Confessions of a People Watcher, Issue #12: All The Little Conveniences

Yesterday I witnessed a man yelling at an inanimate object. Have we become so convinced by all the little conveniences that we feel we can’t be wrong, even in the presence of something that was mistaken at the fault of its creator? One can only ponder. I only wanted to tell this man one thing: “If the ATM doesn’t spit out your cash, there’s one posted at every gas station from here to Timbuktu.”

People, the  backbone of society. What a struggle, dear readers.  

Anyway, last week’s article sounded more like a sermon when I went back to read it last night. Good, but not striking the nail quite as hard on the head. What do we need? More preaching from every would-be blogger in the world who only journalize their fill of every random situation on this planet via social media? The answer is no, plain and simple.

I think it’s high time we did something about just how waited on we’re letting ourselves become. Working harder and saying thank you more often would be a good start, not to mention trying not to yell at the thing that spits money at you when you push an F’n button.

I challenge anyone who reads this to take fifteen, full and uninterrupted minutes (showers work best), and reflect on where you are, where you were, and where you wanna be.

Don’t dwell. Confessions is here to find the dirt under the rug, not make fun of you for it. If the dirt’s mucky, it could rot to your foundation. Then, all you can do is hope the contractor, a.k.a. A therapist, can fix it. Nowadays it isn’t uprooting the problem that they’re doing either. They just put a thicker rug over the rotten spots and pretend it doesn’t exist for awhile.

Fix your foundation, people.

With the rant out of the way, let’s get into some people watching.

Just last week, while tending my own row of corn—I’m gonna start using this expression instead of saying, “just minding my own business.” It adds a flair of hard work in my opinion—a child and his mother both walked into my place of work.

Everything went a smooth as it should have.

That is until this child—given height and demeanor I’d say he was closer to being a teenager—started producing tears that his iPad that was being taken away to be fixed. These weren’t tears that led to a fit of childish frustration; in some ways, I wish they were. No, these were tears of genuine desperation, making this kid look not unlike a child in a third world country whose only pound of rice for the week had just been taken by Somalian pirates.

Imagine later in life when he gets dumped hard.

After this came a woman. We will call her Tammy, because I don’t feel it necessary to receive a clubbing one fine Sunday morning for pointing out obvious truths about people I see throughout my week. So, we’re sticking to Tammy.

The terms ‘white’ and ‘trash’ tend to go together in the south like ‘incompetent’ and ‘politician’ do in the rest of the United States, maybe even the world, but considering I’ve never left the country, I won’t slander.

So mother Tammy, her camo cut-off wearing husband Jerry, and the three little bears walk in. This doesn’t do bears justice because the little ones, like their mother, looked like amoebas for one reason and one reason only: amoebas are squishy. These folks looked like they would bounce, and the father looked like lifting a finger to help roll them back out to the car would be bad for the baby, holding a round gut that he rubbed idly while he was thinking hard.

There was one distinction that set this family apart from the others that I witness on too often an occasion. Each one had a container Mountain Dew, and I’m not talking about just any old can or bottle. Nope, these people were carrying around liter longnecks of the stuff.

I’ll never understand how the lower ten percent can’t pay rent but can find the most bang for buck when it comes to their intake of garbage.

People amaze me, but it goes double when it comes the mass of schmucks we have, society’s equivalent to a round peg in a square hole; the only difference being that when they don’t fit, most simply try another hole, but these guys somehow wedge themselves into our lives all t he time. When they do, the little cube you two find yourself in is always an uncomfortable situation.

Take, for example, the gentleman I’m about to express to you. He had no mannerisms, sticking his big triangle-looking nose into the cozy confines of my neighborhood Subway’s overall square shape, and no remorse when it came to the small mistakes of a girl who was obviously only into her first month there.

So, he strolls into the sandwich factory just before me, wearing a pair of pristine running shoes (obviously one amongst a vast collection used for anything but their intended purpose), crisp navy blues, and a Starter jacket from Wal-mart that looks two sizes too small; this has not kept him from still zipping it up, sucking gut and puffing chest in the process, to look like even more of a dyed receding hairline having douche.

He was diet dad to begin with, complete with the child support receipts and ready to unleash hell on his ex-wife if she picks the kids up thirty minutes late again.

“Dammit, Sharon. I told you I have important things to do,” he might say.

No diet dad has time for that.  

So, while I’m coming in behind him, all I could ask myself was, “who shoved a corncob up this man’s ass before he decided, ‘you know what, I’m angry now and I want a sandwich?’” I will give him props on how straight his back was; arrows have a new role model now, this asshole.

He starts his order like a woman waiting on an elevator that’ll get her to the parking garage before Jerry from accounting starts asking about her damn ficus plant needing water again. Tapping fingers, sighing at every wait, rolling eyes, and so on; This guy was comparable to a teenager whose getting a lecture for the eleventh time this week about how to make responsible choices.

At one point he literally asks, “this gonna take all day? I got places to go.”

Do you? Do you really so much that you have to make this young girl, who already looks like a nervous wreck trying to make you happy, tear up at the seems. You could see them welling in her eyes and it hurt to watch. Maybe this post will bring her some justice.

As far as diet dad is concerned, I’m sure he still made his weekly circle jerk. Hopefully, as with all crappy people in this world we live in, Darwinism and karma will do their thing and sort him out.

That’s it for this week, dear readers. I hope I can burn your eye sockets out again next week. Until then, don’t forget to check out Quarterstories on social media for the book giveaway this month and other cool stuff.

For the month of October, I’m giving away three (3) copies of IT by Stephen King, so be sure to check it out. Also, if you wanna donate via Patreon, there’s a link on the Supporters & Giveaways page.

Good luck out there, and I’ll see you next week.

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