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Even Girl Scouts Hate Me Now
Oh man..... ><
Wait, what?
Me: “I’m afraid customer service isn’t in yet.”
SC: “Oh…you can’t service me?”
….what? No, really, what did you just say? You can’t really have said that. I must have heard that wrong. I’m just hearing things. Yes, that’s it.
Me: “….wait, what?”
SC: “Can you service me?”
…..no, no I cannot. The realm of abilities I can extent to you are merely the placing of orders and the dispatching of seasonal catalogs. I can provide no other….services. Please do not make such requests of me, as I am unable and utterly unwilling to comply. This does not fall within the realm of my job description. It is so far outside of my job description it is downstairs, outside the office, 10 blocks down Granville from here in a pair of fish nets waggling its tongue between two fingers at passing cars.
Semantics
( This guy drives me nuts. He works for one of our clients but knows nothing about his own job so is constantly calling us to ask US how to do HIS job. We're not even his company. )
SC: "Um, where am I suppose to be working tonight?"
Me: “You should be at site 14”
SC: “Site 14?”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “Site 14 or site one four?”
…*sigh*. Sure, site one four. Really, whatever you want at this point. I don’t care anymore. Speaking with you is mentally weary. You have a sort of intellectual drag factor on other human beings. Possibly even on animals. I don’t know, this is an utterly unscientific and completely subjective assessment.
All right, all right, fine. I’ll try and put this a bit more scientifically. Ok, you. As in the person I am speaking with, are essentially a intellectual singularity. The point within a terrible, mental black hole at which all thought is cruelly sucked in and than compressed into a zero sum of nothingness. Around this epicenter where thought goes to die is a overwhelming aura of suck that slowly draws away the mental strength of any caught within its currents.
My only hope is that I may escape before I reach the event horizon and cross the point of no return. Which, I assume, is what happened to the rest of your coworkers if past call history is any indication.
Sanctuary
There’s nothing quite as fun as having your Skytrain grind to a halt and than remain stuck at one of the busier stations for a painfully extended period of time. You’d be surprised just how rapidly and alarmingly a Skytrain car can fill up when it doesn’t move for 15 or 20 minutes. Which typically results in you being backed into a corner or otherwise surrounded. Your personal space cruelly invaded by people you would not normally interact with or have to smell if at all possible.
This evening I found myself completely surrounded and pinned in a corner by four scantily clad young females. Now, some of you are probably thinking this is a rather strange thing for a male to complain about. Surely, any red blooded young man would be thrilled at this particular predicament. However, I tend to prefer women that do not shop at Please Mum for their summer clothing and do not use the word “Like” as a form of punctuation.
So here I am, trapped behind Giuchie, Giuchie, Yaya and Dada and trying to find some direction to look that doesn't end with girl mounds or severe camel toe in my field of vision. With no avenue of escape as there is barely breathing room anywhere on the Skytrain. Oh joy. Now I must sit here and endure their conversation. A term I use very lightly. As I have overheard more engaging and grammatically correct conversations between the Teletubbies. Teletubbies have better fashion sense as well. At least Tinky Winky knows how to accessorize.
Of course, when it finally unloaded at Broadway, I thought that freedom would once again be mine. But alas, despite there now being plenty of room for them to migrate to like errant wildebeest, they chose to remain in position, trapping me. So here I am, trapped behind a wall of nubile young girl flesh and the only thing I’m doing is pondering reaching a hand out towards the envious looking guy across from me at yelling “Sanctuary! SAAANCTUARTY!” at him in the hopes he’ll tag me out.
Learning Curve
Me: “Ok, and what size would you like?”
SC: “Huh? It only comes in XL”
Me: “Actually, I have it several sizes.”
SC: “Oh….uhhh….what sizes you got?”
Me: “I have small, medium, large and XL”
SC: “Oh….ummmmm…..uh”
Me: “Which size would you like?”
SC: “…..uh…..uhhh…I don’t know! This is a hard!”
……no……no it’s not you deranged howler monkey. You were going to get XL to begin with, weren’t you? Than just get XL! Even if you weren’t, it’s not that hard of a choice. I mean, what size are you? What size are the rest of your clothes? You must have some idea what size they are unless you’re clothed entirely in garbage bags and old drapes. Seriously, just look at whatever size the rest of your clothes are and ask for that size. This is not that complicated! Life is not this complicated! At least it’s not for those of us that can actually outwit furniture.
