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.



1 comment:

Keith said...

Welcome back! I've missed this incisive commentary. Just don't get me started on hockey; I've been busy hitting the don't show me that page that someone shared or liked or looked approvingly at so Facebook decides to force it down everyone else's throat that ever had looked at that person's page. And plus, while you do have to make allowances for the particular "largish municipality" where you work, it does seem that you are forced to deal with the dregs of the dregs. However, keep in mind it could be worse. How, you ask? Just remember the last place you worked, where the dregs were actually IN the office, where you were forced to breathe the stank and be intimate with the taint. Now at least, you deal with the dregs at arms length, and can wear gloves, if you feel the need.

If you ever have to deal with these people in person, I suggest stocking your office with the largest container of hand sanitizer you can find, and conspicuously use while talking to your dreggy infestation.