Come Gather Round Thumby Wherever You Roam

I have been decidedly less ranty these days. I think the reason is I've had a lot on my mind. I'm getting ready to make a major move in a few months, my health isn't as good as it has been, and I just feel like there is a lot more to worry about with my own life. I just haven't had the drive or desire to just get mad at insignificant things. However, that doesn't mean that insignificant things don't still piss the hell out of me and bottle up over time. THE BOTTLE HAS TO BURST! THE SHIT NEEDS TO COME OUT! AND WHEN IT DOES IT'S TIME FOR (trumpets and horns and shit playing fanfare) A THUMBY!!! I happen to have 3 for today. Enjoy.

1. Fat Dude At The Post Office - Hey man, could you do me a solid favor? Could you please, FOR ALL THAT IS DECENT AND GOOD IN THE WORLD, take that five bucks that you were going to use to buy Baconnaise (actual product) and Oreos, and buy a belt? You really need one. Yes, I know you think Baconnaise is tasty, and when you spread it on the Oreos you can actually hear your arteries screaming from inside your body in much the same way a live lobster squeals when you put it in boiling water. However, here's the thing. Your ENTIRE ASS is hanging out of the back of your pants. The whole thing. A harvest moon. There is nothing left to the imagination, just the rolling red of your Fruit of Loom's barely clinging to your massive hamhocks and the crack of your ass poking out of the top like a smelly volcano. I couldn't help but overhear you talking to someone on the phone about someone's pregnant girlfriend, and that "just being how pregnant women are." How would you know? Who have you ever gotten pregnant? Is this how you get them, standing in a "spank me" position with your massive red ass hanging out of you shorts? Do the ladies drip when they see your crack poking out the top? Do you cock your eyebrow like James Bond and use pick up lines like, "Play your cards right and you might get to see the rest of my smell canyon."? FIX THAT SHIT, MAN! And until you do, please accept this Thumby.

2. Lightning Strikes Twice - Going from my apartment to the store, or to get gas, or to really anywhere, takes a great deal of patience due in large part to the people who dwell in the apartments in my complex. The Northpark apartments are really dominated by two social groups of people - black people and white trash - and any given day the activity of choice for both these demographics is to stand outside by their cars, drink, smoke weed, and play loud music, oh and also yell. If it weren't so fucking obnoxious to live next to, I would say it was good, from a racially standpoint, to see two diametrically opposed forces commingling together in drunken, stoned to the ba-jesus belt, harmony. But they just stand outside all day, everyday, and not just some of these people. A lot of them do. What the fuck are they doing all day? How boring does your life have to be that you would rather stand outside all day by your car drinking and smoking pot? Sure, the drinking and smoking pot might be fun, but all day? We're talking like 10-12 hours these people are outside. Anyway, I digress. So, any time I have to leave my apartment to go some place, it's like trying to navigate my car through the crowded streets of New Delhi. You never know when someone is just going to back out of their parking spot full speed with little regard to who or what might be behind them (probably because their back window is blocked by trash bags filled with dirty clothes...and really...why waste precious Twinkee calories moving those?). You never know when some drunk idiot is going to just walk out into the street from behind a car, or when a stupid child is going to run out in front of you. Getting out of the complex is a tangled adventure a lot of times.

So...Sunday. I leave to buy duct tape and because I wanted some food, so I decided I would have to go to Wal-Mart for these things. I'm slowly traversing the curve of the street inside my complex when I happen upon a group of white trash and black people (probably 7-10) all drinking Old English Malt Liquor (I wish I was kidding about that) and standing IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROAD! And here's the thing...they saw me driving up way before I happened upon their little Pow-Wow, and did they move out of the way like normal, rational thinking people? Fuck no! Instead, they waited until my car was about 3 feet from the perimeter of their little booze social, all stopped talking to me, and stared at me like I was some sort of moron. I'm the moron, for driving my car in the road where they were standing. Me. Clearly, I didn't pay attention in school when they taught us that roads are for standing in the middle of and for having booze and weed parties with your homies and Aryan brothers. Clearly I failed to heed my mother's advice when she taught me the three lessons of life - always take a jacket, chew with your mouth closed, and stare viciously at motorists when they want you to move out of the street. I'm the moron. It's a fact. So, you can see this situation irritated me somewhat, but I was alright when I finally got around them and was on my way to Wal-Mart.