Hell, you could even just take your shirt off as we speak and check the tag. Just, something, anything. I don’t care. Just don’t level such a remarkably stupid complaint at me ever again. I don’t think I can take much more of them and I’d rather not just have the thing rubber band of my mind finally snap one day while at work.
The morning staff would just find me slumped over my keyboard in a puddle of my own saliva. Which, ironically, is probably fairly similar to how you spend the majority of your day.
Parenting Fail
Me: “Ok, and whats your name please?”
SC: “Bob Red”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “But my brother is coming along too.”
Me: “Ok, what’s his name?”
SC: “Bob Red?”
Me: “…..his name is Bob Red as well?”
SC: “Yes, we’re both named Bob but we have different middle names.”
Oh, well, as long as the middle names are different that clearly eliminates any and all confusion that could possibly arise from naming both your children the exact same thing. I mean it’s not like you could ever get them mixed up as long as everyone they meet asked them for their full legal name.
Not the most imaginative parents in the world, eh?
The Parkade Or How To Waste Taxpayer Money
Ahhh…I knew this one was going to be exciting as soon as the RCMP Officer explained it to me. Apparently some knuckle dragging bridge troll’s brand new 2009 Jeep Wrangler is locked inside of one of the parkades. Oh yes. It’s the ol’ too stupid to read all the signs got the vehicle locked in scenario. Truly a classic tale. But with a twist! Since this parkade is closed there isn't really any security on duty now to watch and make sure his precious man chariot isn’t stolen or molested in the dark of night by roving packs of “drunken teenagers”.
Best part? He foolishly lent the Jeep to his daughter ( Who I assume is one of said drunken teenagers ) and she’s the one that drove it to the park. At 9:55pm. The parkade gets locked up at 10pm. Yet despite this grievous error in judgment, I just know this is going to end up being my fault. Because the concept of personal responsibility is lost on the majority of those operating telephones at this hour.
Anyhow, it was the RCMP that called me to begin with. Because he called them. Yes, that’s right. He called the RCMP because his precious manhood extender got locked in a parkade. So the RCMP, perhaps seeking to humour him or just hoping to pass him off before they’re tempted to taze him, called me and explained the situation. They gave me his name and phone number, and I told them it was highly unlikely, but I’d at least check and see if the security guard had gone home yet.
Oh, and the officer in question even mentioned just how many incredibly visible signs are posted everywhere proclaiming the time the gate is locked at night. Because the officer, much like myself, was able to immediately sense the stupidity and human failure involved in this situation. But alas, I am a kind and forgiving god, and offered to at least check to see if the guard was still there. Though I knew what the answer would likely be.
Annnnnd yep. The answer was no. A big, fat, pulsating no with neon track lighting. The guard was already on his way home and likewise pointed out that there was a veritable plethora of giant visible signs stating when the parkade closes. One on the gate, one on the booth, several on the support pillars and a few behind the parking spots themselves.
So now I get to call back the actual bridge troll, Rob, and explain to him that he’s fubar. This goes about as well as you would imagine. In fact, it was basically the 5 stages of grief. I assume at the perceived loss of his vehicle to intoxicated teenagers.
Stage 1: Denial
There can’t possibly be no one that to unlock the gate!
Stage 2: Anger
It’s completely ridiculous that there’s no one that can unlock the gate! Why don’t the police have keys ( to private property )! The police should have keys! This is fucking ridiculous! Why can’t you resolve this situation that is completely and utterly my fault and my fault alone?!
Stage 3: Bargaining
Why can’t you make the police drive over to the guard's house, get the keys, and drive back here to service me personally thus tying up emergency services that clearly have far better things to attend to at this hour then my petty problems and self inflicted dilemma?!
I’m not making that up either, he really wanted me to call the RCMP back and make them do that for him. In all fucking seriousness.
Stage 4: Depression
So you mean I have to stay out here all night at the parkade till 6am to watch my jeep!? Yeah I know there’s signs. But they aren’t clearly posted ( They're everywhere )! And it’s dark ( the whole parkade is brightly lit )! And I am cold and alone and there are probably bears! Oh god, I’ve never truly been loved! <sob>
Stage 5: Acceptance
Well fine I’ll just stay out here till 6am than! Since you clearly won’t concede that the world revolves around me personally, I guess I have no other choice! I hope you’re happy with yourself you fucking asshole!
and thanks for calling! ( Hey, its the closing script. >.> )
Even the Girl Scouts now? GIRL SCOUTS?
