Thursday, 8 September 2011

WTF Twice In One Week

Last week was a bad one for piss-offs. Yes, the paycheque debacle ended happily, but hard on the heels of that bullshit was some more crap that made me scratch my head in friggin' wonder at what people think they can get away with. I mean, seriously: do people push the envelope with everyone they meet? Or is it just my own peculair karmic burden?

For example:

Across the road from us are three rental properties. I understand why home owners hate these fuckin' things. God knows I understand that not everyone is fortunate enough to own their own property (which is shit), but for the love of everything that is holy, people, take some pride in your environment. Clean up, fer chissakes. I understand that you're not invested in the property because it's not yours, and I'm not asking you to become members of the Horticultural Club (most of you can't even fucking spell it), but come on.

Directly across the street in the basement of one of these joints is an Islamic family of three. I refer to him as Mohammed and her as Fatima because, well, statistically my odds are good. I don't care for Mohammed very much because

a) he spits. I don't give a good goddam what your excuse is, don't fuckin' spit. Keep your fluids inside yourself. Hork all over the interior of your home if you must, but do not hock a lugee on the roads and sidewalks that I have to share with you, asswipe.

b) he dresses very badly. I have actually seen him outside the house wearing a plaid diaper flannel sarong. Now, I have no problem whatsoever with cultural or traditional costume, and I certainly--as one of the Enchanted People--do not have an issue with men in skirts. But seriously, plaid diaper flannel? Fatima actually lets you outside looking like that? Sheesh.

c) he has three vehicles.

This latter point is the true crux of the matter. He has an little red truck, a silver SUV and a little red car. The red truck and the SUV are used quite regularly although they are very often parked in front of other people's houses, to the point where our neighbours complain to him. The little red car, however, had, up until recently sat on the front street for a month and a half due to the driver's side front tire being deflated. Finally, I put a note on the windshield of the car that said, "Move this car or it will be towed," and the tire was inflated, but it still continues to sit out front.

Last week, I said to Mohammed, "Do you really need to take up three spaces on the street?"

"I use all of these cars!" he said to me. "The SUV belongs to my wife. I drive the truck to work."

"And the red car?"

"I drive it to work also."

"You drive both of them to work? That's quite a trick."

"No, the car I drive to work from three am until six. Then I come home and take the truck."

"You mean the car with the flat tire?"

Dead silence as he realized he'd been caught in a lie.

"Cuz here's the thing: I frequently can't use the space in front of my house because two of your three vehicles (which includes one that isn't being used) are parked right there."

"You have a garage, ya?"

"Yeah, and you have a garage, and I have a second vehicle that doesn't fit inside mine. So find somewhere else to park. Got it?"

I thought about telling him to keep his saliva in his mouth, but figured I'd start with something simple. We can move on to personal hygeine later on.

This exchange occurred on Wednesday or Thursday (I can't remember; all the incidences of fresh hell just kind of blend together after awhile). On Saturday morning at 5:00, I was awoken by the sound of car doors slamming over and over again. I had to get up to whiz (I have the world's smallest bladder, I think my one-year-old niece's is bigger), so while I was up, I looked out front.

Mohammed and Fatima were packing up the SUV and putting their toddler in the car seat, probably to go somewhere relaxing for the long weekend (not camping though--my impression is that immigrants don't camp). Anyway, I watched them fart around for awhile but when they drove off, I noticed that they had left a pile of crap right in front of our house. They had obviously emptied out the garbage from the back seat or whatever and just dumped it onto the street.

Fuck, was I furious. What kind of passive aggressive shit is that anyway? And even if (on the outside chance) it's not about me (and sometimes it's not), you don't just go dumping your crap on the street because you can't be arsed to find a garbage can, you fucking ditch pig. I managed to go back to sleep, but when I dragged my ass out of bed around 10:00, I stepped into my shoes, gathered up the garbage (broken cds, empty drink cups, adverts for halal meats, paperwork from the registry office for the red car, etc) and dumped it on their front step.

There has been no reaction (nor had there better be), other than none of Mohammed's vehicles has been parked in front of our house since.

So that was Episode One of WTF. The second one involves Two Clowns.

It was Friday afternoon, a Friday afternoon before a long holiday. Hitler's mother had died on Wednesday, which meant that I had to leave my favourite work to take up the Bullshit I Hate in her absence. I was making good headway, but not having done it in a few weeks, I was having to concentrate and make sure that I wasn't screwing up royally.

In a characteristic display of epic cluelessness, Two Clowns comes by my desk and spends twenty--count 'em, twenty--minutes, talking to me about recent upgrades to her fucking bedroom. She began by complaining to me about how the ex-Mr. Tw- Clowns would never let her have sheer draperies in the conjugal bedroom because he needed black-out blinds (probably to obscure her face, is my thought). Yet, since childhood, Two Clowns has yearned for a girly-girl room and constantly been denied.

Now, looking to me for sympathy is a little like going to Canadian Tire to get groceries. Yet, Two Clowns remains utterly oblivious to the fact that I am

a) trying to work,

b) concentrating like mad on a complex task, and

c) don't give a fucking shit sideways about her goddamned bedroom.

So oblivious is she, in fact, that when she finally leaves my desk, she goes back to her own and sends me an email that contains pictures of the bedroom, complete with lace curtains and microfibre chair. (Don't click there, it's not a link. If I don't wanto to see it, I can't imagine you do either.)

And it doesn't end there, either. About half an hour after the email, she came by my desk again and said reproachfully, "You didn't answer my email."

