My dad always told me that just because someone has a college degree doesn't mean they have common sense. I find that this rings pretty true when you're in the line of work I'm in. People can't perform simple tasks but because they got good enough grades to get a piece of paper claiming they were smart they make more money than a moron like me. It's all bullshit but it's reality so I'm forced to deal.
No one in my office proves the theory better than a woman I call The Sheepdog. She is in her late 40s or early 50s, not that it matters but seems to know nothing aside from one very basic function of her job - printing out paper. She's very good at that. I know this because every time I receive something from her it's like she takes 2 or 3 trees down by herself. If she were at Kinko's all those nickels would really add up.
Aside from her proficiency at small scale deforestation she's not good for much else. She doesn't seem to be able to tell time correctly. This was proven the other day when she brought down a run at 10:45. She said it was supposed to go for the 10:00 run but she didn't put in for her check until 10:30. She then told me that it had to be at it's location by 11:00 and I had to retrieve it again and have it back in her hand by 4:00. Lots of numbers that seemed to make her lose her way. I informed her that she was late for the 10:00 run by about 45 minutes and she just looked at me confused. The head cocked sideways, canine type of confused.
It's not uncommon for her to look lost like when I further had to explain that if she wanted to get something back the same day she would have to get a larger check and it needed to be filed by 10:30. She then asked if I could get the check and then come up to her to get filing. Ah, laziness, a true quality that always shows it's head around my office. I just said no, took what she had and left.
I wonder what it's like to be so delusional that in your own mind you're a responsible adult but to everyone else you function like a fickle four year old. Is it entitlement that everyone else should help you because you have some piece of paper that they don't? Is it just out right ignorance that people will not bend to your ways simply because of your job title? Whatever it is, I hate having to look up and see these two beady eyes looking out from a pile of white hair. It's always followed by the question, "Can you help me?"
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Same Shit Revisited
Last week, after I had already discussed the security force with the slack jawed moron who is constantly chipper for some reason, I had to head back to the post office. I expected the usual. Step in line. Show ID. Remove all items from pockets. Put everything on conveyor. Walk through metal detector. "HUH HUH HOW YA DOIN' TODAY, BUDDY?! HUH HUH" Grab my shit and go. Not this time. This time I was treated not once but three times with the rent-a-dicks telling anyone who was within earshot about their adventures.
As I was waiting in line I hear the ID check guy tell people at the front of the line, "Yeah, we had a major bust today." Ok, so now I'm intrigued. Having seen the way they swoop in like an episode of Cops when someone forgets to leave their Swiss Army knife in the car, I figured they were gonna blow this out of proportion. "Yeah, we caught this guy trying to bring ecstasy pills in here! Can ya believe it? So we cuffed the guy and we're holding him until the police get here. They'll be real happy we took this scumbag off the streets."
I had to hear this story two more times and all being told through shit eating grins. They thought they were the big dicks that day and just kept talking about how happy the police were gonna be. It was the same glee and giddyness when a kid makes something in kindergarten for their mom. So proud. A big stupid, "LOOK WHAT I DID" smile.
The only upside was that Special Agent Gomer Pyle wasn't there to greet me once I passed the metal detector. I don't even think he would have remembered to ask me a question. Most of the mental activity going on in their brains at this moment was to send more blood to the hard-on they had for being like real police.
Once I was done with the mail I had to walk out and my path goes right in front of their "command center". Sitting inside with three guards surrounding him, hands cuffed behind his back, was a guy probably in his early 40s. He had glasses, was balding and was skinny. He kind of looked like the dad from Alf. He looked calm. He wasn't slouching but sitting as if it was just a part of every day life. The morons around him still had big, toothy, ear to ear smiles they couldn't wipe off their faces. I was happy the guy still had his dignity and a right mind to not give these fuckers what they wanted. Fear. There wasn't even a hint of it. Who knows? Maybe he was high and that's why but at least he didn't give them what they wanted.
As I was waiting in line I hear the ID check guy tell people at the front of the line, "Yeah, we had a major bust today." Ok, so now I'm intrigued. Having seen the way they swoop in like an episode of Cops when someone forgets to leave their Swiss Army knife in the car, I figured they were gonna blow this out of proportion. "Yeah, we caught this guy trying to bring ecstasy pills in here! Can ya believe it? So we cuffed the guy and we're holding him until the police get here. They'll be real happy we took this scumbag off the streets."
I had to hear this story two more times and all being told through shit eating grins. They thought they were the big dicks that day and just kept talking about how happy the police were gonna be. It was the same glee and giddyness when a kid makes something in kindergarten for their mom. So proud. A big stupid, "LOOK WHAT I DID" smile.
The only upside was that Special Agent Gomer Pyle wasn't there to greet me once I passed the metal detector. I don't even think he would have remembered to ask me a question. Most of the mental activity going on in their brains at this moment was to send more blood to the hard-on they had for being like real police.