This time I was reamed out by the troop leader of a Girl Scout brigade…..no, really. They were camping out on private property ( with permission ) and the security patrol was nice enough to come by and checked up on them. Well, the big bad evil security guards who were just doing their job have scared all the Girl Scouts. So now Cuntquatch the Hog Queen has a group of scared little girls and is just so SO done with me and demands that I do something about it. I have no idea what she wants or expects me to do. Just that I should do it to quell her rage.
I’m not entirely sure what she expects me to do about this. Take them all to Dairy Queen?
Best part is I offered the non-emergency number and she said she already had it. Which means she specifically chose the number typically reserved for if the property is burning down to complain about scared little girls.
The Groin Sentinel
There was a rather odd gentleman on the Skytrain this evening ( Well, ok, there’s at least one every evening. ) who was rather…preoccupied. He was standing in front of the door, holding onto the pole…..staring directly down at his crotch. Now I don’t mean he was just looking down at the floor and I am merely making a comedic observation of why this might be. I mean he was looking straight at his own groin. He was leaning back, rather far, and thrusting his crotch forward so that he could look directly down into it.
I have utterly no idea why he was doing this. But he did it the entire time he was on the Skytrain ( and disembarked at Broadway, obviously ). I don’t know what he found so fascinating down there. Or what he felt the need to observe so closely. I’m not sure if his crotch could offer simple divination if you shook it first? Or perhaps he perceived some threat down there, or some threat too down there. So he had to assume the role of Groin Sentinel and watch over the……er……let’s say southern border lands.
What?
Me: “Good morning, <company>"
SC: “Yeah, I wanna bid on a pizza?”
You….want to what? Bid…on a pizza? I….but that….I mean…..yes, you have the wrong number. But….bid on a pizza? What? That whole sentence doesn’t make a shred of sense. Why would you bid on pizza? Did Jesus’s face appear on it?
You know there’s places you can phone where you can just buy the pizza for a set price and no one can ninja it and outbid you at the last minute.
Public Transit
But anyhow, public transit! Yes, this is a never ending rollercoaster of shock and horror for me in this city. About the only way I can get to work without seeing something is if I shut my eyes the entire way. But than I hear things instead. So it doesn’t always work. I suppose I could shut my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears but than I’d likely miss my stop and open myself as an object of ridicule. Well, one of them on the Skytrain anyway.
This evening was a trio of unique characters who may or may not have been low grade super heroes or super villains. I even know some of their names! Simply by overhearing their remarkable loud conversation. They were only on the train for about 3 stops too yet the impression they left was just too stunning to not mention.
I didn’t even see them at first, only heard them. As one bellowed “HURRY UP!” and sprinted towards the train with long, lanky strides. The other two completely ignored his call and shared none of his alarm as they sauntered casually up behind him. Trusting that his pole like physique would be sufficient to jar the door open for them. Which it was.
So our first contestant, the pole like creature. Garbed in what I believe a few years ago was known as the “Grunge” look but these days is simply used as the stereotypical “Canadian” appearance on American TV. You know, manly unshaven stubble, jeans, T-shirt and an open plaid fleece shirt over top? Yeah, that look. So due to this, we shall call him Grungepole.
So Grungepole uses his amazing powers of hold up the entire train for everyone else on board long enough for his companions to lazily make their way onto the train. This remaining daring duo was likewise rather unique….
First up was a guy that looked exactly like Mini-Me from Austin Powers except about a foot taller and with a mustache. Much like Mini-Me he spent the remainder of the ride serving as a sort of silent back ground joke to the other two. Since he sort of hung out near a pole and kinda danced this weird little groove/jig thing the whole trip. So we shall call him Jig-Mite.
Rounding out the group was Miley. Whose name was yelled at her numerous times as she seems to have the attention span and hearing of a deaf Jack Russel terrier. Miley was similar to Grungepole in that she shared his astounding height, however, she had about 50 lbs on him. Which isn’t as impressive as you’d think actually, since Grungepole probably weighed about 104 tops. Still, Miley had one immediately noticeable ability.
……which apparently was the ability to shop at the kid’s section at Walmart. As she had somehow managed to get into a pair of jeans that were at least 6 sizes too small. Not only were they clearly cutting off circulation, but they also didn’t come up all the way because they couldn’t. This of course creates a wonderful, completely unattractive effect similar to putting too much yeast in bread dough before you let it rise.....and than shoving a brillo pad down the front of the pan.
