Douch Bag Test
Aug 31, 2008 Rants
If you own a pickup truck and live in Florida, I’ve got bad news for you.
Florida drivers are apparently known around the country for coming in two flavors: blue-haired grannies driving 45 miles on the interstate with the left turn signal on for 20 miles and senseless idiots riding on bumpers at 90 MPH… in the rain… at night. As a long time survivor of the Florida motorways allow me to confirm this in the most certain terms. Pretty much everyone down here drives like a moron, the only difference being some drive way over the speed limit and some way drive under.
However, there is a special brand of douche bag that I have been particularly annoyed with lately: the Florida pickup driver. Apparently before a person can drive a pickup here they are required to have a portion of their brain removed. The portion removed seems to be the one that controls respect for other human beings. Once removed, the Florida Department of Big’Ol Vee-hickles will fill the empty space with a secondary testosterone gland.
They drive as if the other vehicles on the road are somehow inconveniencing them. They weave trucks made for pulling horse trailers in and out of traffic like a sports car. Unfortunately, since that big ass dualie of yours doesn’t exactly turn on a dime, the rest of us have to ride our brakes when you’re around, because you sure as hell won’t look out for anyone else. They have mirrors so large they could be used as part of a solar farm and yet never even glance in them until *after* they’ve merged. For some reason they routinely seem to drag their 12 foot wide asses into the right lane to pass right at the on ramp, and screw the guy trying to merge, Mr. Truck-Owning-Douche-Bag has got to get to church on time!
If you’re sitting at home saying, “I’m not a douche bag and I drive a pickup truck,” only three possible explanations.
1. You don’t live in Florida
2. You’re horribly, horribly wrong and are, in fact, a complete douche bag.
I’m sorry. I’ve got the results of your Douche Bag test right here and… I’m afraid it’s bad news.
Timing is Everything
Aug 30, 2008 Humor
So, a couple weeks ago I was speaking to an otherwise intelligent but very, very Christian co-worker about the fact she is letting her teen daughter go to the launch night for some new vampire book. I expressed a bit of surprise that she was letting her daughter go to such secular festivities. Her reply: “I don’t believe it, of course, I’m a Christian, but I believe that my kids are smart enough to tell the difference between reality and made-up nonsense like people rising from the grave and living forever and that sort of nonsense.”
Maybe if those pesky vampires waited three days before rising from the grave?
Think of the children…
May 18, 2008 Rants
I have spent a great amount of my life doing some sort of customer service. I’ve done it in person for retail, tech support and food service. I’ve rendered similar services over the phone for both computer tech support and for a financial institution. I’ve done so both as a front line agent and as a supervisor in both cases. Between all my various customer service jobs I’m guessing I have somewhere around 15 years of customer service experience and management. Based on the greeter who sat us at Chili’s today, I believe the time has come for me to share the three following tid-bits with any currently involved in customer service or thinking of it.
Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t use a voice that isn’t your own. We can tell. We can always tell. When your fake voice is roughly 5 octaves higher than normal, we can *really* tell. This also means trying to use a fake “Disney”-style voice when you’re 16 or 17. I pray you listen, Chili’s girl: whoever told you that ending every sentence higher than you started was
1. A complete idiot and
2. Likely hadn’t figured on you being so blindingly stupid that you’d let your voice steadily raise in pitch… forever. For all I know you’re still rising in pitch.
Also, using the fake voice really loses its intended effect when as soon as you leave our table you turn to speak to one of your coworkers in a clearly audible and relatively pleasant alto. Your voice is fine. Use it. Don’t try to trick us into being happy because it won’t work with that voice… and not just because our ears bleeding really kills the dining experience. Be pleasant, not hypersonic.
Lastly, the fake smiling: you are required to stop it immediately. You simply cannot break into a face-shattering, teeth-clenched fake smile so painfully obvious the blind can see it the *exact second* you pass a customer and not expect them to notice. You also can not stop it the exact moment they are beside you. This technique isn’t just useless, it’s borderline insane. Firstly, in case you haven’t noticed, most people’s vision is not limited to 2 feet in front of them. Secondly, every person in the restaurant can see this and each one of us thinks you are suffering from a horrible, debilitating head injury.
Please, each of you, the next time you answer the phone at your job or greet-and-seat your table, think of the Chili’s girl and how she would change your dining experience. Please, think of the children… and their ears.
It could have…. stuff…
Mar 12, 2008 Humor
First-up form the bat-shit crazy files: I Can’t Eat That!
I bring you the story of one of my co-workers, we’ll call her Debbie. Debbie is surprisingly normal on the surface. She’s at the very least marginally intelligent, not at all some of the pond slime I worked with at past jobs. She’s polite; even soft spoken. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not remarkable, but she’s not a drooling phone monkey either.
So, yon magical eve a couple days ago the staff I oversee at night and I were discussing our favorite subject: food. This topic was brought to the fore because on of the other departments had offered us some of the Mexican buffet they were having. While I didn’t partake because we had Mexican cooking at home, I made the rounds to make sure everyone knew there was free grub. No mere Taco bell was this, but instead high grade Mexican from a local joint called Southwestern Grill (of course). Think 1 pound burritos with real shredded grilled beef. Mmmm.
As I passed by Debbie’s desk to let her know the following conversation took place:
Me: “Hey, don’t forget, free burritos down the hall”
Her: “I don’t eat Mexican; too dirty.”
Me: (bitter sarcastic laughter, figuring she’s thinking Taco bell) “No, this is good stuff, seriously, Southwest grill”
Her: “No I can’t eat it, it might have stuff in it.”
Me: “It does have stuff as it’s a burrito, ithas rice, beans and delicious, delicious dead cow inside it.”
Her: “No, you know… stuff.”
Well, a little probing and it turns out there are literally hundreds of things she won’t eat because she thinks there might be “something” in it. She can’t eat Chinese because they actually all use cat and dog meat, you can’t eat KFC because they deep fry rats *all* the time, “I saw it on the internet.” All mexican food, even if you make it yourself is “dirty.”
Then came best: She can’t eat, and swear I’m not making this up, “anything white, because, you know, well… um… because of what’s in it.” Not because of what some long told internet story said what might be in it, but what, absolutely is. I asked her if she could eat it if she made it herself, because, you know, Alfredo sauce is fucking delicious. The answer? No.
I’m truly stunned by just how paranoid a person can be and still be functional. Amazing! Just think, someone near you, is just as fucking crazy as this woman. If not, than it’s you.
