Author: admin

29 April 2018

“But I was just trying to help!”

Maybe.
I’m not so sure.
You certainly weren’t actually helping.

People who want to help generally help, and one of the first things they do is make sure they’re not doing the opposite of helping. And one of the last things they’ll ever do is whine about just trying to help.

People who want to appear helpful won’t do anything until someone is watching. I tend to think most of them are creepy weasels, but I get them. Getting ahead requires getting seen and you want your efforts to count for something. If they think the boss is watching and they’re helping me out then that’s good enough for me.

The most loathsome of all types are those who wish to feel helpful. They don’t care about you or the boss, they’re just mostly sad schmoes who crave validation. If you’ve ever had a child “help” you in the kitchen you get it immediately. At least with the child, you have the advantage of imparting valuable skills, so the hassle is worth it. Alleged grown-ups who blunder in and mess up your rhythm (at the least of it) and feel all good about what swell people they are are using you to masturbate.

If I don’t want to go several blocks out of my way, the last turn to get to work is a left across two lanes of traffic. It’s a busy neighborhood with about a half a dozen vendors clustered close to the Interstate, but there’s a turn lane in the middle of the street, so I’m content to wait.

Sometimes some motorist will stop in one of the oncoming lanes and gesture for me to pass in front of him. He’s often less than a block from the red light so it probably costs him nothing, and if I can see that it’s safe, I’ll cut in and smile and wave and be done with it.

However, and too often, I will not be able to see that it’s safe. There are a couple of parking lots bleeding into that right lane on busy nights, and if he’s in his left lane I can’t see through him, so I don’t always know whether it’s safe. If I’m T-boned turning in front of traffic, I’m the one charged with failure to yield. Let alone maybe dead. Meanwhile, in this alleged super-hero’s lane, traffic is stacking up behind him and all they can see now is that green light at the intersection. So he’s not just using me to feel good about himself. Now he’s hijacked the time of all the hapless drivers behind him. Finally, he gets fed up and proceeds to exercise his right of way, but makes a point of screaming at me as he drives by because clearly I am the parasite commandeering everybody’s time.

update 230201, contra The Alleged Super-Hero and his Angry Fans, correspondent Mykpogdyf Mminx responds:  “I can see this so vividly in my mind’s eye as you describe it. And you are spot-on. In some people’s needy, soul-sucking fervor to appear virtuous, other people can get hurt. Plus, it’s straight-up cringe-worthy watching them preen and puff-up preemptively to doing ‘their good deed‘.”
 # (cross-hatched tag) whattagoodboyami

3 October 2023 —
Our new AssMan at the QuikkStopp, Yuviffont, has all the makings of a middle management martinet. In addition to regularly reminding herself (through us) that she’s in charge, she’s also keen on “helping” us set up our tills. She’s got plenty of time (pretty much her entire shift) to do that BEFORE I arrive, but what I generally hear first from her is how busy she’s been and how she’s had no time to get all this stuff done that her ostensible subordinates manage when she’s not there “helping” us. I try not to listen, as there’s usually much more interesting stuff going on in my own head, or I’m beginning to focus on MY CUSTOMERS.
Last Monday, at the beginning of my shift, as I’m beginning to breathe a little easier knowing that Yuvi‘s soon on her way out the door and out of my hair, I greet my first customer and ask how I might help when suddenly she’s at my elbow with a roll of quarters “for your till.”
“Yeah, sure,” is what I may have said as I again attempted to assist the customer and then I see that my screen shows the accounting tile rather than the point-of-sale tile that my customer and I were getting ready to use. I sigh heavily, take the roll of quarters and her “paid out” slip and put it aside and say something like I can deal with this later. I void the beginnings of her attempt to disbalance my till and go back to the prime directive, which, of course, is customer service.
Next, Yuvi grabs the roll of quarters and the slip that I’d laid aside and says, “I can do it myself,” thereby demonstrating to all concerned that she actually hadn’t needed to bug us in the first place. That was probably my favorite part of the whole unnecessary power-play. Another favored moment was at the end of my shift as I was counting my till and I reflected that I still had more than ten bucks worth of loose quarters, and that I had not once needed to take another roll out of our drop safe.
And again, I want to clarify, maybe it wasn’t just a power-play. Maybe she needs to feel helpful, and it doesn’t matter whether she actually helps anyone, just as long as she feels good all under. But that just makes it all sadder.

14 September 2023

I don’t have any hard copies of the above illustration, but I’m tempted to get some. Awful people expose themselves in many ways. Bad parking is usually a sign of deeper pathologies. Or stupidity. Either way, they should pay for their offenses with the pristine finishes of their cars. My late commie “sister-out-law” told a story about a large logger who walked across the hood of a car in his hobnail boots after it had encroached onto the crosswalk. That’s the kind of spontaneous justice I crave.