So Grungepole, Jig-Mite and Doughroll engage in…..well, I’m not sure you’d call it a conversation. Grungepole would talk, Jig-Mite would dance and Doughroll would space out and ignore both of them until Jig-Mite yelled at her. Than the whole scenario would repeat itself ad nasuem.
……..actually thinking back the whole thing was really surreal.
Unqualified
Me: “Ok, its N, as in Nancy.”
SC: “N”
Me: “D, as in David.”
SC: "D?"
Me: "Yes."
SC: “….how do you spell that?”
….ok, if you can’t spell D I’m afraid I’m just going to have to terminate this call right here. Because you require a fundamental level of assistance that is far beyond that which I can provide. I am neither trained nor qualified to teach at a pre-school level. Nor am I a muppet.
So, I’m afraid we will have to part ways. It’s sad, I know. But I simply can’t assist you further. However, your room is still booked at the hotel in question. If you can find a helpful member of the airport staff to tie your shoes for you I’m sure they can tell you what direction to start walking to reach the hotel.
A Cunning Plan
It’s always cute when the simple minded come up with what they believe to be the perfect crime. In this case, it seems the plan was to run onto the property and try to kick the sprinkler heads off thus creating a series of geysers which would soon reduce lawn to a bayou.
A cunning plan, no? Well, it seems to have just one minor flaw. The young troglodyte in question did indeed manage to success on his first attempt taking one of the sprinkler heads clean off and recreating Old Faithful on a domestic scale. However, he was now flush with the butt tingling feeling of success. A feeling I’d wager to guess he was wholly unfamiliar with up until this point. Believing lightning to strike twice, he attempted an assault on a second sprinkler head.
Annnd kicked it so hard his shoe flew off just as the guard came outside to confront him. Forcing him flee down the street with his friends wearing only a single shoe. To make it all the better, the guard picked the shoe up, took it and called us.
So congratulations, my young primate friend. You just lost one of your $250 Nike’s and discovered the term instant karma.
annnd rest. Well, maybe moar later....have a bunch more not written up yet. ><
Wait, what?
Me: “I’m afraid customer service isn’t in yet.”
SC: “Oh…you can’t service me?”
….what? No, really, what did you just say? You can’t really have said that. I must have heard that wrong. I’m just hearing things. Yes, that’s it.
Me: “….wait, what?”
SC: “Can you service me?”
…..no, no I cannot. The realm of abilities I can extent to you are merely the placing of orders and the dispatching of seasonal catalogs. I can provide no other….services. Please do not make such requests of me, as I am unable and utterly unwilling to comply. This does not fall within the realm of my job description. It is so far outside of my job description it is downstairs, outside the office, 10 blocks down Granville from here in a pair of fish nets waggling its tongue between two fingers at passing cars.
Semantics
( This guy drives me nuts. He works for one of our clients but knows nothing about his own job so is constantly calling us to ask US how to do HIS job. We're not even his company. )
SC: "Um, where am I suppose to be working tonight?"
Me: “You should be at site 14”
SC: “Site 14?”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “Site 14 or site one four?”
…*sigh*. Sure, site one four. Really, whatever you want at this point. I don’t care anymore. Speaking with you is mentally weary. You have a sort of intellectual drag factor on other human beings. Possibly even on animals. I don’t know, this is an utterly unscientific and completely subjective assessment.
All right, all right, fine. I’ll try and put this a bit more scientifically. Ok, you. As in the person I am speaking with, are essentially a intellectual singularity. The point within a terrible, mental black hole at which all thought is cruelly sucked in and than compressed into a zero sum of nothingness. Around this epicenter where thought goes to die is a overwhelming aura of suck that slowly draws away the mental strength of any caught within its currents.
My only hope is that I may escape before I reach the event horizon and cross the point of no return. Which, I assume, is what happened to the rest of your coworkers if past call history is any indication.
Sanctuary
There’s nothing quite as fun as having your Skytrain grind to a halt and than remain stuck at one of the busier stations for a painfully extended period of time. You’d be surprised just how rapidly and alarmingly a Skytrain car can fill up when it doesn’t move for 15 or 20 minutes. Which typically results in you being backed into a corner or otherwise surrounded. Your personal space cruelly invaded by people you would not normally interact with or have to smell if at all possible.
