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Do You Understand the Words Coming Out of My Mouth?
Listen, folks. When I tell you "I don't discuss religion at work," this means that I don't discuss religion at work. When I tell you "I don't discuss politics at work," that means that I don't discuss politics at work. When I tell you "I can't serve you without ID," that means (anyone wanna take a guess here) that I can't serve you without ID.
Repeating yourself is not going to help matters. It is only going to PISS ME THE FUCK OFF and make me hate your guts, silently praying that you and your family all die in a fire brought on by your own stupidity, such as smoking a cigarette a the gas pumps, or some other Darwin Awards-level idiocy.
Listen lady, I know you don't like the current Administration. But I don't talk politics at work. And when I tell you this, it is NOT a cue for you to start espousing your views. I don't want to hear you spout off about how we need a woman president, darlin'. After all, women can be just as fucked up as men. I am not voting for someone simply because they have a vagina. (Unless, of course, the elected position being filled is called In My Bed.) And when I repeat that I don't discuss politics at work, this is certainly not a cue for you to go on with your diatribe and tell me how much better things would be if ONLY we would elect Sarah Palin. It is to your advantage, actually, that I don't discuss politics at work, because at this point, if I were not at work, you would feel the full weight of my political debating abilities, which are considerable. Not to mention very acerbic. Not that you would understand such large words, of course.
And you. Yes, YOU. I'm talking to you, pal. Your stating how old the little piece of fluff with you is NOT a valid substitute for my seeing her ID. If she wants to drink at the bar with the big kids, she's going to have to prove she belongs. And if she can't do so, clearly she is not old enough to enjoy a cocktail. So please, do me the kindest favor of shutting the fuck up. I wasn't talking to you anyway. I was talking to her. If she's old enough to drink, she's old enough to carry on a conversation with a bartender.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself....
Death by Traffic
Okay, what the fuck IS it with these people? It's one thing to be in one's own little world, but why is everyone trying to kill themselves by using my truck as the instrument of death? Like the little girl who ran across the street right in front of me. She'll live to see her next birthday because my brakes work REALLY well. Her underpants, however, may not be so fortunate.
Or how about the guy on the bike who crosses right in front of me, when I have the green light and he has the red? This was not downtown on Duval Street, either, where red lights are often considered but suggestions. This was along the Boulevard, where people actually get up to speed. Speed on this island being 35 mph, of course, but still fast enough to do damage. Helpful hint, buddy boy: when bike meets truck, truck wins every single time.
And how about this lovely lady? Walking up to the intersection, she sees that she has the green light in the direction she is traveling. She stands on the corner and waits. For what, precisely, I don't know. Then, when her light turns red and mine turns green, right as I start to move my 3600 pound rolling pile of steel and plastic forward, she decides this would be a lovely time to cross the intersection. Lady, I don't know what planet you come from, but unless it's Krypton or some similar place that gives you superhuman powers on Earth, your 140 or so pounds are no match for my almost two tons of motorized metal. You're clearly not blind, you don't seem to be disabled in any way, you just seem to be horribly, horribly stupid.
Perhaps all this really is just natural selection at work.
Common Courtesy
Look, I know that Key West is notorious for being filled with flaky people. But seriously, why does every single one of them seem to lack any clue as to common courtesy? If you schedule an appointment to come look at a room for rent, and then don't show up, at least have the decency to call. Likewise, if you call about a place and leave a message, and then have that call returned and you receive a return message on your voice mail, it is considered polite to at least return that call. Why are people so afraid to call me back? I am very polite and friendly on the phone, even charming. And yet, it seems that everyone is afraid of picking up their damn phone and calling me. You found another place? The location doesn't work for you? The rent is too high for you? You hate living on the second floor? You have a deathly fear of central air conditioning? Fine. I'm cool with that. But at least let me know! And I know people aren't afraid of the phone, because everyone is always on theirs. Usually in front of me in line at the grocery store, holding things up.
Why is it even called common courtesy anymore? My experience has led me to rename it Uncommon Courtesy. Since so few people seem to fucking bother with it these days.
You Keep Me Hanging On
Hi there, my friends at the front office. It's me again. I hate to be calling yet again, but I have yet, after several calls over several days, received the answer to what I thought was a very simple question: When, approximately, is the carpet cleaning guy coming to clean our carpets? Since I have to virtually empty the living room to allow him to do his job, it would be kind of nice to know (A) what day he's coming, and (B) approximately what hour. Finally a few days ago you told me he'd be coming today. Great. When? This question was finally answered today. Well, in theory. At 10:00, you said you'd get back to me. Never did. At 10:45 when I called--again--you told me he's be here in about 45 minutes to an hour. It is now nearly noon.
