don't want to know! Jason considered my Dearly Beloved's explanation for a moment, then enquired: "So if we're driving somewhere, and someone in another car does something stupid, I should call him a wanker?"
We hastily assured him that he should not do so - not unless he wants to risk getting into trouble!
Jason has dubbed me Wenlong, which (very roughly) means "wise dragon". My Dearly Beloved is Li Shan, or "beautiful mountain". Jason is "Golden Monkey" - I'm still trying to get my head (and tongue) around the Chinese for that! But it was very pleasant hosting him for the weekend, and as he'll be here for a few more weeks, I'm sure there will be further opportunities to help each other around the traps and pitfalls of our respective languages!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: The instant a wise man understands that he is wise, he becomes a fool. (Confucius)
Jason teaches English at a school in central China; most young Chinese are keen to get ahead in life and live a more "luxurious" Western lifestyle, so having good English skills is seen as vital to getting the kind of employment that can facilitate this ambition. My Dearly Beloved, being amongst other things, an Australian who teaches Chinese to young Australians wanting to learn a second language, has taken a number of student groups over to China to provide some cultural context to the language. The school at which Jason teaches and my Dearly Beloved's school have a sister school relationship; and so, this weekend, we showed Jason some of the sights of Melbourne.
It has been an interesting experience meeting Jason. He English skills are very good, and he displays a quick-wittedness and sense of humour in English that can take you unawares because of his normally gentle and disarming manner. For example, Jason very kindly offered to cook us dinner on Saturday night, and whipped up a beautiful dish of stir-fried noodles, vegetables, and lamb. As I was watching him expertly stir the food in the wok with a pair of chopsticks, I decided to be a smart-arse and said:
"What is it with Chinese civilisation? You guys invented paper, and gunpowder, and government, and a whole heap of other stuff. How come you never invented the knife and fork?"
A slow smile spread across Jason's face, and without taking his eyes off the wok, he said quietly: "I don't know. How come you guys never learned to use chopsticks?"
I had to laugh. Not only was it a great comeback, it also made a cogent point: us Westerners have learned lot of things from Chinese civilisation, yet those aspects which we've never managed to make our own we have tended to adopt a rather superior attitude towards. Jason's riposte was a lovely little lesson in humility.
Mind you, it appears that the Australian idiom has been causing Jason some head-scratching moments. As we were eating the meal Jason had prepared, and were engaging in general conversation, he asked in his usual unassuming manner: "Can you tell me what wanker means?"
I nearly chocked on my noodles. Oh dear, I thought, some of the kids at school have been introducing Jason to the local colloquialisms...
Fortunately, my Dearly Beloved was able to explain the meaning using a compound Chinese term that meant "to use by hand" and "the airplane" (I'm sure you'll be able to work it out!). Don't ask me how she knew; I don't want to know! Jason considered my Dearly Beloved's explanation for a moment, then enquired: "So if we're driving somewhere, and someone in another car does something stupid, I should call him a wanker?"
We hastily assured him that he should not do so - not unless he wants to risk getting into trouble!
Jason has dubbed me Wenlong, which (very roughly) means "wise dragon". My Dearly Beloved is Li Shan, or "beautiful mountain". Jason is "Golden Monkey" - I'm still trying to get my head (and tongue) around the Chinese for that! But it was very pleasant hosting him for the weekend, and as he'll be here for a few more weeks, I'm sure there will be further opportunities to help each other around the traps and pitfalls of our respective languages!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: The instant a wise man understands that he is wise, he becomes a fool. (Confucius)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
I Passed! I Passed! I Passed!
Well, the mailman dropped my first semester results into the mailbox this afternoon, and even with one eye closed in expectation of the worst, I was able to see that I passed New Testament Greek! Indeed, I scored 63%, only a couple of percentage points off a Credit!
Now, you might not think that 63% is anything to get excited about - but that's not taking into account the fact that I would have been happy with 51%, largely due to the fact that Greek was a really hard struggle, and I discovered to a painful degree my ineptitude when it comes to languages. So 63% frankly looks like I really kicked arse!
As for my other results...oh, well, I scored 71% for Biblical Texts (a few agonising points short of a Distinction!) and 75% for Christology (bang on a Distinction). But that's not important - what's important is the fact that I passed New Testament Greek!
woo-hoo!
And I'm sure my Greek lecturer will be glad that I won't be back to clutter up the class next year!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Success is never having to admit that you're unhappy. (Robert Evans)
Now, you might not think that 63% is anything to get excited about - but that's not taking into account the fact that I would have been happy with 51%, largely due to the fact that Greek was a really hard struggle, and I discovered to a painful degree my ineptitude when it comes to languages. So 63% frankly looks like I really kicked arse!
As for my other results...oh, well, I scored 71% for Biblical Texts (a few agonising points short of a Distinction!) and 75% for Christology (bang on a Distinction). But that's not important - what's important is the fact that I passed New Testament Greek!
woo-hoo!
And I'm sure my Greek lecturer will be glad that I won't be back to clutter up the class next year!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Success is never having to admit that you're unhappy. (Robert Evans)
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