This evening I found myself completely surrounded and pinned in a corner by four scantily clad young females. Now, some of you are probably thinking this is a rather strange thing for a male to complain about. Surely, any red blooded young man would be thrilled at this particular predicament. However, I tend to prefer women that do not shop at Please Mum for their summer clothing and do not use the word “Like” as a form of punctuation.
So here I am, trapped behind Giuchie, Giuchie, Yaya and Dada and trying to find some direction to look that doesn't end with girl mounds or severe camel toe in my field of vision. With no avenue of escape as there is barely breathing room anywhere on the Skytrain. Oh joy. Now I must sit here and endure their conversation. A term I use very lightly. As I have overheard more engaging and grammatically correct conversations between the Teletubbies. Teletubbies have better fashion sense as well. At least Tinky Winky knows how to accessorize.
Of course, when it finally unloaded at Broadway, I thought that freedom would once again be mine. But alas, despite there now being plenty of room for them to migrate to like errant wildebeest, they chose to remain in position, trapping me. So here I am, trapped behind a wall of nubile young girl flesh and the only thing I’m doing is pondering reaching a hand out towards the envious looking guy across from me at yelling “Sanctuary! SAAANCTUARTY!” at him in the hopes he’ll tag me out.
Learning Curve
Me: “Ok, and what size would you like?”
SC: “Huh? It only comes in XL”
Me: “Actually, I have it several sizes.”
SC: “Oh….uhhh….what sizes you got?”
Me: “I have small, medium, large and XL”
SC: “Oh….ummmmm…..uh”
Me: “Which size would you like?”
SC: “…..uh…..uhhh…I don’t know! This is a hard!”
……no……no it’s not you deranged howler monkey. You were going to get XL to begin with, weren’t you? Than just get XL! Even if you weren’t, it’s not that hard of a choice. I mean, what size are you? What size are the rest of your clothes? You must have some idea what size they are unless you’re clothed entirely in garbage bags and old drapes. Seriously, just look at whatever size the rest of your clothes are and ask for that size. This is not that complicated! Life is not this complicated! At least it’s not for those of us that can actually outwit furniture.
Hell, you could even just take your shirt off as we speak and check the tag. Just, something, anything. I don’t care. Just don’t level such a remarkably stupid complaint at me ever again. I don’t think I can take much more of them and I’d rather not just have the thing rubber band of my mind finally snap one day while at work.
The morning staff would just find me slumped over my keyboard in a puddle of my own saliva. Which, ironically, is probably fairly similar to how you spend the majority of your day.
Parenting Fail
Me: “Ok, and whats your name please?”
SC: “Bob Red”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “But my brother is coming along too.”
Me: “Ok, what’s his name?”
SC: “Bob Red?”
Me: “…..his name is Bob Red as well?”
SC: “Yes, we’re both named Bob but we have different middle names.”
Oh, well, as long as the middle names are different that clearly eliminates any and all confusion that could possibly arise from naming both your children the exact same thing. I mean it’s not like you could ever get them mixed up as long as everyone they meet asked them for their full legal name.
Not the most imaginative parents in the world, eh?
The Parkade Or How To Waste Taxpayer Money
Ahhh…I knew this one was going to be exciting as soon as the RCMP Officer explained it to me. Apparently some knuckle dragging bridge troll’s brand new 2009 Jeep Wrangler is locked inside of one of the parkades. Oh yes. It’s the ol’ too stupid to read all the signs got the vehicle locked in scenario. Truly a classic tale. But with a twist! Since this parkade is closed there isn't really any security on duty now to watch and make sure his precious man chariot isn’t stolen or molested in the dark of night by roving packs of “drunken teenagers”.
Best part? He foolishly lent the Jeep to his daughter ( Who I assume is one of said drunken teenagers ) and she’s the one that drove it to the park. At 9:55pm. The parkade gets locked up at 10pm. Yet despite this grievous error in judgment, I just know this is going to end up being my fault. Because the concept of personal responsibility is lost on the majority of those operating telephones at this hour.
Anyhow, it was the RCMP that called me to begin with. Because he called them. Yes, that’s right. He called the RCMP because his precious manhood extender got locked in a parkade. So the RCMP, perhaps seeking to humour him or just hoping to pass him off before they’re tempted to taze him, called me and explained the situation. They gave me his name and phone number, and I told them it was highly unlikely, but I’d at least check and see if the security guard had gone home yet.