I do have other shit in my life I'd like to do, thank you very much.
Edited to Add: Oh, look. It's noon, and the guy is here. Nice fellow, actually. But now he's telling me that I was supposed to vacuum the carpet before he got here. Two problems with that. The first is that I don't have a vacuum. The second and more obvious problem is that those fine, thoughtful people in the front office never bothered to TELL me this important piece of information. Armed with it, I might have gone out and borrowed a fucking vacuum from someone.
Not that it really matters. As is plainly obvious and as the carpet cleaning guy observed, the carpet is pretty much shot. *sigh*
Edited to Add 2: Also very nice of the front office folks to let me know that I'm going to have to leave all the stuff I pulled out of the living room out of there for about 5 hours to let the stuff dry. What? How much do you think I know about carpet cleaning? Hell, I'd like to see how much the carpet cleaning guy knows about turning an Ace of Spades into a Four of Clubs. Yeah, precisely.
Pedestrian or Speed Bump? So Confusing.
Hello there, Mr. Asshole in a Truck. Welcome to Key West. Welcome to Duval Street, where there are a lot of pedestrians. (Which is why anyone who lives here knows not to fucking drive on Duval Street unless it's absolutely necessary.) Where we just had a major Key West type event we enjoy down here called the bed races. Which is why we are wheeling this bed on wheels down the street, back to our bar. We are very visible. You clearly see us. There is no one coming the other way, so you actually have room to maneuver. So you could very easily have gone around us.
But no. You, driving in your over-sized penis extender kept going, in the lane, and even though I was RIGHT NEXT TO THE CURB, managed to bump me with your fender. HELLO? I'm RIGHT HERE. I may not be tall, but you can clearly see me. Now, being the joker that I am, I flopped, falling down over the bed on to the sidewalk. Had I been smarter or thought about it, I would have grabbed my leg, writhed in pain, and screamed like a banshee. Something my teammates told me later I really should have done. But since I wasn't actually hurt, having only been bumped, I didn't do this.
However, even though YOU hit ME, you seem to have no problem yelling at my teammate, who is visibly upset since, ya know, you just bumped a 160 pound guy with a 4,000 pound truck. Your girlfriend seems to have more brains than you, as she seems to be indicating to you that, rather than arguing with the people you just in essence ran over, you might want to shut the fuck up and drive.
Come Back Any Time (That I Don't Work)
You had a lovely time at my bar. I know you did, as you have repeatedly told me so as you gather your stuff to leave. Well, I thought you did, but your tip tells me that either you are lying through your teeth or, more likely, you are just cheap sons of bitches. Well that's fine, I guess. You make the other people look that much better by comparison. Wait, what's that? You had such a great time that you'll be back?
My wallet and I wait with baited breath.
Memories
Hi there! Welcome to the--wait, what? Um, no, can't say that I remember you folks. What? You were here last year, and had a great time? Wonderful. Glad that you did. Welcome back. What? Sorry, no, I don't remember you. No, seriously. I don't. Telling me your names is great, very polite, as is telling me where you're from and how much you had a great time at my bar last year. But I'm not going to lie to you--I have no memory of you.
There are probably three very good reasons for this.
1. I tend to have a very shitty memory.
2. I drink. A lot. This tends to not help my very shitty memory.
3. Most importantly, I deal with thousands of people. Let's put things in perspective. You come down to Key West once a year, on vacation, so you are going to remember things here. I, on the other hand, fucking live here, and every working day I deal with more and more tourists. One of me. Thousands of you. Do the math. Now, when *I* go on vacation, I remember the great people I deal with. I do not harbor the illusion that a year or two later, they're going to remember me. When they do, heck, wonderful. Good times. And sometimes I even do remember some of you. But seriously, don't take offense or be surprised.
I am but a pebble in a sea of humanity. Plus, I have a very shitty memory.
I Love My Job, But...
It's been said that nothing matters that comes before the word "but." I don't know that I believe that.
After all, I really do love my job. And I love (most of) my coworkers.
But....
Seriously, kids, do I really have to do your jobs as well as mine? Why am I constantly cleaning up after you? You know how things are supposed to go, and yet you continue to do it the sloppy way. The lazy way. And here comes Maid Jester to clean it up after you. I'm fucking sick of this.