Once I was done with the mail I had to walk out and my path goes right in front of their "command center". Sitting inside with three guards surrounding him, hands cuffed behind his back, was a guy probably in his early 40s. He had glasses, was balding and was skinny. He kind of looked like the dad from Alf. He looked calm. He wasn't slouching but sitting as if it was just a part of every day life. The morons around him still had big, toothy, ear to ear smiles they couldn't wipe off their faces. I was happy the guy still had his dignity and a right mind to not give these fuckers what they wanted. Fear. There wasn't even a hint of it. Who knows? Maybe he was high and that's why but at least he didn't give them what they wanted.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Same Shit
I hate going to the post office. Not for reasons that many others have previously covered. The people who actually help me at the post office are very friendly and I enjoy seeing them. Because the post office is located in a federal building I hate the process I have to go through in order to get inside. As soon as I hit the door I get into a mindset that's most people use when they're going to the dentist. Just get through it as quickly and painlessly as you can.
What's waiting for me about 20 feet from the front door of the building is a security checkpoint. Now I can understand why they have a checkpoint at the entrance at a federal building. Oklahoma City and all that. That's fine. My problem is with who they choose to staff it with. Now you would think that with it being a federal building there would be Marshalls or Homeland Security or something. The "something" waiting for you is not at all a recognized authoritarian force. In fact, they're a private security firm made up of what I can only assume are those waiting to be real police and those who can't get into the real police. Rent-a-cops. But it gets scarier. They may not be deputized BUT they're allowed to have pistols. You can only imagine the level of asshole I'm dealing with now. Rinky dink badge, side arm and a "respect my authority" attitude. All of this just means I'm not going to respect these goofs. In fact, I refuse to speak to them. I'll nod in the affirmative but I try to avoid saying anything to them. I know what they are and what they want. Some moron who thinks I should respect him because he's "protecting the national interest" by telling 45 year old men they can't bring a pen knife on federal property. That doesn't cut it for me. They did nothing to get into a position of power so they can stick that piece of tin up their ass for all I care.
The worst of these Paul Blart types is a mouthbreather who looks like Stinky Peterson from Hey Arnold. It wouldn't surprise me if that was actually what this guy's home life is like. Every time I set foot inside I scan to see if he's working because it's honestly adding insult to injury when dealing with him. Knowing that the next post office is over 3 miles away just cements the sense of misery because I remember that I'm now forced to deal with this asshole. Ever since I got back on my feet he has tried to coax me into becoming his chum. I don't care how often you see me, we're not going to be friends because of circumstance. About 3 or 4 weeks ago I was engaged in this conversation.
Moron - "How ya doing today, buddy?"
Me - "Same shit."
Moron - "Ya know, one of these days you're gonna surprise me and I'm gonna ask that and you're gonna say, 'I'm Fantastic!' Haha"
Me - "The day I say that is the day that I don't have to come to this fucking building anymore."
Moron - (awkward and confused smile)
Now ever since that day I'm greeted with, "Same answer? Heh heh". I just nod and wait for my items to be cleared.
What's waiting for me about 20 feet from the front door of the building is a security checkpoint. Now I can understand why they have a checkpoint at the entrance at a federal building. Oklahoma City and all that. That's fine. My problem is with who they choose to staff it with. Now you would think that with it being a federal building there would be Marshalls or Homeland Security or something. The "something" waiting for you is not at all a recognized authoritarian force. In fact, they're a private security firm made up of what I can only assume are those waiting to be real police and those who can't get into the real police. Rent-a-cops. But it gets scarier. They may not be deputized BUT they're allowed to have pistols. You can only imagine the level of asshole I'm dealing with now. Rinky dink badge, side arm and a "respect my authority" attitude. All of this just means I'm not going to respect these goofs. In fact, I refuse to speak to them. I'll nod in the affirmative but I try to avoid saying anything to them. I know what they are and what they want. Some moron who thinks I should respect him because he's "protecting the national interest" by telling 45 year old men they can't bring a pen knife on federal property. That doesn't cut it for me. They did nothing to get into a position of power so they can stick that piece of tin up their ass for all I care.
The worst of these Paul Blart types is a mouthbreather who looks like Stinky Peterson from Hey Arnold. It wouldn't surprise me if that was actually what this guy's home life is like. Every time I set foot inside I scan to see if he's working because it's honestly adding insult to injury when dealing with him. Knowing that the next post office is over 3 miles away just cements the sense of misery because I remember that I'm now forced to deal with this asshole. Ever since I got back on my feet he has tried to coax me into becoming his chum. I don't care how often you see me, we're not going to be friends because of circumstance. About 3 or 4 weeks ago I was engaged in this conversation.
Moron - "How ya doing today, buddy?"
Me - "Same shit."
Moron - "Ya know, one of these days you're gonna surprise me and I'm gonna ask that and you're gonna say, 'I'm Fantastic!' Haha"
Me - "The day I say that is the day that I don't have to come to this fucking building anymore."
