BY GUEST WRITER – PALMER ON PROZAC
Don’t people piss you off?
I don’t mean certain types of people, I mean generally.
There are myriad types of people on this planet, the vast majority of whom I don’t know – thank a deity.
Because the ones I do come across have a very near escape from an untimely, and pretty horrific, death, I can tell you. Their hum-drum lives are extended a little more because of me. I feel kinda proud about it. I have the power of life and death over hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. And all this without them knowing. Or me getting concurrent life sentences for doing what would come very naturally, sometimes.
Let’s get started and see if you, too, can join this elite club of having omnipotent tendencies in your day-to-day lives. See if you are more like me than you care or dare to admit.
You’re in a queue and getting near the front. You become aware of someone walking up and standing behind you. They then move to one side and you see them a little better. They’re usually small and weasel-like; sometimes they mutter to themselves; sometimes they don’t and look relatively normal.
After the queue moves up again, they begin to slowly move towards your side, instead of behind you (which, forgive me if I’m wrong, is the usual queue-type format). As the queue inches towards the till, bank clerk or whatever, they inch forward so that they’re slightly in front of you, though still maintaining their position at your side.
Ever come across one? Did you restrain yourself? Or are you reading this sat next to a big, sweaty man named Bubba, whose bitch you are!!
I often wonder if these people actually believe that you don’t notice them. And if they carry on inching, they can get before you. Wrong on all accounts, I’m afraid.
As well as being a little lacking in the neurone area, they have also evolved a thick skin. You can cough, look at them, and say, “I’m before you, mate,” in the most threatening manner and they still look at you with a vacant grin or cheesy smile.
I once tried all of the above and met with the cheesy/vacant look. In a bit of devilment I then said, “My yak needs re-shoeing!” – Vacant/cheesy grin. “My panda has haemorrhoids” – Vacant/cheesy grin. “I’m gonna rip the face off the front of your head if you move another inch past me.” – Result!
Thick skin 0 – Prozac 1.
See, these people aren’t so nearly lacking in social niceties, like language, as others would have you believe. I feel as though I’m doing a public service – teaching those with learning disabilities or special needs. I’m a goddam philanthropist.
Of course, if your linguistic skills aren’t as well developed as mine, you could always twat ’em!
You know. They know you. They know they know you. You know they know they know you. Yet they sometimes walk past you, after you’ve nodded, or said “Hi”, without acknowledging your presence.
I thought maybe it was an unsaid social ritual, you know the kind of thing, someone steps on YOUR toe in a queue and YOU say, “Sorry!”
I thought maybe some people are required by some arcane ritualistic law that they can only let on to you once every five or six times. I counted the times they let on. I counted the times they didn’t. There wasn’t a correlation, unless my grasp of Fibonacci numbers is lacking.
I thought that maybe they’d been struck down by deafness and I hadn’t been told.
I thought that maybe I’d been struck down by deafness and I hadn’t been told – then again, would I have been able to hear anyone telling me that? Oh, those imponderables of the universe!
I thought all sorts of things before the conclusion hit me. They were fucking ignorant.
Simple as that.
Kinda takes the fun out of it, doesn’t it, though? I really wanted to leap in front of them, waving my genitals while foaming at the mouth and speaking in tongues. I’ll bet they’d let on then!
I’m sorry for leaving out 50% of our species, here and aiming this part of the rant at males but, come on! I have never in my entire life used a urinal and not been splashed. I’ve leaned in at the oddest of angles. I’ve vectored in, in a way that would have made a Stealth Bomber navigator proud to know my willie. I’ve stood as far back as I’ve dared without urinating on the floor.
I’ve ran in and paralleled the urinal while carrying on running past, willie in hand all the while. I’ve darted to and fro, weeing in spurts as I approach ‘ground zero’. I’ve borrowed someone else’s willie. I’ve watched other people (a humbling experience) using a urinal.
The people who design urinals should be suspended over a steaming vat of urine. Then they’d get a small taste (with luck) of what we poor guys go through every time we want to spend a penny. That’s a misnomer if ever I heard one. It costs a hell of a lot more than that to get the material-rotting enzymes in your average uric acid outlet out of your favourite trousers.
Thank a deity that I’m not young and courting any more. Those days were a nightmare. Dodging, weaving – covering your genitals with your coat to hide the embarrassing stains that looked like a bottle of lemonade had exploded in your underwear. I’m glad I’m now incontinent and forgetful and couldn’t care less who sees me in whatever state I happen to be in at the time. “I don’t recall peeing myself,” I can truthfully say. “Someone must have held me down and pissed my pants! What weirdos there are in the world today…”
PALMER ON PROZAC is a freelance writer from Stockport, England. You can see more of his observations and Rants on THE SITE FOR SORE EYES soon. His views and comments do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of the owners of this Site. When not hurling insults at the rest of humanity, he dabbles in social work, giving generously to down and outs, and kissing as many babies as you can cram into a Tupperware box.