Sunday, 23 April 2017

Wreck Centre (or The Poo In the Pool)

Part of my job is reading and archiving incident reports submitted by employees at the various recreation centres and pools and arenas owned and maintained by the Municipality. First, let me say that the personnel employed at these facilities don't make enough money for the level of douchebaggery they endure. Every. Single. Day. They are all my personal heroes.

Secondly, I don't go to to the rec centres anymore as a private citizen. I simply know too much about what happens there. Some of the rec centres are worse than others (local peeps can ask me privately which ones). 

As far as I'm concerned, though, the hot tubs are really just giant petrie dishes. 

Theft is common. Douchebags bring bolt cutters into the change rooms so they can bypass padlocks and jack your shit. And we can't put cameras in the change rooms, so we really have no way of catching them. 

If I read one incident report about abusive patrons, I read a dozen. Weekly. Most of the time, it's men who violate a rule, like over-extending their stay on the exercise equipment when other people are waiting to use it. Or letting their family of five use all of three of the badminton courts. All y'all really need to get your shit together when it comes to pubic behaviour. Why do you have to be such huge buttnuggets on such a consistent basis? So much hostility! When confronted with his self-indulgence, one of these dicksmacks insisted that he is a "Canadian citizen" and that he "paid to be here and has the right to do whatever he fucking wants." People say shit like this and I wonder if they can actually hear themselves. I mean, that statement offers us insight into the working of that guy's mind that reveals a disturbingly high level of douchebaggery.

And he is hardly an isolated incident.

People shoot up in the change rooms.

They canoodle in the family room.

Guys masturbate in the saunas. 

And, of course, there is the famous Poo In the Pool.

If there is a "fecal incident", it's usually the product of a child. And yanno what happens when there is a dump in the deep end? 

Well, let me inform you first that the pool is NOT drained. Patrons are required to leave the facility, the poo is removed and the pool is closed for about 48 hours, while skin-blistering levels of chlorine and other chemicals are cycled through the system in order to destroy any pathogens or contaminates. After extensive and repeated testing, the pool is reopened to the public. But the water in the pool following a fecal incident is never actually replaced or removed.

I'm sure it's perfectly safe, since our Municipality had exactly ZERO deaths from cholera last year, but I'm afraid I am completely off the idea of public facilities. It's a matter of knowing too much. People gathered in any significant number only means heightened potential for douchebaggery. Some asshole is going to pull something.

And let me just say also that one really ought to pay attention to the signs in the rec centres which inform you that you enter at your own risk and that the City is not responsible for your lost or stolen belongings.  Because we're not kidding. We really are not responsible. Do not, as one twonk did, wear your prescription glasses into the sauna (????) and then submit a claim to me later, saying you want us to pay for their replacement after they slipped off your face and broke. That claim isn't just "No", it's "HELL NO". 

Because we're not responsible for your (stupid) personal choices. 

Speaking of people not taking responsibility for their own douchebaggery, here is my first installment of a new feature I'll call

CLAIM OF THE WEEK

Oh, my children, this is delicious. It was looking like a pretty average week until this one appeared on my desk. Due to confidentiality, I can't disclose names or locations, and will paraphrase what appeared in the statement, but this is GOLD.


Buddy has submitted a claim to the City seeking compensation for injuries and damages sustained in an altercation with the City Police. It seems Buddy was jaywalking. In his claim, he states that he does it all the time at this location, but "I had no idea that the cops were cracking down at this time, or I would have been happy to use the crosswalk." He further goes on to say that he was intoxicated and on his way to the local blues club (which, I will add here just as a matter of interest, is run by the local chapter of the Hell's Angels). He describes how, when the officers ordered him to stop, he took off, but "there was nowhere for me to go, so they tackled me to the ground." During the scuffle, he sustained (superficial) injuries to his face and elbow, although he is claiming concussion. Buddy feels this could have been handled in a "less confrontational manner" because "cops should know better than to confront intoxicated people."

