My115thDream

Dave's Mental Meanderings
2004-10-20 08:38:28 (UTC)

People I Hate... it never ends

Well folks, it’s here at long last. What exactly is here,
you ask? I’ll give you a hint. Sometimes it’s funny and
only rarely is it good, but it’s always offensive! If you
guessed a new edition of my seldom read “People I Hate”
series, you’re absolutely right. So here’s another bunch of
worthless wastes of space who deserve to be treated to a
savage blow to the solar plexus while their children watch:
self-absorbed assholes who think every little goddamn thing
that happens to them is a big deal.

You know who I’m talking about. Hell, I could be talking
about you, or maybe the pretentious cocksucker sitting right
beside you. Our country (and most of the rest of the
civilized world, but in vastly lesser concentrations) is
full of these people. They’re your friends, your neighbors,
and your co-workers. They’re the moderately retarded
cashier you always try to avoid at the grocery store, the
trailer trash Waffle House waitress whose every unbearable
anecdote fortifies your resolve to kick the habit of the
culinary crack cocaine served up at that loathsome roadside
diner, the bank tellers that make small talk with you on the
subject of how their truncated lunch break constitutes an
egregious violation of labor laws. Yeah, somebody call OSHA
fast, we’ve got an overworked bank teller. If I may
digress… give me a fucking break. If you work at a bank,
you are not overworked. Period. End of story. Some of the
more customer-friendly financial establishments these days
are open 8 hours on weekdays and even an extra hour on
Fridays, but that’s about as good as you’re going to do from
this soulless conglomeration of holier-than-thou deadbeats.

The same goes for postal workers. I’ll go along with their
grievances that they should be allowed to work full-time and
therefore receive proper benefits, but these pathetic
android excuses for human beings’ leverage comes to an
abrupt halt right there. Your place of employment is only
open during the exact hours when the majority of the
employed adult population is at work, so how can you be
overworked? You haven’t opened yet when I leave for work in
the morning and you’re closed by the time I’m driving home,
and I don’t feel overworked… these crybabies have it made.
How is it that two of the most essential places of business
for consumers are both specifically tailored to be open when
everyone who needs their services is at work? Somebody
clarify free market capitalism for me – isn’t our economic
system supposed to foster an environment in which businesses
compete to better fill the needs of the consumer in the
interest of profit? Okay, so the Postal Service is a
government institution and is therefore exempt from this
argument, but why the fuck hasn’t somebody somewhere opened
a bank branch that’s open until 8 PM??? Think of the
instant clientele base. If I’m looking to open an account
somewhere and only one of my options has a branch open past
5:00, I’ve got a pretty fucking easy decision on my hands.
Anyway, it appears that I have veered far off course from my
intended topic of discussion: self-absorbed assholes who
think every goddamn thing that happens to them is a big
deal. So I’ll save any further griping about banks, post
offices, and their always-charming employees for another
edition.

A couple weeks ago I was going to class in Virginia Tech’s
dilapidated but beloved chemical engineering building known
as Randolph Hall (AKA Auschwitz) when I couldn’t help but
overheard a snippet of conversation between two young
ladies. Allow me to clarify, as I must take care to lend
proper context to the story. These were not merely two
young ladies, these were sorority girls. Ruffled skirts,
popped collars, highlights in the hair, identical purses
pompously emblazoned with their sorority letters as if every
passer-by is expected to immediately identify them as being
elite based on some Greek nonsense on their fucking tampon
caddies… in short, the works. People like this almost
without exception fall into the category of self-absorbed
pricks who feel the need to broadcast even the minutest
details of their day to everyone they encounter. There’s an
old saying – don’t judge a book by its cover. Well that’s
bullshit. If I’m making the rounds through the campus
library, clinging to the desperate hope that there’s a
forgotten Steinbeck or H.S. Thompson or Kerouac adrift on
the shelves, and I see a book whose cover features a
depiction of a man sodomizing a badger, guess what I’m going
to do? I’m going to judge that book by its cover. Based on
that judgment, I will invariably decide that this book just
isn’t for me and move on to a more tame selection. I’m not
going to skim over the preface, glance at the foreword, or
even peruse the reviewers’ quotes on the inside of the book
jacket. I’m going to judge that scary motherfucker by its
cover and, never having harbored even the remotest desire
for carnal knowledge of badgers or any other woodland
creatures, put that shit back on the shelf. Similarly, if I
see a girl with bleach-blonde streaks in an otherwise
shit-brown mane of intentionally messed-up hair (I’m told
it’s called the “just been fucked” look… but to me the “just
been fucked” look involves damage to more serious areas of
the lucky lady than her hair), a pink polo shirt with the
collar turned up, and three delta symbols on her purse, I
immediately make the following conclusion: this bitch is so
wrapped up in her own trifling, inconsequential bubble of an
existence that she has no goddamn idea that any human being
with even a remote sense of perspective wants to gouge the
slut’s eyes out with a rusty screwdriver when forced to
listen to her pitiful, inane ramblings. So, back to the
story. I’m walking to class and I hear but one mere
sentence escape this girl’s painstakingly glossed lips. She
said to her companion, “Oh my god, you won’t believe what
happened to me this morning.” No bitch, you’re wrong.
Trust me sister, I’d probably find it disturbingly easy to
believe. Let me guess. Daddy called to say you’re only
going to get an Eclipse for graduation instead of that
Camaro you wanted? You found out one of your sorority
sisters was hospitalized last night for alcohol poisoning?
You got the results back from last week’s gynecologist visit
and you’ve got six different forms of herpes? I know she
wasn’t addressing me with that melodramatic lead-in, nor
does she even want my assessment of her shallowness, but it
pissed me off just the same. Now don’t get me wrong – I’m
the last person on the planet who loses sleep over something
like… say…. starving children in Sri Lanka. I’m not saying
everyone should only engage in thought and conversation
based on issues of monumental importance. But spare us the
drama, you dime-a-dozen sorority clone. Unless the next
sentence out of your mouth was going to be, “I walked into
the kitchen to get some cereal and Ronald the Unicorn was at
the table reading the paper,” I’ll probably have no trouble
at all believing what huge item of breaking news disrupted
your otherwise serene morning.