So, I get into the Wal-Mart parking lot and I'm looking for a place to park. Now, my Wal-Mart has stop signs, and I heed them. I've heard conflicting reports about whether or not parking lot stop signs are actually something you need to obey, but I heed them because there are too many stupid drivers out there who don't know the precise ballet that is parking lot etiquette. So there I am, camped at a parking lot stop sign, a two way stop, and an SUV is oncoming. The SUV has the right of way, it can just go on through the intersection, or turn, or fly away, or combust. Whatever, it's up to the driver because they have the right of way. Well, this idiot didn't do any of those things because apparently they flunked Eyes and Eye School, and they decided that the two way stop should be a four way stop. To make matters worse, this genius starts waving me through, and is getting annoyed at me because I'm not moving. After about 30 seconds of frantic waving the driver finally gets fed up and blows through the intersection. WHY THE FUCK DO PEOPLE DO THIS? This happens to me all the time. I'm at a two way stop, the oncoming car pulls to a stop and waves me through. Why? If I were a cop I would pull that person over and ticket them for not knowing a simple road rule. It's so so so irritating, but again I digress.

So after the genius driver pulls through the intersection, I pull through the stop and turn left into an aisle, and what should I see when I get there? A group of teenage girls and some adults standing in the middle of the fucking road talking with each other like it's an ice cream social, and once again, the entire group turns around, glares at me like I'm a child molester, and walks away slowly. FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

So anyway, to these two separate groups of people and to the Einstein of stop signs, I have a bird on one hand and a Thumby on the other. Go fuck yourselves!

3. To Everyone In The World Right Now - Shut up. Seriously, just shut the hell up. I am tired of hearing your problems. You all think you're victims, that life is somehow slighting you, that everyone else should be feeding you grapes off a silver platter. I have news for you - shut the hell up. You're not mutually exclusive. You're not a target, a victim, and no one is slighting you. Everyone has problems. Today people lost jobs. Today people lost someone they love. Today someone found out they were sick. Today someone found out they were going to lose a house, or a car, or a limb. The world is a long chain of suck and we're bound by it. Stop throwing yourself a pity party, stop trying to get other people to solve your problems because I guarantee you those other people have problems too. Above all, just do what I do. Suck it up, get out of bed, and get the fuck on with it. Until then, suck on this Thumby, leave me alone, and shut the hell up.

A Hastings Divided Against Itself Cannot Stand - a Thumby

When I took a position at a law firm here in Joplin (no people, I’m not a lawyer…yet), I considered just quitting my job at Hastings outright. After all, the job at the law firm was going to pay me enough money that I would be able to pay my bills and actually have something left over, and I was going to have the opportunity to actually enjoy my weekends without having to worry about work. Why would I want to continue at Hastings? Eventually, I began to think about the things I would miss – me dry humping Addison Langford from behind while saying “meow” in a monotone robot voice while Jason Hight, dry humping him from the front, says the same thing in unison and Cathi Willet spits a beverage out her nose when she sees the spectacle; getting to talk with Emily Jones about cosmic phenomena and sociological paradoxes while we try to imagine what Cesar Milan’s face would look like on the dogs he’s always holding; debating whether the Jem’Hadar and Species 8472 could win in a war against the Hirogen and the Borg (this is Star Trek talk for all you non-squares out there). And that’s just my interaction with employees. I haven’t even mentioned the customers, like the ones who talk about dropping cats out of airplanes to test the myth that they always land on their feet, or the ones who bring in overexposed photographs and swear the strange colors are actually angels, or the ones who claim they had to be sprayed with a compound comprised mainly of ground up radish in order to evade the North Koreans. I failed to see, unless the attorneys were all Muppets, how the law firm could offer this level of mayhem. So I decided to stay, and after what took place at Hastings this past Saturday, I’m glad I did.

