The Verbal Dance

It's Wednesday. I'm only halfway through this week, but already, it's a long one. I've had to deal with a LOT of dumb. 

Like, for example, the tuna taco who called to tell us that her fence was damaged by a "City obstacle". If you're like me, you're confused by that comment, because the fence is usually the obstacle. But no, this clueless cabbage went on to explain that there has been a "Road Closed" sawhorse in her back alley for two or three weeks and allegedly, someone ran into it yesterday, damaging her fence. She'd like us to fix it, because "...I have a dog that could get out and bite someone and I don't want to be responsible."

As if that needed saying. 

Fuck off.

Remember M. stertore, who wanted compensation for his time because he got lost on the way to the dump? His claim was denied, because there were no actual damages and the City isn't liable. If he went to the Sev and got wrong directions, would he sue 7/11? He was asked by the adjuster if he had consulted Google maps or his gps, and his response was that he is using a gps unit from when he worked at a local utilities company and couldn't download the most recent updates. This is a clear indication that he stole the gps unit from his former employer. Nevertheless, M. stertore has vowed to take this to "the highest level". The Mayor's Office? The Supreme Court of Canada? God? 

Bitch, ain't nobody got time for that. As Russell Peters would say, "Be a man." 

Fuck off.

Everybody's mad because no-one wants to take responsibility for anything, and they all wallow in vast ichorous cesspool of entitlement and ignorance as to how their local government operates. They scream and froth like mad dogs about fiscal responsibility until it's their shit that gets damaged, and then they expect us to dash off a sizeable cheque right fuckin' now.

Like the stunned bum fiddle who called me on my personal, direct line yesterday (THE cardinal offense, ladies and gentlemen) to tell me that she was involved in an incident on the bus earlier this month, and she was talking to her neighbour, who told her she could make a claim against the City and get compensation for the humiliation she endured. And she's asking for $10,000. The incident? The bus driver making out the report indicates that Bum Fiddle is a "heavy set woman of about 400 lbs" who was in a scooter. He notes she was not strapped in, although the safety straps were available. And as he turned the corner, Bum Fiddle tipped over.

Now, because I am myself a real bitch, the first thing that comes to my mind is, "Wow, how does a seated woman of that girth tip over???" However, I digress. The point is that Bum Fiddle was not injured by this incident in any physical way. We cannot put a price on her pride, she eschewed the safety devices provided to her, yet she feels absolutely confident in calling me up and asking for ten large without even going through a fucking lawyer.

Fuck off.

And now, children, it's time for 

The Claim of the Week

As all of you local folk know, we recently had some high winds. Lots of damage occurred. Tree branches fell on vehicles and into yards. It's true, a lot of City trees were involved. However, although we are a mighty municipality, we do not control the weather and we are not liable for the wind, and therefore, this is, in insurance terms, an Act of God. This is one of those situations in which you should be contacting your insurance companies. Because that is what they're for. It is simply astonishing how many people think this is an unreasonable suggestion. What do you pay that insurance company for, exactly? Is that a charitable donation? 

Anyway, the following is a letter from a claimant with what I would delicately describe as some anger management issues. She's upset by the wording in the acknowledgement letter she received about her tree branch claim. She writes:

"To whom it may concern...if in fact it concerns anybody.

Thanks for the great letter from a city that really gives a SHIT!!!

It was all put so very nicely..."I can go to my own insurance company".  Are you freaking kidding me?

It isn't a surprise that the city of ********* takes NO RESPONSIBILITY. Next time leave out the verbal dance and just tell me to FUCK OFF.*

Thanks for NOTHING

**City of Champions my ass!!!!!!"

This is after the acknowledgement letter. What the fuck is this bitch gonna do when we deny her???

* I excel at writing letters endorsing the combination of sex and travel and would welcome an opportunity to write the one this stench trench so richly deserves.

**This is a reference to the City's slogan, which is fucking lame and based on when the hockey team here (don't get me started on professional sports) had a string of consecutive victories, but that was 30 years ago, and the ballcap brigade can't let it go. It's really pathetic.