And when I am working my ass off, it means there are people at the bar. If you are back here working with me too, please work. Don't stand around watching me work, go have a smoke break, play games on your phone, etc. Try waiting on some of the customers. I don't expect everyone to move at my frenetic pace. But at least pretend to make an effort.
And about those smoke breaks. I. Don't. Smoke. Never have. Never will. I also do not get a "beer break." So if you expect me to have any sympathy for your nic fits, you are out of your fucking mind. If it's dead, I don't care. But damn it, if we're busy, and I'm working, you should be too. Smoke before you get into work. Smoke when it's dead. Smoke after work. But for you to be smoking while I am working and you're supposed to be working is utter bullshit. The day I start getting a beer break, maybe, MAYBE I'll be more sympathetic to your plight. Until then, I don't give a shit. Oh, by the way...you smell like a fucking ashtray.
Oh, and don't tell me you you did your job when it is blatantly obvious you did not, and when I (or someone else) comes on the next day and has to pick up the slack, doing what you didn't do. That is not just lazy, it's rude and inconsiderate. And I'm over it.
(The above rant about my coworkers was just some things I needed to get off my chest. Overall, I really do love my jobs and the vast majority of my coworkers. No buts.)
Parking Woes, Green Edition
A big hearty thank you to my oh so thoughtful neighbors who locked their brood's little bicycle right up next to mine. And by "right up next to" I mean right ON my bike, locked to the same post, effectively sandwiching my bike between the mini-BMX and the post. Which only took me five fucking minutes to extricate my bike from. And frankly, I don't care if it was you or your kid who did this. Someone clearly is not being taught how to do things the right way.
The upside of all this is that you can probably save some money by not buying your spawn a bike helmet. Based upon what I've seen, he/she doesn't have much to protect anyway.
Short Rant
To the guy who occasionally appears on the corner of one of the main intersections in town with signs projecting hateful messages to everyone from homosexuals to the families of soldiers killed in action, simply because they don't believe in the same god as he does:
Fuck you. Fuck your messages of hate. And fuck your god. Die screaming, motherfucker.
That is all. (I like to end on a positive note.)
Listen, folks. When I tell you "I don't discuss religion at work," this means that I don't discuss religion at work. When I tell you "I don't discuss politics at work," that means that I don't discuss politics at work. When I tell you "I can't serve you without ID," that means (anyone wanna take a guess here) that I can't serve you without ID.
Repeating yourself is not going to help matters. It is only going to PISS ME THE FUCK OFF and make me hate your guts, silently praying that you and your family all die in a fire brought on by your own stupidity, such as smoking a cigarette a the gas pumps, or some other Darwin Awards-level idiocy.
Listen lady, I know you don't like the current Administration. But I don't talk politics at work. And when I tell you this, it is NOT a cue for you to start espousing your views. I don't want to hear you spout off about how we need a woman president, darlin'. After all, women can be just as fucked up as men. I am not voting for someone simply because they have a vagina. (Unless, of course, the elected position being filled is called In My Bed.) And when I repeat that I don't discuss politics at work, this is certainly not a cue for you to go on with your diatribe and tell me how much better things would be if ONLY we would elect Sarah Palin. It is to your advantage, actually, that I don't discuss politics at work, because at this point, if I were not at work, you would feel the full weight of my political debating abilities, which are considerable. Not to mention very acerbic. Not that you would understand such large words, of course.
And you. Yes, YOU. I'm talking to you, pal. Your stating how old the little piece of fluff with you is NOT a valid substitute for my seeing her ID. If she wants to drink at the bar with the big kids, she's going to have to prove she belongs. And if she can't do so, clearly she is not old enough to enjoy a cocktail. So please, do me the kindest favor of shutting the fuck up. I wasn't talking to you anyway. I was talking to her. If she's old enough to drink, she's old enough to carry on a conversation with a bartender.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself.
I really hate how much these people are making me repeat myself....
Death by Traffic
Okay, what the fuck IS it with these people? It's one thing to be in one's own little world, but why is everyone trying to kill themselves by using my truck as the instrument of death? Like the little girl who ran across the street right in front of me. She'll live to see her next birthday because my brakes work REALLY well. Her underpants, however, may not be so fortunate.