A fat man in an electric wheelchair, who I will refer to as Wheelchair Dude throughout this blog, tootled up to the guest service desk, and asked if we could make an announcement. Apparently, he parked his van one of those wide van access handicapped parking spaces, and someone else with a handicapped placard decided to double park in the same spot. When the person did this they actually blocked the side of his van and made it impossible for him to get access to his wheelchair lift. The man was stranded and pissed off (and he had every right to be), so we did what he asked of us, and we were more than happy to do this: “Would the owner of the white Pontiac that’s parked in the handicapped spot please come move your car? You’re blocking someone in.” So we wait fifteen to twenty minutes. Nothing. No one comes up. Wheelchair dude is still there, and he is still pissed off. We make another announcement. Fifteen to twenty minutes later there is still no one. Wheelchair Dude looks like he is about to come apart at the seams. I can see the steam building in his head like a tea kettle about to go off. We made one final announcement: “The owner of the white Pontiac parked in the handicapped spot needs to come and move their car or have it be towed at their own expense. So we wait another fifteen to twenty minutes, and we also call the two next to us so they can make announcements too. About twenty minutes goes by and no one shows up. So we call the cops and ask them to either send a tow or come out to resolve the situation somehow. The cops tell us they would be there soon. So Wheelchair Dude goes outside in the heat, pissed off and ready to explode, and waits for the cops.

In between the time we made the call to the police and the time they actually got there, this little old lady, who I will refer to as Ethel Mae, leaves Petsmart and starts to get in the white Pontiac. When Wheelchair Dude sees Ethel Mae start to get into her car, he hones in and bolts out there in his chair and starts giving her all the hell he can muster. He starts yelling at her, asking her if she is crazy, telling her he’s been here for hours.

Ethel Mae got out her placard and showed it to him and said, “Well, I have a placard, so I can park here.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a placard too…it’s called my fucking wheelchair,” Wheelchair Dude responded.

He pointed out that the spot was actually one space for people in wheelchairs who have a lift. Ethel Mae claimed she didn’t know it was one spot. “Are you kidding me? It says “van access” in big white letters on the ground. Can you not read that?”

Now, I’m going to pull away for a second and tell you what is happening inside Hastings while this is transpiring outside. Nearly all the employees are up front watching this take place, and a good chunk of the customers are too. And this brewing situation has caused a clear cut division between employees and customers. Some of us were for the old woman, claiming that while she may have been mistaken, the guy had no right to be a dick to her. The rest of us, me included, were for the guy. We argued that he probably had to deal with this crap all the time, and I also explained having personal knowledge of the motivations of the elderly, that I felt in my heart of hearts the woman was not only aware that the handicapped spot was one space, but that she parked there maliciously, that she probably came to the Hastings complex that day to get cat food for her cats, saw that all the handicapped spots were taken, and got pissed off and decided to park in that one anyway because she was entitled to it. I cheered for the man as he yelled at her, “Yeah, you tell that woman! She shouldn’t be there! You go, brother!”

While we had out debates inside, the atmosphere outside only got more volatile. Wheelchair Dude told Ethel Mae that the cops had been called, and they were on their way. Ethel Mae said she wasn’t going to stick around. Sensing her impending departure, Wheelchair Dude decided to take a stand and planted his crippled ass in front of Ethel Mae’s car, blocking her in. The only way she could get out was to run him over (or back out…which she could’ve done too but probably didn’t realize). And so it came to be, that last Saturday afternoon around 1:30 p.m. a cripple stand-off was initiated in the Hastings parking lot. My store manager tried to go out and plead with both people. Ethel Mae still maintained her ignorance. Wheelchair Dude said ignorance to the law didn’t excuse you from breaking it. The two sides were stalemated. Who would win? Who would reign supreme? Soon the police arrived to answer these questions for everyone.

I felt bad for this cop. When he arrived Wheelchair Dude immediately started waving his hands around and saying very specific things, pointing at Ethel Mae, pointing at the ground. We were all inside at this point and couldn’t hear what he was saying. The cop listened and nodded to the Wheelchair Dude’s account. Then the cop talked to Ethel Mae. She sat in her car, looking disheveled, maintaining her air of ignorance (what a clever little con artist). The officer nodded and wrote down her account. After listening to both sides, the cop went to his squad car and just sat. For a long time he stayed in squad car. I don’t know what the man was doing, if he was laughing, or crying, or trying to sort out the complexities in his head, or if he was having the same debate that was raging inside Hastings. Who knows? It was long enough, however, that all of us had to go back and actually start doing work again. I went back to my section and did some work and went back up to check on things. After all, I was invested in this story. I wanted to see it reach its conclusion. They were all still there, so I went back to my section. About five minutes later I went back up. Nothing was happening still. I did this for about twenty minutes when finally I went back up just in time to see the Ethel Mae and the cop drive off in the cars. I asked one guy who’d been up there the whole time, “Dude, what just happened?”

“The cop gave her a ticket.”