Christ Almighty

Monday was a holiday and I had Tuesday off, so this has been a short week for me.

But short weeks don't mean I don't get the short end of the stick, as far as stupid claimants go. No, like ants at a picnic, they abound, crawling out of the woodwork by the thousands to spread their stupid all over the place. And, children, there isn't a can of Raid big enough or powerful enough to stop these fucking titwanks from phoning or faxing their demands for compensation for things that really don't concern the local government.

For example, some enraged dumb shit (sp. Muta stercore) called today, complaining that he had called another department of the City that is usually accessed by people who want to complain about the douchebag preacher on the street corner (ooh, don't get me started), or their neighbour parked his trailer on their lawn or there's a rotten tree on City property. You know, stupid crap that the cops can't or won't deal with.

M. stercore was seeking directions to the recycling centre (we have several), and called the complaint line for said directions, which--not surprisingly--turned out to be incorrect. Go figure. Oh, he could have used Google, but did he? No. He might have consulted a City map. But he did not. Essentially, he called Dear Abby to ask her where the hardware store is.

But does this stop M. stercore from having a pissy hissy fit? Of course not. Instead, he calls our IVR system to leave his claim, and tells us that he expects to be compensated for his wasted trip, carefully itemizing two people at $30 per hour ("That's sixty bucks"--no shit, Sherlock), and a 45 minute trip ("That's fifty bucks"--wait! What?) and ten bucks worth of gas (in 45 minutes? What the fuck were you driving? a 747???).

And it's not like we're going to entertain this kind of claim anyway, so M. stercore can piss up a rope. We don't pay dumb shits because they get lost and don't consult a fucking map.

In a similar vein, kids, it's time for

The Claim Of the Week

Crazy Twat (sp. Insanus vaginitis) submits a claim this week, explaining that she wants the City to pay her $29.81 because she missed the bus, was late for work, missed a meeting with a client and had to take a cab to work. Because apparently, she just couldn't wait the fifteen minutes for the next bus.

Well, thanks for trying, I. vaginitus, but we're gonna give this one a pass, if it's all the same to you. Next time, leave the house a little earlier and take some personal responsibility for your choices.

Oh, and fuck off while you're at it.

Slip Slidin' Away

Are we seated comfortably? Then we shall begin.

Oh, my children, the post I have for you today will bugger your mind. Go get yourself a nice snack and something to drink, make sure you have no distractions and indulge yourself with this most recent account of

The Claim Of the Week

A woman submitted a claim, asking the City to compensate her for a new pair of pants. These were very special pants. These pants were suggested to her as a way of dealing with her "postpartum dystasis". For those of you not familiar with this, it is a medical term that describes what happens when a woman bears down with extraordinary pressure while giving birth and essentially shits out her own asshole. She extrudes her butt. 

Now, because I am a douche and an uncharitable person myself, this is blogworthy all on its own. But, no, it gets better!

You see, this woman tore these expensive pants on a nail that was sticking out of the top of a children's slide at one of our large parks.

Which, of course, begs the question, "If your asshole is hanging out of your asshole, what the actual fuck were you doing on a slide?"

Frankly, the visuals are just too much for me to handle. 

And there's more!

This morning, she got a hold of the adjuster in charge of the file to ask some questions, all of it information contained in the acknowledgement letter we send out when opening a claim. So the adjuster asked her, "Did you receive our acknowledgement letter?"

"Yes," said the woman, "but I didn't really look at it."

{Ed note: Fuck you, bitch. Eat a bag of dicks.}

"Were you able to get photos of your pants?" the adjuster asked.

And the woman's response was--and I swear I am not making this up--"No, because my bottom was hanging out."

I would like to feel sorry for these people, but they make it really hard.

This Ain't No Tickle Trunk

Mostly I intend to blog once a week when I have time, but this week, I have to confess, I'm really struggling. This month, I am on the rotation in which my tasks require me to interact with all the reports and details that expose the inner douchebaggery of our fair municipality's citizenry. Looking at all that selfishness, stupidity and entitlement makes one feel really mucky, and this week, I am weighed down by the utter triviality of my job.