Oh, and the officer in question even mentioned just how many incredibly visible signs are posted everywhere proclaiming the time the gate is locked at night. Because the officer, much like myself, was able to immediately sense the stupidity and human failure involved in this situation. But alas, I am a kind and forgiving god, and offered to at least check to see if the guard was still there. Though I knew what the answer would likely be.
Annnnnd yep. The answer was no. A big, fat, pulsating no with neon track lighting. The guard was already on his way home and likewise pointed out that there was a veritable plethora of giant visible signs stating when the parkade closes. One on the gate, one on the booth, several on the support pillars and a few behind the parking spots themselves.
So now I get to call back the actual bridge troll, Rob, and explain to him that he’s fubar. This goes about as well as you would imagine. In fact, it was basically the 5 stages of grief. I assume at the perceived loss of his vehicle to intoxicated teenagers.
Stage 1: Denial
There can’t possibly be no one that to unlock the gate!
Stage 2: Anger
It’s completely ridiculous that there’s no one that can unlock the gate! Why don’t the police have keys ( to private property )! The police should have keys! This is fucking ridiculous! Why can’t you resolve this situation that is completely and utterly my fault and my fault alone?!
Stage 3: Bargaining
Why can’t you make the police drive over to the guard's house, get the keys, and drive back here to service me personally thus tying up emergency services that clearly have far better things to attend to at this hour then my petty problems and self inflicted dilemma?!
I’m not making that up either, he really wanted me to call the RCMP back and make them do that for him. In all fucking seriousness.
Stage 4: Depression
So you mean I have to stay out here all night at the parkade till 6am to watch my jeep!? Yeah I know there’s signs. But they aren’t clearly posted ( They're everywhere )! And it’s dark ( the whole parkade is brightly lit )! And I am cold and alone and there are probably bears! Oh god, I’ve never truly been loved! <sob>
Stage 5: Acceptance
Well fine I’ll just stay out here till 6am than! Since you clearly won’t concede that the world revolves around me personally, I guess I have no other choice! I hope you’re happy with yourself you fucking asshole!
and thanks for calling! ( Hey, its the closing script. >.> )
Even the Girl Scouts now? GIRL SCOUTS?
This time I was reamed out by the troop leader of a Girl Scout brigade…..no, really. They were camping out on private property ( with permission ) and the security patrol was nice enough to come by and checked up on them. Well, the big bad evil security guards who were just doing their job have scared all the Girl Scouts. So now Cuntquatch the Hog Queen has a group of scared little girls and is just so SO done with me and demands that I do something about it. I have no idea what she wants or expects me to do. Just that I should do it to quell her rage.
I’m not entirely sure what she expects me to do about this. Take them all to Dairy Queen?
Best part is I offered the non-emergency number and she said she already had it. Which means she specifically chose the number typically reserved for if the property is burning down to complain about scared little girls.
The Groin Sentinel
There was a rather odd gentleman on the Skytrain this evening ( Well, ok, there’s at least one every evening. ) who was rather…preoccupied. He was standing in front of the door, holding onto the pole…..staring directly down at his crotch. Now I don’t mean he was just looking down at the floor and I am merely making a comedic observation of why this might be. I mean he was looking straight at his own groin. He was leaning back, rather far, and thrusting his crotch forward so that he could look directly down into it.
I have utterly no idea why he was doing this. But he did it the entire time he was on the Skytrain ( and disembarked at Broadway, obviously ). I don’t know what he found so fascinating down there. Or what he felt the need to observe so closely. I’m not sure if his crotch could offer simple divination if you shook it first? Or perhaps he perceived some threat down there, or some threat too down there. So he had to assume the role of Groin Sentinel and watch over the……er……let’s say southern border lands.
What?
Me: “Good morning, <company>"
SC: “Yeah, I wanna bid on a pizza?”
You….want to what? Bid…on a pizza? I….but that….I mean…..yes, you have the wrong number. But….bid on a pizza? What? That whole sentence doesn’t make a shred of sense. Why would you bid on pizza? Did Jesus’s face appear on it?
You know there’s places you can phone where you can just buy the pizza for a set price and no one can ninja it and outbid you at the last minute.
