If I had not always been a prickly, edgy, short-tempered sort of guy, I'd say that I'm becoming cranky and curmudgeonly in my old age. But, the things that gnaw at my butt now, always chomped away faster than Ms. Pacman. It's just that I'm a whole lot less patient about them than I used to be and one helluva whole lot more likely to speak up when someone "steps on my corns".
Here's an example. Our local grocery chain, Brookshire's, has deluded its self into the obnoxious practice of yelling greetings at me the moment I enter the store and inquiring as to my health. They think this is friendly customer service. I think it is a pain in the ass. Look, I go into a store I want anonymity. I do not want attention focused on me, and, I'll reserve discussions of my health for medical experts, family and friends--thank you!
I want to slip in and quietly do my business and get out. That is it. That is all.
I do not want to hear, "How're yew doin!" shouted at me as the automatic door swings open. Leave me the hell alone, damn it. You're only doing this because someone behind a desk somewhere decided that customer service needed to be improved. That person probably shops at Whole Foods and does not know how incessantly annoying being yelled at in the grocery store can be. Anyway, none of you know from customer service, believe me. Or you wouldn't be yelling at people the way you do.
It is particularly off putting once you've been loudly greeted and had your health checked by store employees five times before you even make it out of produce. Damn, would y'awl just give it a freakin' rest, will you?
And. Shall I continue? OK, sure, no problem.
I'd dearly like to paint ball idiot drivers that for some reason think that the turn signal engages the car's turning apparatus. You know what I'm getting at here. These are the clods who cut in front of you, and, as they're starting or better yet, completing, the turn, engage their turn signal. Folks, read the Rules of the Road put out by your state. The turn signal is to be engaged well prior to turning or changing lanes to let others drivers know your intent. Do not do it to tell us what you're doing, we can see that quite plainly as we lock our brakes to keep from hitting your dumb ass!
The next one? OK, I'll be brief. Where in the hell do these people come from that think it is OK to dump dirty diapers in the parking lot? There can't be that many fourth generation inbred people out there, can there? Let me catch you, and I'm rubbing your nose in it, swatting you with a rolled up newspaper, and leaving you outside all night.
And my all time favorite.
You're in the express lane for a reason, you've got stuff to do, things to see and people to hustle and lie to, and you get behind some gimlet eyed little old lady with the Sexy Senior T-Shirt that digs into her purse to count out the precise change to the clerk. You've been there, right?
She already has your butt-kicking foot twitching because she had eight items over the Express Lane Limit and the lily-livered clerk doesn't have the gumption to send her away. Or else is a recent high-school graduate who can't count past ten.
Grandma opens her purse and digs around through the used Kleenex, Luden's cough-drop box, vivid red (Kiss Me You Fool) lipstick, expired cell phone, six months of Bible Thoughts of the Day tracts, buttons, pins, ball of rubbber-bands, grandchild's Binky, photos from the Bridge Club X-mas party, and assorted other necessities of old age, for a five compartment snap closure coin purse, all the while, without coming up for air, blathering about the cute things her grandchildren do.
Then, as the coin purse comes out, she squints at the register and asks, "How much was that honey?". Then, she methodically counts out onto the counter the precise change, usually in dimes, nickles and pennies, pausing every moment or so to recount and check once again the amount owed.
I'm telling you. I will not have to spend anytime at all in hell. St. Peter knows of my suffering and will give me the wave through.
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