Oh, and he submitted the claim on his company letterhead. 

I don't even know where to start with this. From beginning to end, this claim is just a torrent of DOUCHE. First, this weaselheaded fucknugget incriminates himself by admitting to the infraction of a jaywalking bylaw on a more or less habitual basis. He then confesses to public intoxication and admits that he attempted to elude the officers in the lawful execution of their duty.

But it's their fault because he was drunk.

So yanno what happens to this frivolous claim? I hand it to my supervisor, who assigns it to an adjuster who specializes in bodily injury claims. A claim will be opened and Buddy sent an acknowledgement letter that essentially says, "We got your complaint, you whiny bitch". The City Police are put on notice by our office. An investigation will follow, inquiries sent for police reports and medical reports, and Buddy will be required to fill out a variety of forms. All of this requires time and resources and it will, I assure you, inevitably end in denying him money because this is a frivolous claim

And who pays for this? YOU DO. These are your City tax dollars at work, people. It's a very sad thing that we can't just send this dick a letter that says, "Plzdiekthx!" No, this cumsplat has the same rights as you and I to waste my time and your money, even though the only reason this stupid fuck is still alive is because breathing is an involuntary response. He's butthurt because he made an unwise life decision to outrun the cops. And you are going to pay for his butthurt.

Aint it great?

Thursday, 13 April 2017

The Return of Douchebaggery Abounds

I know it's been awhile. I'm sorry. And I'm even sorrier that I'm apologizing for an extended absence from this blog while living my goddamned life.

But possibly what I am sorriest of all about is the absolutely astronomical levels of douchebaggery to which I have been exposed over the last while. SO MUCH DOUCHE. So much douche, in fact, that the overwhelming stench of vinegar, water, and cheap latex has driven me back to blogging. After more than a year's sabbatical, I have come back to dump my outrage and vitriol, inspired by the anal sacs with whom I share this benighted little planet.

I don't even know where to start. Do I start on a global level, at the top with Trump and his Gestapo? Cuz that certainly has set the tone. 


Or maybe I aim a little closer to home, where Canadians with the least in terms of critical analysis fret about Sharia Law and sit around in their ballcaps and hoodies, quaffing Molson's while listening to Nickelback and reminiscing about a (whiter) Canada that never really existed?

Or do I make it even more personal, with stories about the brainless, entitled shitsacks with whom I am forced to interact because I need to eat? I know it is the height of First World Problems to bitch and whine about office work, but seriously--I have lost any sense of investment in the continuation of my species. I swear to God, if there was a vaccine for stupid, there'd be a handful of people left. And if there was another vaccine for douchebaggery, well, then, my friends, the cockroaches would have it all to themselves. 


Listen, I know there are (a few) good things about people. But who cares? I'm not here to sit around singing, "Kumbaya" and emitting a beam of hope in the douchey darkness that surrounds us. No. This blog is not called, "People Are Fantastic". Cuz, fuck me with a stick, they are not. I am, at this point, convinced that we are all a bunch of narcissistic twonks, and the people we approve of just happen to be twonks on the same frequency. 

I have no doubt that I will eventually get around to Trump-bashing like (most of) the rest of the world, but all of you can see that shit for yourselves just about anywhere you look. And it doesn't matter where you live in Canada--all you have to do is look and you will find some dillhole in his Titan with the flag from his favourite hockey team fluttering from the cab window, driving home where he can repost racist proganganda on Facebook about how Syrian refugees make more money than pensioners. 

You might have to look a little harder right now, is all, because the playoff season just started, and all the "hosers" are busy worshiping at the altar in their local watering holes.

So for now, I'm going to focus on the things you don't get to see. Stories from my workplace. I work for a largish municipality in the department that deals with members of the public who feel that they have a grievance with the city. 


For example, maybe they've hit a pothole and blown out their axle or their oil pan because their Audi hit this motherfucking crater at 70 kms per hour in a fifty zone. 