Or how about the guy on the bike who crosses right in front of me, when I have the green light and he has the red? This was not downtown on Duval Street, either, where red lights are often considered but suggestions. This was along the Boulevard, where people actually get up to speed. Speed on this island being 35 mph, of course, but still fast enough to do damage. Helpful hint, buddy boy: when bike meets truck, truck wins every single time.
And how about this lovely lady? Walking up to the intersection, she sees that she has the green light in the direction she is traveling. She stands on the corner and waits. For what, precisely, I don't know. Then, when her light turns red and mine turns green, right as I start to move my 3600 pound rolling pile of steel and plastic forward, she decides this would be a lovely time to cross the intersection. Lady, I don't know what planet you come from, but unless it's Krypton or some similar place that gives you superhuman powers on Earth, your 140 or so pounds are no match for my almost two tons of motorized metal. You're clearly not blind, you don't seem to be disabled in any way, you just seem to be horribly, horribly stupid.
Perhaps all this really is just natural selection at work.
Common Courtesy
Look, I know that Key West is notorious for being filled with flaky people. But seriously, why does every single one of them seem to lack any clue as to common courtesy? If you schedule an appointment to come look at a room for rent, and then don't show up, at least have the decency to call. Likewise, if you call about a place and leave a message, and then have that call returned and you receive a return message on your voice mail, it is considered polite to at least return that call. Why are people so afraid to call me back? I am very polite and friendly on the phone, even charming. And yet, it seems that everyone is afraid of picking up their damn phone and calling me. You found another place? The location doesn't work for you? The rent is too high for you? You hate living on the second floor? You have a deathly fear of central air conditioning? Fine. I'm cool with that. But at least let me know! And I know people aren't afraid of the phone, because everyone is always on theirs. Usually in front of me in line at the grocery store, holding things up.
Why is it even called common courtesy anymore? My experience has led me to rename it Uncommon Courtesy. Since so few people seem to fucking bother with it these days.
You Keep Me Hanging On
Hi there, my friends at the front office. It's me again. I hate to be calling yet again, but I have yet, after several calls over several days, received the answer to what I thought was a very simple question: When, approximately, is the carpet cleaning guy coming to clean our carpets? Since I have to virtually empty the living room to allow him to do his job, it would be kind of nice to know (A) what day he's coming, and (B) approximately what hour. Finally a few days ago you told me he'd be coming today. Great. When? This question was finally answered today. Well, in theory. At 10:00, you said you'd get back to me. Never did. At 10:45 when I called--again--you told me he's be here in about 45 minutes to an hour. It is now nearly noon.
I do have other shit in my life I'd like to do, thank you very much.
Edited to Add: Oh, look. It's noon, and the guy is here. Nice fellow, actually. But now he's telling me that I was supposed to vacuum the carpet before he got here. Two problems with that. The first is that I don't have a vacuum. The second and more obvious problem is that those fine, thoughtful people in the front office never bothered to TELL me this important piece of information. Armed with it, I might have gone out and borrowed a fucking vacuum from someone.
Not that it really matters. As is plainly obvious and as the carpet cleaning guy observed, the carpet is pretty much shot. *sigh*
Edited to Add 2: Also very nice of the front office folks to let me know that I'm going to have to leave all the stuff I pulled out of the living room out of there for about 5 hours to let the stuff dry. What? How much do you think I know about carpet cleaning? Hell, I'd like to see how much the carpet cleaning guy knows about turning an Ace of Spades into a Four of Clubs. Yeah, precisely.
Pedestrian or Speed Bump? So Confusing.
Hello there, Mr. Asshole in a Truck. Welcome to Key West. Welcome to Duval Street, where there are a lot of pedestrians. (Which is why anyone who lives here knows not to fucking drive on Duval Street unless it's absolutely necessary.) Where we just had a major Key West type event we enjoy down here called the bed races. Which is why we are wheeling this bed on wheels down the street, back to our bar. We are very visible. You clearly see us. There is no one coming the other way, so you actually have room to maneuver. So you could very easily have gone around us.
But no. You, driving in your over-sized penis extender kept going, in the lane, and even though I was RIGHT NEXT TO THE CURB, managed to bump me with your fender. HELLO? I'm RIGHT HERE. I may not be tall, but you can clearly see me. Now, being the joker that I am, I flopped, falling down over the bed on to the sidewalk. Had I been smarter or thought about it, I would have grabbed my leg, writhed in pain, and screamed like a banshee. Something my teammates told me later I really should have done. But since I wasn't actually hurt, having only been bumped, I didn't do this.