Today, I took a call from a claimant that sounded just like this:

Dink: Hi, I'm submitting a claim...
Me: Uh-huh.

Dink: My car got towed because there was street cleaning and I didn't see the sign.
Me: (silent eyeroll) Uh-huh.

Dink: And the tow truck damaged my car. It damaged my oil pan.
Me: I see.

Dink: So, do you need photos of the oil pan?
Me: No, the bill from your repair shop is sufficient documentation.

Dink: You don't need pictures of the damage?
Me: No.The damage will be noted on your bill.

Dink: Oh. Do you need pictures of the oil on the road?
Me:..........................

Christ on a crutch, Dink--if I don't need photos of the actual damage, why the fuck would I want photos of oil blots on the road? Can you not process thought in a linear fashion? Just submit the fucking claim already. Dink.

And yet, he wasn't even the worst burr under my saddle blanket this week. Yesterday, I was doing incident reports from the rec centres and I received three--count 'em!--THREE separate reports from three separate employees about the same incident involving urine on the toilet seat.

It seems a rec centre employee noticed a young (teenaged) male patron pissing on the toilet seat in the men's room. The employee told the patron to clean it up, to which the patron replied with a familiar hand gesture and an invitation to the employee to enjoy sex and travel. Angry words were exchanged, which meant the involvement of two other employees and thus, children, I ended up having to read, save and archive three fucking reports about pee.

Now, on the plus side, it should be noted that *I* personally did not have to deal with either the patron or the piss, but I nevertheless have had one of those weeks in which I have had difficulty finding my work meaningful. Instead of writing a fucking useless incident report about this, I would have summoned Security and had that young pig removed from the facility with a two week ban imposed.

Because natural consequences, people.

Out of nearly forty incident reports, there were about a dozen thefts, mostly reported by people stupid enough to leave their wallets, shoes and phones on the floor of the change room in duffle bags. An elderly couple bitched and whined and felt singled as victims of ageism because the lifeguard on duty asked Ancient Vagina if she was feeling alright, since she had been in the hot tub for half an hour. Yanno, these elderly assholes would be the first ones to moan that there isn't adequate supervision at our facilities if Grandma had had a fainting spell. 

No, only one of those incident reports was of any significance at all. And it was a doozy. A rec centre employee noticed two people in the parking lot next to a vehicle. One of the people was choking the other, and forced the victim into the trunk of the car, and closed the lid. Then the choker allegedly stood around for a few moments until another car pulled up, and two people got out. At this point, the choker opened the trunk and the chokee got out, and was--the report says--not agitated.

Therefore, the rec centre employee chose not to summon the police. Probably not the decision I would have made, but what the hell do I know?

Only that it fills me with the kind of dismay that makes me sag on my spine to share the planet with people this fucking stupid, brutal and ignorant. People who think that it's okay to urinate on a public toilet seat and then verbally assault someone who objects. People who choke other people and put them in the trunks of cars. Douchenozzles who masturbate in saunas and others who take a swing at a woman who wants in the hot tub, but he's too busy massaging his leg on the water jet to move out of her way.  

And, the final straw that makes me want off the planet?

THIS

FUCK EARTH.

Bus Stawp

WARNING: This post contains graphic content. And I don't just mean my usual swearing. I mean there might be material in this post that upsets some of you. You've been warned.

Listen, I know I'm an elitist snob. I know I live in enormous privilege, although I do try to be aware of this and grateful. I know also that I am a misanthropist, and this combination of people hating and privilege means that there are just certain things I avoid doing entirely. 

Like riding public transit. As mentioned in my previous post about the rec centres, if a large number of the public are expected to be in attendance, I just avoid doing it. And although it would be better for the planet environmentally if I hopped the Shame Train, I won't. At least, not daily.

Another part of my job is reading the bus reports that come in from the transit authority and either archiving them or assigning them to be opened as claims. The bus drivers report everything. I mean, everything, from collisions to when some dumb fuck stumbles getting off the bus and does a lipstand on the sidewalk (I am an unpleasant person, obviously, because I LOVE reading those ones). Clearly, taking public transit on any kind of consistent basis is just asking to be exposed some variety of dipshittery. 

