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


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.