Or maybe their basements are under two or three inches of shitwater because they've experienced a sewer back up due to the tree roots on their side of the property choking the lines, but they never bother to auger down there because it's just easier to wait for something like a sewer back up to happen. 

Or maybe they collided with an emergency vehicle in full emergency mode with all of its lights and sirens going. Cuz there r kewt kitties on ur fone and wtf, it's not like driving a three tonne engine of death requires you to pay attention or anything, you witless cocksplat.

All of this probably seems a bit mundane. And you're right--it is. Potholes and sewer back ups and collisions by themselves aren't all that exciting. But because John and Jill Q. Public are involved, I end up with a LOT of blogworthy material. I have endless material, really. Every day is a new revelation. Just when I think I have plumbed the depths of human stupidity, selfishness and entitlement, something happens at work and I am awestruck anew. So since there is really no end of these appalling stories, I will leave you for now with this one...

Last fall, I received a Statement of Damage form from a claimant who wanted the City to pay for her dry cleaning bill. Why? Because she sat in birdshit.

Now, obviously our department deals with issues of liability, which is a fancy insurance/law word for "Whose fucking fault is this?" Obviously this pinhead feels it is the City's fault that she sat where a bird shat. And somehow, she seemed to think that the City should just be handing out cheques to every citizen with shitty drawers! And accepting liability for everything! Fuck fiscal responsibility when there is poop on your pants! 

Why exactly this fucknugget felt that we should accept liability for birds dumping is beyond me. And how do you prove liability in a case like that? What are we supposed to do to address this issue? Do we follow along behind her with a high pressure hose, blasting birds and their feces off her favourite seats? Chase down every fucking bird in the downtown core and interrogate it until it admitted to shitting on her bench? 

"C'mon, pigeon! Fess up! We know it was you!"
"It wasn't, Joey, I swear! Look at it! That's magpie shit if I've ever seen it!"


No, she actually expected us to take her at her word and just issue her a friggin' cheque to cover the cleaning bill because this dim cockwomble lacks the personal responsibility to look before she sits down. By her reasoning, we're liable, because she's fucking stupid. 

And she's just one douchebag in thousands.



Monday, 12 October 2015

The Rocks Stars of My Fucked-Up Office

In my new department, I no longer work with lawyers. I now work with insurance adjusters. I don't know anything about insurance adjusters, other than that I don't want to be one for a living. And the ones I work with are really interesting individuals. You can decide for yourself how to interpret that after you've read my descriptions of them.
 
Let's begin with Bananarama. She is about my height and weight (i.e. a little short for a Russian shot-putter, but lots to hold onto). She is also about my age, which means she must have left high school in the early to mid-eighties. And looking at her, you'd think she was still there. Bananarama's do hasn't changed one single hair since she graduated. I swear. She has the biggest bangs of anyone on the floor. Hell, on any of the ten floors of the building we work in. No word of a lie, Bananarama's bangs look like this:

Goddesses on a mountaintop...

Every single time, this woman hoves into view, my brain starts playing the best fucking '80s soundtrack you've ever heard. I just have to hear her voice around the corner, and I am suddenly wearing parachute pants and sipping on a Canadian Cooler to the sound of Frankie Goes To Hollywoods' "Relax".

But Bananarama is not the only rock star in my department. Another of the adjustors is a woman who's age is difficult to ascertain because she's been ridden hard and put away wet for the better part of at least one decade. She's painfully thin and inclined to wear boots and shoes with impossibly high heels. She walks like Pan, and I swear her hip is going to dislocate outside my Hovel one day. Half of me is convinced that I am working with none other than Marianne Fucking Faithfull.

Why'd ya do it, she said. Why'd ya let her suck yer cock?
The resemblance is fucking uncanny. Her voice is the same strange blend of nasal and whisky-throated roughness, she speaks cynically and as if maybe she's got a flask in her desk. The only thing missing is the English accent. I keep hoping one day she'll come to my Hovel, spark up a cig, lean against the temporary wall and say, "I can't believe people are still bangin' on about me and Mick and that fuckin' Mars bar. It was a fuckin' lie, and even if it wasn't--but it was, love, a rotten fuckin' lie--it was forty years ago."