"I'm trying to get this shit done," I said drily, "but it looks very nice."

"You didn't even open it," she said and walked off.

Now I ask you, people: is there a karmic lesson I'm supposed to be learning here? I have heard it suggested that I am to learn patience through these interactions, but I remain unconvinced. My very humble opinion is that patience from other people is what has permitted these giant tools to get away with their douchebaggery thus far. But not with me. Nuh-uh. My thought is that my job in these cases is to correct these behaviours, at least where they intersect with me, so that they might just start to get the idea that there are consequences attached to being a self-indulgent asshole.



Keith said...

Thoughts. As you know, I often have many thoughts.
And I'm often willing to share.

The owner of this blog has perked up, interested, knowing she will not likely bear the brunt of my thoughts. Other people should be cowering in their foxholes. Wait, if there are no atheists in foxholes, and typically it's been the Christians hiding in the holes in the ground, what do other religions use? I digress.

The spitting is gross. Perhaps you could find a huge brass spitton at a garage sale for a couple bucks and leave it on his front step. Although, full confession here, when I'm running and biking, there are times I spit. And blow my nose, but this is never as neat as I'd like. Sadly, I'm a dribbler, rather than a farmer blowing rocket launcher like some of my tri buddies. Which is what mustaches are for, to hide the evidence. I digress again.

Plaid? You have issues with plaid? Say it's not so!!! (I'm listening.) Now, my feeble fabric knowledge reminds me there is a pattern called diaper. No idea what it looks like, but there it is. So is this a sarong made out of a diaper pattern, with a plaid over lay? That's overkill for sure. Or is it a plaid diaper (the garment infants wear) with a sarong over or under it. That last doesn't seem practical, and if it's short enough to see the diaper, it's perverted. In fact, if he's wearing a diaper we're talking major league perversions here. No digression.

In many places there are bylaws about how long vehicles can be parked on the street without moving. Being a good neighbour and cutting some slack because of vacations, or issues, and them having the grace to ask about it is all well and good. But if they're being dickwads, the bylaw becomes the letter of the law. Use that phone, and give your neighbour's address.

The picking up garbage was distasteful, but a good first step. What you missed, was taking a few minutes, and picking up garbage from all over the street to add to their pile. Then leave a note, "I saw someone breaking into your car and dumping this valuable stuff out, so I thought I'd make sure it got back to you in case there was something you needed." There need not be any dog shit in any of the containers.

Believe it or not, I have the same thing happen to me at work. People telling me stuff I don't want to know, and taking forever to do so. I randomly change the topic at random times. Like if she is going on about her bedroom, ask her how that little red car is working out for her. And as she warms up to that, interrupt her to ask if that mouldy sandwich in the lunch fridge is hers, or if she knows who's it is. Next if she likes the office coffee and has she ever thought about approaching management about getting a different brand. In the mean time, evince no interest whatever in the answer. If that fails, talk about work. Actual work, the problems with invoice number 123456. And then repeat one of the questions. Mostly I do the work thing, pursuing the thing I want to know about, and ignoring everything else. "Let me get back to WBS, are the sets defined first, or does one have to actually have created a WBS element before defining the sets?"

And since I'm in the mood, what about teenagers today? I grow more and more convinced they should be chained to their desks for 5 years or until they mature, whichever is longer. Teenaged smokers should have a bounty put on them. Video evidence of them smoking, plus the head gets you oh, say, $1000 cash from the government. I suppose there would have to be rules about humane harvesting and all, but I'm not fussed about it. Clearly such kids are too stupid to be allowed to breed or vote. Think of all the money the health care system won't have to spend on them later. Swift? Who he?

Sharon Needles said...

I am officially laughing my ass off over here.

But to clarify: diaper flannel is a type of textile, a softly brushed cotton used to make pajamas and, well, diapers. It comes in a variety of patterns, including plaid. I cannot say for certain that he was or was not wearing an actual diaper under the sarong.

I am so glad you are willing to share. Perhaps my next post will be on my own views about radical behaviour control.

Pisser said...

I keep trying to attribute the spitting to being Asian (Koreatown - the ground is practically COVERED with spit, and other people's gum - and there is a NO SPITTING man-with-a-line-across-him-dealy at the gym), or the Armenians for hating our dogs even though we are the only ones in the hood who pick up our dog sh*t - unlike the African American bum who does not pick up his OWN sh*t, and the whole block now reeks of human feces, and pieces of trash he has used as TP are blowing down the street. I contacted the Dpt. of Health today, we'll see what happens. Probably nothing as this city is a giant sh*thole. Oh, and did I mention he uses the church walls as his own personal toilet paper? Although I'm not a Christian, I am reasonably sure he is going to Hell for that. Trash is trash, is all I'm sayin'.

I would gladly be your neighbor, join the Horticultural Society, and exchange vegetables if the gov't and finances permitted me to do so-! And I only have 1 car! (It's a hybrid! And I would practically sh*t myself if I had my own space, let alone a driveway, in which to park! I would clean up after, though...)

Hopefully you can go all Dog Whisperer on Two Clowns and the lack of positive enforcement will drive her to take her girly girl Laura Ashley fantasy elsewhere. Or perhaps she'll start wasting massive amounts of time playing Sorority Life on Faceboob.

Maven said...

I need to see a picture of the aforementioned sarong. Perhaps it's a dhoti?

I agree with you on everything else, and love the fact that you put everything on their doorstep. However, I would have boxed it up and put a big festive bow on it.

I especially love how you caught him in the outright lie about driving the red car... the one with the flat. What an asshole.