The Wish: I like to imagine tungsten-carbide chainsaws emerging from under the lines in parking lots to rend the metal and rubber of offending vehicles. Put the saws on a timer, of course, so they’re mostly quiet. They should only emerge when the clock, sonar, and programming convince them that someone has parked (and not just passed) over the lines and therefore was encroaching on more than just his own space. Most vendors would probably find such a notion to be prohibitively expensive. But I’m going to keep on wishing. Meanwhile…

The True Story: I went to my local grocery connection a week or so ago. I rarely know when I’m going to be in a hurry, but I usually know when I’m not. I don’t like backing up my car. I can do it, of course; I can back a trailer down a winding gravel driveway, but it’s tedious and slow and more error prone than driving forward. In order to avoid backing up when I’m in a hurry, I tend to put the “hassle” up front, so if the parking spot only offers a single access to it, I’ll usually back in so I can just drive straight out if it turns out I AM in a hurry later. Even better are the adjoining spaces that most of the larger lots sport. Often I can drive straight through one and then I’m positioned to drive out of the other, all without putting it into reverse.

That’s the opportunity I found when I got to The Emir of Eats®. Except the front left corner of a huge pick-up truck was encroaching on the right front corner of my preferred space. Pausing briefly, I contemplated moving on to find another space, but was chastened by the firm economic principle that, “When we reward something, we get more of it.” I do not ever wish to reward misbehavior. I have a smaller car, I thought, so I can fit into that. I couldn’t get out my right door, but I wouldn’t need to. Satisfied that MY parking was within both the spirit of the lot AND the actual lines, I locked up and went shopping.

When I got back with my goodies, I saw that two other vehicles had parked behind ours, and that the driver of the pick-up had returned to his ride and was just sitting there glowering at me. Apparently, it looked to him that he couldn’t move forward without hitting me, or back out without hitting someone else. All resulting in damage to his precious “rig.” The nice thing about driving a “piece-of-shit” car like mine is you care a lot less about additional scrapes. Drivers of pretty new pick-ups are much less cavalier about the finishes of their rides. He sat there until I drove out of my space and released him from his self-made trap.

26 August 2023

It’s not my favorite mug shot, but it’s definitely a contender. I think Randy Travis’ and Rosa Parks’ and John McAfee’s all eclipse El Donaldo’s, though he easily stands shoulder to shoulder with Johnny Cash and Lenny Bruce and George Carlin, but no one’s ever come close to David Bowie’s misadventures in Rochester.

Nevertheless, the public domain image depicted above is a glittering lustrous gift to Mr Trump’s campaign and to legions of enterprising swag-mongers, who are already shopping merch across the fruited plains.

In other news, leftists continue to discover right wing racist dog whistles. The latest is “Rigger.” A noun derived from the verb “to rig,” meaning, “one who rigs,” as in, the Prez sez, “Don’t let those Riggers get away with it.”

But what if I were grateful for the rigging. And felt affectionate toward one who had rigged on my behalf. Wouldn’t he be “My Rigga?”

29 September 2023

And as for those of us who delight in Leftists’ anguish over the Great Orange Beast, let it be said that, “He’s our Nigga ’cause he’s yo’ Trigga!”

17 August 2023

I am wary of facial tattoos. A lot of important social information is conveyed by facial expressions, and jewelry, makeup, and tattoos all obscure that. Which aggravates my already considerable social disadvantages, so I generally don’t care for them. To the extent that people who care to discolor or disfigure their faces know this makes the behavior potentially deliberate and underhanded. But not certain.

I get over my bias with regular customers, of course. Steady association with good behavior goes a long way toward allaying my concerns, and I’ve even become friendly with a couple. New fellow came in last night with some elaborate work around the outer orbital of one eye socket, and he was so utterly charming, and charmed by my routine, that when he left, I think he actually gave me permission to refer to him as “my nigga.”

My “usual routine” consists of spoofing both our bankster owners and the users of “electric leashes” (aka cash-apped telephones) and it often provokes many customers to laughing. (It can provoke a few angry fans, too, but that’s a different and sadder story.) This guy (I should point out that he was “black”) just about fell over when I said that F’eral Reserve Notes “stick together like the criminals who print them.”

“You all right, bro!” He smiled as I gave him his goods and his change, and we bumped fists. “Anybody give you shit, you tell ’em, ‘You deal with my nigga, Oxibbit,’ a’ight?”

We shook hands and I said, “Thanks Ox! Be well,” and he left, still chuckling. Another regular customer who was already familiar with my routine came up with his stuff and we smiled at each other and at Oxibbit‘s retreating form. “I think that fellow just gave me permission to call him ‘my nigga,'” I said.

“Does that mean I get to call him ‘your nigga?'” he asked me.

“I guess. That makes sense. Anybody can say anything, actually, but we should also be prepared to accept some consequences for what we say. You get fresh with my Mom and she slaps you, I’m probably gonna cheer her on.”

He laughed and we agreed that while the modularity of English was clear and convenient, social circumspection was also wise. Oxibbit and I may be cool, but his bros may not be aware of that, so I’ll continue to adhere to the FCN rule (about usually not saying Fuck or Cunt or Nigger in front of strangers who aren’t here for my act.)