And then maybe she'll gift me with a version of "The Ballad of Lucy Jordon". Marianne won't have anything to do with me, but I think that's because she knows I'm onto her. I don't take it personally; it's our little secret.

So far, my interactions with everyone in my department have been pleasant on a personal level. However, it is amazing to me how much people give away that is inappropriate and they don't seem to realize it.

For example, the department is somewhat short-staffed (hence, my secondment), so a new adjuster was hired. I'll call her Ruby. Ruby is awesome. She works across from me and is thus far, a most welcome addition to the team. I hope she stays.

But the day before Ruby was scheduled to start, one of the other adjusters mentioned to someone else that she knew Ruby from another department of the City.

"And just so you don't freak out," said the adjuster, "Ruby's black."

This comment fell down between the adjuster and her conversant like a choking victim. The clerk to whom the adjuster was speaking was horrified and not sure how to respond--meanwhile the comment lay there thrashing.

Finally, the clerk said, "Oh. Okay." And then, "You know other black people work in Law, don't you?"

*choke* *gasp*

"They do?" said the adjuster, with genuine surprise. "I didn't know that."

Apparently, this adjuster never goes to the ninth floor.

And finally, still another of the adjusters engaged me in conversation about two weeks ago. The subject of Asians arose.

This adjuster said to me (and I quote), "I don't call them Asians. I call them Orientals, because Asian is too broad a term."

I was so stunned, I didn't know what to say. I mean, I thought of several comments after the fact, but is it actually my job to educate these people? I question whether it is really *my* place to confront this woman with her ignorance. Is it really worth it to say, "Honey, you're mistaken. Oriental can indicate anyone east of the Ukraine and out past the Pacific Rim right to the Pacific, but Asian is usually restricted to a handful of nations in the farthest east."

I dunno. Because an older, middle-class white woman who uses the word "Oriental" will probably not hesitate to use the word "lezbo", either.

In brief, these are some of the people in my department.

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Not Mine

I'm off to an appointment in a little while so I don't have a lot of time to write (and, yes, I will get back to my European adventures), but I'm kind of on a roll with work, so I'm just gonna leave this here for your august consideration.

I do not work in Bylaw, but it is a department we deal with from time to time. The story I am about to tell you is true (and a matter of public record, by the way). It is a golden example of why I hate people as a species.

As if Stephen Harper and the Conservative Party of Canada (also criminals) aren't reason enough.

Anyway, our Municipal Prosecutor appeared in Court not long ago on a case of Public Drunkenness and Mischief. The accused took the stand, and the M.P. began to question him.

M.P. : Sir, you have been charged with urinating in public.
Dick Bagg: I didn't do it.
M.P. : Sir, Officers Coffee and Doughnut both have sworn testimony that they saw you alone in the alleyway.

Dick Bagg: That's right.
M.P. : They also state that they saw your penis with urine coming from it.
Dick Bagg: Not my penis.

These are the people I deal with, mostly from a safe distance.

Coming soon: The People I Work With.


 

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Reception Hell

For about a year-and-a-half, I haven't had to post about the frustrations of my employment--once a daily feature of this blog--because I enjoyed where I was. I worked at the city Law Branch in the Expropriation Department. Some of you may not know what Expropriation Law is. Essentially, when the City wants to build an LRT line or a really retarded arena for hockey jerk offs, and your house is in the way, we expropriate it. We pay you fair market value for the house and property, pay your legal bills. The City will even pay for your move. The work was dull, but I adored the seven lawyers I worked with and considered myself lucky to be in a stable, busy, productive environment. It was also gorgeous insulation from the petty madness and rampant sense of entitlement that typifies the General Public.