One of the worst routes is the Number Eight, or as my friend, The Widow, calls it, "the Ocho". The Ocho is so rife with shitty behaviour that she was for awhile considering a blog called, "Riding the Ocho", a compendium of all the crap she saw while traversing the City on this route. (It is still one my great disappointments that this blog never materialized.)

So, what does one see on the bus? Motor vehicle collisions are common. No, I lie--they are frequent. I don't know how one can miss a large 20 ft long vehicle that chuffs and farts like a fat guy after too long at the buffet, but at least twice a week some ditch donkey tries to cut the bus off and clips the bumper or rearends one while it's stopped. And this is not during the winter, children! This is when driving conditions are dry and clear.

One of the biggest complaints we get are about these inadequate dipshits in oversized pickups (usually called something ridiculous like "Titan" or "Avalanche"--oh, the fragile male ego! These are probably the same primates who get their hair cut at Tommy Gun's) who bomb past the bus and clip the bus's mirror with their own. And they don't stop! They just keep driving!

Still these are all usually pretty minor incidents and typically don't result in very much damage (to the bus) or injuries. It's actually riding the bus that you'll find the most disturbing/disgusting/unbelievable crap. I mean, you can take that literally, if you like--there is plenty of pant-shitting on the bus, to be sure. 

And let's not forget the young girls who spit on the bus. Right in the aisle!

Perhaps one of the most revolting incidents I read about was this one: a young guy was half asleep on his way home. He was careful to note in the incident report that he was wearing an expensive Perry Ellis coat and hoodie. He even noted the monetary value of each. So there he was, blissfully snoozing his way home from the office when the chick in the seat behind him barfed all over him, thereby ruining his clothes. 

Poor bugger. There's not much we can do for him in that case, I mean we're hardly liable for the actions of Barf Babe, but he has my sympathies. 

It's shit like this that keeps me off the Loser Cruiser.

While disgusting/funny, that incident was one in which--again--no permanent damage to anyone was done. I wish it was always so, but lately in our City, it has become a "thing" to assault the bus drivers. And I don't just mean slap them in the back of the head as you alight out the front door, either. No. I mean that a couple of times in the recent past, some troglodyte has beaten the bus driver to the point where one will never work at anything in his life ever again. 

But perhaps the most heartbreaking incident regarding public transit I can relate is the story of a young man who, according to the transit security videos, spent the better portion of the morning riding the train back and forth from the north to the southside. He never exhibited any agitation or aggression, or anything unusual at all. He just showed up on the camera several times changing cars, etc.

Then, at one point, he deboarded the train and seemed to loiter a bit on the platform. He checked his phone, but again, appeared calm and composed. While the train waited to take on passengers for the trip further south, the young man approached the edge of the platform and sat down on the edge, his legs dangling over. After a moment, he hopped down onto the track in between the two cars. 

And there, he waited patiently for another few seconds until the train left the station. He was immediately caught between the second car and the platform, which forced him to turn front-to-back, back-to-front for the entire length of the car until the operator realized what had happened and stopped the train immediately.

By that time, of course, the damage was done. The young man was virtually cut in half. Surprisingly, he survived somehow for two days following the accident. He was 16 years old, and in the two days before he died, no-one came forward to report their son missing.

And yes, I saw the video.

CLAIM OF THE WEEK:
Well, after that, I think we need a little something to lighten the mood, don't you?

The Claim this week comes from the Transit Files and concerns a claimant who is so fucking stupid, she failed the stool test. This walking, talking synapse-free zone submitted a claim complaining that she fell on the bus after it moved forward suddenly. Happily in this instance, we had video from inside the bus that shows the vehicle to be perfectly stationary the whole time. What really happened was that Brain-Stem-Not-Attached wasn't paying attention to where she was putting her ass, and she missed the seat COMPLETELY. Instead she went down heavily in the aisle. 

But she still wants us to pay for her physio. Even though he damage is self-inflicted. 

I hate people.