However, even though YOU hit ME, you seem to have no problem yelling at my teammate, who is visibly upset since, ya know, you just bumped a 160 pound guy with a 4,000 pound truck. Your girlfriend seems to have more brains than you, as she seems to be indicating to you that, rather than arguing with the people you just in essence ran over, you might want to shut the fuck up and drive.
Come Back Any Time (That I Don't Work)
You had a lovely time at my bar. I know you did, as you have repeatedly told me so as you gather your stuff to leave. Well, I thought you did, but your tip tells me that either you are lying through your teeth or, more likely, you are just cheap sons of bitches. Well that's fine, I guess. You make the other people look that much better by comparison. Wait, what's that? You had such a great time that you'll be back?
My wallet and I wait with baited breath.
Memories
Hi there! Welcome to the--wait, what? Um, no, can't say that I remember you folks. What? You were here last year, and had a great time? Wonderful. Glad that you did. Welcome back. What? Sorry, no, I don't remember you. No, seriously. I don't. Telling me your names is great, very polite, as is telling me where you're from and how much you had a great time at my bar last year. But I'm not going to lie to you--I have no memory of you.
There are probably three very good reasons for this.
1. I tend to have a very shitty memory.
2. I drink. A lot. This tends to not help my very shitty memory.
3. Most importantly, I deal with thousands of people. Let's put things in perspective. You come down to Key West once a year, on vacation, so you are going to remember things here. I, on the other hand, fucking live here, and every working day I deal with more and more tourists. One of me. Thousands of you. Do the math. Now, when *I* go on vacation, I remember the great people I deal with. I do not harbor the illusion that a year or two later, they're going to remember me. When they do, heck, wonderful. Good times. And sometimes I even do remember some of you. But seriously, don't take offense or be surprised.
I am but a pebble in a sea of humanity. Plus, I have a very shitty memory.
I Love My Job, But...
It's been said that nothing matters that comes before the word "but." I don't know that I believe that.
After all, I really do love my job. And I love (most of) my coworkers.
But....
Seriously, kids, do I really have to do your jobs as well as mine? Why am I constantly cleaning up after you? You know how things are supposed to go, and yet you continue to do it the sloppy way. The lazy way. And here comes Maid Jester to clean it up after you. I'm fucking sick of this.
And when I am working my ass off, it means there are people at the bar. If you are back here working with me too, please work. Don't stand around watching me work, go have a smoke break, play games on your phone, etc. Try waiting on some of the customers. I don't expect everyone to move at my frenetic pace. But at least pretend to make an effort.
And about those smoke breaks. I. Don't. Smoke. Never have. Never will. I also do not get a "beer break." So if you expect me to have any sympathy for your nic fits, you are out of your fucking mind. If it's dead, I don't care. But damn it, if we're busy, and I'm working, you should be too. Smoke before you get into work. Smoke when it's dead. Smoke after work. But for you to be smoking while I am working and you're supposed to be working is utter bullshit. The day I start getting a beer break, maybe, MAYBE I'll be more sympathetic to your plight. Until then, I don't give a shit. Oh, by the way...you smell like a fucking ashtray.
Oh, and don't tell me you you did your job when it is blatantly obvious you did not, and when I (or someone else) comes on the next day and has to pick up the slack, doing what you didn't do. That is not just lazy, it's rude and inconsiderate. And I'm over it.
(The above rant about my coworkers was just some things I needed to get off my chest. Overall, I really do love my jobs and the vast majority of my coworkers. No buts.)
Parking Woes, Green Edition
A big hearty thank you to my oh so thoughtful neighbors who locked their brood's little bicycle right up next to mine. And by "right up next to" I mean right ON my bike, locked to the same post, effectively sandwiching my bike between the mini-BMX and the post. Which only took me five fucking minutes to extricate my bike from. And frankly, I don't care if it was you or your kid who did this. Someone clearly is not being taught how to do things the right way.
The upside of all this is that you can probably save some money by not buying your spawn a bike helmet. Based upon what I've seen, he/she doesn't have much to protect anyway.
Short Rant
To the guy who occasionally appears on the corner of one of the main intersections in town with signs projecting hateful messages to everyone from homosexuals to the families of soldiers killed in action, simply because they don't believe in the same god as he does:
Fuck you. Fuck your messages of hate. And fuck your god. Die screaming, motherfucker.
That is all. (I like to end on a positive note.)
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