Oscillating Fan: A Mighty Wind

Last week during our weekly clerical meeting, the subject of the Oscillating Fan came up as a general grievance. Specifically, it was suggested that our supervisor ask OF to turn down the volume on her cellphone ringer, as it is very loud and very distracting, especially since we are all in rather cramped quarters.

This was duly done. After our meeting, we all went back to our desks and our supervisor went in to see OF and had a very appropriate, very discreet chat about the volume of her cell phone. Although I sit directly outside OF's office, I wasn't able to hear this conversation.

But I know it happened because mere moments after our supervisor left, OF came out of her lair in a towering fury and complained loudly and longly to Marianne Faithfull about the audacity! How dare anyone! ANYONE! complain about the volume of her ringer! It's not loud! Some people just like to complain obviously! SHE doesn't complain (at which point, I almost choked, that's all she fuckin' does, is bitch and whine), but she is certainly going to start NOW!

And I confess I was very disappointed to hear Marianne Faithfull get right in there with the whinging. She completely supported OF, saying shit like, "People's music drives me crazy (Clerk 3) and blahblahblah, but I never say nothin', but I guess that's gonna hafta change."

And this very public exchange was done directly in front of my cubicle, so that all three of us clerks could hear it. It was aggravating to say the least to have them bully us in this manner for no better reason than we find OF's ringer loud. But we were left in no doubt as to where we stand in that office.

Or rather, *I* was left in no doubt. I mentioned in a private message to the clerk I shall call Pancreas that I deeply resented their attempts to belittle and demean us in this way.

But apparently Pancreas hasn't an ounce of critical analysis in her body because she said, "They don't have status over us!"

Uh, honey, I don't know how you can miss this, but they DO. Have you seen their paycheques? Their offices? Their other benefits? Their cellphones? Pancreas, not only do they have status over us, THEY JUST RUBBED OUR NOSES IN IT.

But I digress.

I asked the Clueless One and Pancreas if they felt comfortable going to our supervisor about it, and they demurred, saying, "Nothing's going to change" or "I don't want to make trouble." But I went anyway, cuz FUCK THAT and FUCK THEM. As usual, I found my supervisor to be extremely receptive to my complaint, she made note of it for future, correctly identified it as bullying (without being prompted) and thanked me for my time. Like, genuinely.

And then later in the week, OF was standing at the door to Marianne's office when OF's cellphone rang. And like the adult she is, OF said, "Oh, my phone. I better get it before it gets too loud."

I had to fight to suggest she stick it up her ass sideways. But both my supervisor and OF's supervisor are away for the next two weeks This means the likelihood of me getting written up for insubordination is distinctly lower than at other times, so it might just happen.

Watch this space for future updates.

And now, it is time once again for

The Claim Of the Week
Sometimes, when I try to imagine the inner mechanisms of my client's minds, I get an image of a repellent, moist slug oozing its slick, slimy path over a barren brainpan, eyestalks waving blindly in the dark, searching desperately for a glimpse of its own intelligence.

I'm not inclined to summon the slug image, though, because I rather find slugs fascinating in their way and would not intentionally offend them with comparisons to the shitbags that call my desk.

Instead, I usually imagine two, maybe three, brain cells, one of them gripping a mostly empty bottle of wood grain alcohol, stumbling around in the vast, black, empty cavern of their skull, pinging off the walls and each other in a more or less random fashion. And they hum tunelessly or shout non sequiturs, like, "He shoots! He SCORES!" or "ZUCCHINI!"

That's typically how I imagine them, dipshits like the windowlicking motherfucker who called me this morning. I start at 8:30, and by 9:00, I was ready to sign off on the entire race.

Jurassic Dork called up to ask me how to go about filling out a claim form, because on Friday, he made a turn and hit some barricades that were on the sidewalk with the result that he damaged his own car.

"So, just let me clarify a few things," I said. "You hit a stationary object on the sidewalk with your car. Is that correct?"

"Right."

"Well, the City of Buttfuck is not going to pay out that claim."

There was a startled pause, while PeePee Cheeks attempted to process this unexpected response.

"Why not? They were your barricades!"

"They are stationary objects."

"Yeah, but..."

"Let me ask you this; if your car was parked and another vehicle hit your car, would you expect to pay for that car's damages?"

"So, you guys just put up barricades wherever you want and then walk away?"

"Are you suggesting that the barricades require supervision?"

"No, but they were sticking out into the lane! What do you expect me to do if the barricades are sticking out into traffic and there are cars in the other lane?"

"The City of Buttfuck expects you, as the operator of a motor vehicle, to slow down, stop if necessary, wait for the traffic to pass, and then proceed in safety without striking a stationary object."

"So, you're not going to do anything about the damage to my car, even though they were your barricades and they were encroaching on traffic? I mean, why didn't you push them back?"

"Because the barricades are placed where they are for safety reasons. They are there to stop motorists from driving into that area for safety reasons."

And at this point, the remaining functioning brain cell in this cheeto-dick's head clearly passed out in a feotid pile of its own entitled vomit, and he hung up on me.

Which was, I have to admit, imminently satisfying and a complete victory for me. It was also timely on his part, because I was about to remind the deadshit dicksack that the City of Buttfuck is not his personal Demolition Derby, and furthermore, I'd be retaining his contact information in case we needed to speak to him about recovery to damaged barricades.

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.

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?