Upon my return from the U.K., I was reassigned to a different department. For three weeks, I've been working with that arm of the Law Branch that deals with brain-dead fucktards who think that the City owes them money because their snow shovel broke while they were shoveling. Or who take exception to the fact that City trees shed seeds or leaves onto their lawn, therefore the City should remove said seeds and leaves. When I first started in Law, I enjoyed my time in criminal law, and my new position is similar in that it allows me to marvel at the many, many ways in which people repeatedly make Poor Life Choices ("By all means, Repeat Offender, beat that cop car with a baseball bat! Kick in that window!"). More and more, I think a good portion of humanity should not be left unsupervised.

I would be okay with my work if it meant I only processed the claims submitted to us and could remain at arm's length from the Body Public. Unfortunately, one of my duties is to occasionally fill in on Reception/Switchboard. This was not mentioned to me when the new position was offered. Had anyone even breathed the word "Reception", I would have declined. That's a deal breaker. And I have been very honest and upfront with everyone (supervisors, et al.) regarding my feelings about Reception. I have explicitly said that this is Not A Good Idea. I don't deal with whining or attitude in a constructive manner, I'm too old to give a shit anymore and I hate people. 

My first experience on Reception yesterday only reinforced my conviction that this is a perfectly reasonable response to dealing with the public. I spoke to probably a dozen people who are only alive because breathing is an involuntary process. If these people ever had brains, they have since dried up through inactivity and now rattle around in the brainpans of their owners like bb pellets in an old coffee can.

Time and space do not permit me to enumerate all of the paralyzing stupidity I encountered yesterday, but Stupid Broad #1 went thus:

SB#1 : Hello, I want to stay married to this man even if he does not come here.
Me: I'm sorry, what?
SB#1 : My husband, he is coming here, but I don't know and I still want to be married to him. (sniffles) I'm sorry I am crying so much now.

Me: (after significant pause, cuz I dunno what the fuck) Ma'am, we are a Municipal Law Office. Your issue sounds like Immigration. That is a federal concern.
SB#1 : You are Law.
Me: Ma'am, if you have a parking ticket, I can help you out. Otherwise, I'm going to give you the number to the Law Courts up the street, okay?


I was amazed by the lack of accent attached to that call, by the way.

The kicker though, was Ancient Vagina. Ancient Vagina called three times yesterday, and was by turns rude, petulant and stunned. She had sand in her vag because she had received correspondence from our office (two weeks ago) that we needed documents from her due yesterday. And she wasn't able to speak to her adjuster, because said adjuster was away from the office. And, of course, no other adjuster would do.


It was pretty clear that Ancient Vagina had spent about four centuries honing her douchebaggery to a very fine skill. And when I tried to help the old bat by asking her for the claim number, she started to give me Old Lady Attitude. But I was having none of it. I don't get paid enough to put up with that shit.

She was desperately unpleasant (although she mostly backed down when challenged, I still wanted to punch her in the throat so hard that her head would fall off), and later that afternoon, she appeared upstairs at the office door. This is a secure office and there are notices posted all over the joint that visitors are to report to Reception on the floor below (where she would have encountered ME). But no--Ancient Vagina slid her document under the door and waited. Eventually, one of the clerks sent her away.

Today, Ancient Vagina phoned her adjuster and got *her* so riled up that we heard the adjuster yelling at her across the floor. I never raised my voice to Ancient Vagina, so I guess I did pretty well.

But when my supervisor asked me how it went on Reception, I flatly said, "I hate it."

More to come, kids. It's an interesting office.

Friday, 2 October 2015

Another Quickie

Also from the Tuileries...The Hokey Pokey.


"You put your right foot in...you put...no, you idiot, your *right* foot..!"

 

Thursday, 1 October 2015

A Quickie

I don't have time for a full post, so I'll just leave you with this quickie.

I found some statuary in the Tuileries  in Paris that amused.

Feel free to add your own caption in the comments.


"It's nice out.

"Think I'll leave it out
."