Moron - (awkward and confused smile)
Now ever since that day I'm greeted with, "Same answer? Heh heh". I just nod and wait for my items to be cleared.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Black Awareness
It'll be 2 years in January that I've been at this job. Funny thing is that there's still people here that don't know my name. I don't know their names either so I guess we're even. I guess they just think I'm "the guy who got hit by the car" or at best "The Runner". It has an action movie sense to it but I just enjoy the anonymity. It keeps me under the radar and that's where I want to be.
The fact that we never take the time to exchange pleasantries aside from a casual head nod or "good morning" helps me retain a level of awareness. I'm a very visible reminder of class distinction for the people in the office. I've got co-workers that enjoy a fantasy life where they consider themselves equals to the people on the upper floors. We operate out of the basement. Similar to steerage. It's not hard to realize where we stand if only they would take off their rose colored glasses of self importance. We're fucking expendable.
I've been told that a few have complained that when I come in from outside I'm sweating and sometimes I smell. That's good. I need that level of physicality in my work. The fact that I can offend others with a noticeable level of how much I'm busting my ass is a bonus for me. Thinking of it as if my work ethic is repellent to them puts a smile on my face. It's probably not best practices to do things out of spite but it helps get me through the day.
My buddy Booker says I'm the blackest person in my office. There's more than a few reasons for it but I like to believe it. The little bit of fear that makes them lock their doors when they're driving shows through when we interact.
The fact that we never take the time to exchange pleasantries aside from a casual head nod or "good morning" helps me retain a level of awareness. I'm a very visible reminder of class distinction for the people in the office. I've got co-workers that enjoy a fantasy life where they consider themselves equals to the people on the upper floors. We operate out of the basement. Similar to steerage. It's not hard to realize where we stand if only they would take off their rose colored glasses of self importance. We're fucking expendable.
I've been told that a few have complained that when I come in from outside I'm sweating and sometimes I smell. That's good. I need that level of physicality in my work. The fact that I can offend others with a noticeable level of how much I'm busting my ass is a bonus for me. Thinking of it as if my work ethic is repellent to them puts a smile on my face. It's probably not best practices to do things out of spite but it helps get me through the day.
My buddy Booker says I'm the blackest person in my office. There's more than a few reasons for it but I like to believe it. The little bit of fear that makes them lock their doors when they're driving shows through when we interact.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Morning Person
I get into work at 7AM. First thing I do is make myself a pot of coffee that's a little bit more tolerable than what everyone else around here drinks. One pack regular, one pack decaf - half brew. It isn't the best but it does the job and I can actually taste it. People complained my coffee was too strong when they'd accidentally take from my pot. I just printed up a sign to put on the pump that said STRONG COFFEE and now it seems like I have a lot more than just two cups in there.
My desk is covered with papers of no real importance. A few phone numbers I didn't care to write the name above and now I don't wanna throw them away out of fear I'll remember why I wrote them down in the first place. Paper clips, rubber bands, stamps. None of that makes it my desk and you probably wouldn't know it was any single person's at all if it didn't have a little drawing I did on it or my coffee mug. To my left is my old desk that actually had a wall I could put some personality on. It's still there with a couple of cut out comic strips that I thought were clever enough to take the time to clip with scissors. And there's a calendar my buddy Tony gave me that if people got too close they might not like the things he wrote in it.
I get in here and sit every Monday through Friday until about 2PM with a view of my work load. It piles up throughout the day and with every additional sheet of paper or folder I grit my teeth a little harder. Let out an audible sigh here or there and couple it with "Shit!" or "Fuck!" or "I really don't wanna be here right now". People just giggle. Apparently, they think I'm being cute. Let them think that. The dumb shit in my head would make them view me differently and that's fine. Either way, as long as they leave me alone we can have a good working relationship.
My desk is covered with papers of no real importance. A few phone numbers I didn't care to write the name above and now I don't wanna throw them away out of fear I'll remember why I wrote them down in the first place. Paper clips, rubber bands, stamps. None of that makes it my desk and you probably wouldn't know it was any single person's at all if it didn't have a little drawing I did on it or my coffee mug. To my left is my old desk that actually had a wall I could put some personality on. It's still there with a couple of cut out comic strips that I thought were clever enough to take the time to clip with scissors. And there's a calendar my buddy Tony gave me that if people got too close they might not like the things he wrote in it.
I get in here and sit every Monday through Friday until about 2PM with a view of my work load. It piles up throughout the day and with every additional sheet of paper or folder I grit my teeth a little harder. Let out an audible sigh here or there and couple it with "Shit!" or "Fuck!" or "I really don't wanna be here right now". People just giggle. Apparently, they think I'm being cute. Let them think that. The dumb shit in my head would make them view me differently and that's fine. Either way, as long as they leave me alone we can have a good working relationship.
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