Public Transit
But anyhow, public transit! Yes, this is a never ending rollercoaster of shock and horror for me in this city. About the only way I can get to work without seeing something is if I shut my eyes the entire way. But than I hear things instead. So it doesn’t always work. I suppose I could shut my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears but than I’d likely miss my stop and open myself as an object of ridicule. Well, one of them on the Skytrain anyway.
This evening was a trio of unique characters who may or may not have been low grade super heroes or super villains. I even know some of their names! Simply by overhearing their remarkable loud conversation. They were only on the train for about 3 stops too yet the impression they left was just too stunning to not mention.
I didn’t even see them at first, only heard them. As one bellowed “HURRY UP!” and sprinted towards the train with long, lanky strides. The other two completely ignored his call and shared none of his alarm as they sauntered casually up behind him. Trusting that his pole like physique would be sufficient to jar the door open for them. Which it was.
So our first contestant, the pole like creature. Garbed in what I believe a few years ago was known as the “Grunge” look but these days is simply used as the stereotypical “Canadian” appearance on American TV. You know, manly unshaven stubble, jeans, T-shirt and an open plaid fleece shirt over top? Yeah, that look. So due to this, we shall call him Grungepole.
So Grungepole uses his amazing powers of hold up the entire train for everyone else on board long enough for his companions to lazily make their way onto the train. This remaining daring duo was likewise rather unique….
First up was a guy that looked exactly like Mini-Me from Austin Powers except about a foot taller and with a mustache. Much like Mini-Me he spent the remainder of the ride serving as a sort of silent back ground joke to the other two. Since he sort of hung out near a pole and kinda danced this weird little groove/jig thing the whole trip. So we shall call him Jig-Mite.
Rounding out the group was Miley. Whose name was yelled at her numerous times as she seems to have the attention span and hearing of a deaf Jack Russel terrier. Miley was similar to Grungepole in that she shared his astounding height, however, she had about 50 lbs on him. Which isn’t as impressive as you’d think actually, since Grungepole probably weighed about 104 tops. Still, Miley had one immediately noticeable ability.
……which apparently was the ability to shop at the kid’s section at Walmart. As she had somehow managed to get into a pair of jeans that were at least 6 sizes too small. Not only were they clearly cutting off circulation, but they also didn’t come up all the way because they couldn’t. This of course creates a wonderful, completely unattractive effect similar to putting too much yeast in bread dough before you let it rise.....and than shoving a brillo pad down the front of the pan.
So Grungepole, Jig-Mite and Doughroll engage in…..well, I’m not sure you’d call it a conversation. Grungepole would talk, Jig-Mite would dance and Doughroll would space out and ignore both of them until Jig-Mite yelled at her. Than the whole scenario would repeat itself ad nasuem.
……..actually thinking back the whole thing was really surreal.
Unqualified
Me: “Ok, its N, as in Nancy.”
SC: “N”
Me: “D, as in David.”
SC: "D?"
Me: "Yes."
SC: “….how do you spell that?”
….ok, if you can’t spell D I’m afraid I’m just going to have to terminate this call right here. Because you require a fundamental level of assistance that is far beyond that which I can provide. I am neither trained nor qualified to teach at a pre-school level. Nor am I a muppet.
So, I’m afraid we will have to part ways. It’s sad, I know. But I simply can’t assist you further. However, your room is still booked at the hotel in question. If you can find a helpful member of the airport staff to tie your shoes for you I’m sure they can tell you what direction to start walking to reach the hotel.
A Cunning Plan
It’s always cute when the simple minded come up with what they believe to be the perfect crime. In this case, it seems the plan was to run onto the property and try to kick the sprinkler heads off thus creating a series of geysers which would soon reduce lawn to a bayou.
A cunning plan, no? Well, it seems to have just one minor flaw. The young troglodyte in question did indeed manage to success on his first attempt taking one of the sprinkler heads clean off and recreating Old Faithful on a domestic scale. However, he was now flush with the butt tingling feeling of success. A feeling I’d wager to guess he was wholly unfamiliar with up until this point. Believing lightning to strike twice, he attempted an assault on a second sprinkler head.
Annnd kicked it so hard his shoe flew off just as the guard came outside to confront him. Forcing him flee down the street with his friends wearing only a single shoe. To make it all the better, the guard picked the shoe up, took it and called us.
So congratulations, my young primate friend. You just lost one of your $250 Nike’s and discovered the term instant karma.
annnd rest. Well, maybe moar later....have a bunch more not written up yet. ><
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