I was ecstatic. My guy had won! Wheelchair Dude 1 – Ethel Mae 0! Thanks for playing, grandma…maybe you’ll think twice about being sneaky and malicious! I started doing a little victory dance, and the guy I worked with was also happy (he’d been on my side). We looked outside as a victorious wheelchair dude began a process he’d wanted to do two hours ago, to use his lift and go home. How sweet this trip home would be…how sweet indeed! Then something unbelievable happened.

Wheelchair Dude stood up. Wheelchair Dude opened the sliding door and unfolded a little ramp. Wheel Chair Dude maneuvered his chair into the van. Wheelchair Dude shut the sliding door. And Wheelchair Dude walked around the side of his car to the driver’s side door, got in his van, and drove off, completely unassisted, not hobbled by disability at all. Wheelchair Dude could FUCKING WALK the whole time. There is no reason this man had to let the scene unfold the way it did. He could’ve just backed his van out, put his chair up, and went home. There’s no reason he had to wait for two hours and go through what he went through with the cops. The man was a fucking fraud, a fat man in a wheelchair who just wanted to be a dick and prove a point. I felt betrayed, like the Music Man had come to my city and talked me into believing in a crippled man who wasn’t actually handicapped. I cheered for this man. I lobbied for this man. I, and the rest of his supporters, had been duped. Ashamed, I went to the back office to tell my boss what I’d just found out.

“Cathi, you’re never going to believe this.”

“What?”

“Wheelchair Dude…”

“What about him?”

“He can walk.”

“WHAT?!?!”

“I just witnessed it with my own eyes…he can fucking walk.”

Cathi was just as shocked as me. We couldn’t believe it. We cursed his name. Then Cathi had a novel idea. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to call that cop back and tell him about this.”

So she did. She called the police officer that had mediated the standoff in our parking lot, and told him that Wheelchair Dude wasn’t really handicapped at all, and there’s no reason the situation should have escalated to the point it did. She asked if Ethel Mae’s ticket could be canceled in some way because we all felt really bad that she had to get a ticket (despite the fact that she was technically wrong).

“You don’t have to worry about that,” said the cop. “It was a fake ticket anyway.”

(I’ll pause to let you laugh)

Apparently, when the cop arrived Wheelchair Dude started yelling immediately that he wanted to make a citizen’s arrest (What is this fucking Mayberry? Is Otis making moonshine in a still?) and press charges against Ethel Mae. After hearing both sides of the story, the cop told Wheelchair Dude that he refused to give this woman a ticket despite the fact that she was wrong mainly because of his attitude, but also because the situation had already gone well beyond the realm of ridiculous. Both parties were present, no one was hurt, everyone just needed to get in their cars and go home. Wheelchair Dude was having none of that. He wanted justice, so the cop said, “If you really want to make a citizen’s arrest, sign right there,” and he held out the ticket and let Wheelchair Dude sign the ticket in the place where the cop usually signs it. Then he told Wheelchair Dude he’d fill in the rest, and he apparently just filled it in with “not real violation…no need to bring to station…please go home,” and handed it to Ethel Mae. She looked at it, chuckled sarcastically, and then they got in their cars and left, leaving Wheelchair Dude alone and you know the rest.

This isn’t my usually Thumby because there really isn’t a rant connected to this one, but this guy is clearly getting a Thumby from me. You can’t just instigate a nearly two hour long standoff in a parking lot with an old woman over a dispute about a handicapped space, divide an entire store against one another, get the cops involved, turn out not to be handicapped at all, and expect to not get a Thumby from me. So Wheelchair Dude, shame on you. You had my support, you had my loyalty, now you just have two very disappointed thumbs up from me to you.

Denny's One Night - an old Thumby

I've maintained a lot of blogs over the past few years. I started with a Yahoo360 blog, then MySpace, Facebook, and now here at Blogger. Throughout all those blogs I have kept one tradition going strong - the Thumby. Some of you are probably old readers. However, some of you might not know what the Thumby is all about. Basically, the Thumby is an award I give to someone or something that goes out of its way to annoy the living crap out of me. Picture someone giving the most sarcastic thumbs up you can possibly imagine in the form of an energetic rant...that's the Thumby. The following isn't my first Thumby, but it is my first good Thumby, and it happens to serve as a great introduction to the kind of person I am. Without further ado, I give you "Denny's Last Night - a Thumby" from May 20th, 2006.

***

I'm different. There's no getting around that. I look different. I sound different. I'm short. I'm skinny. I stick out in a crowd like a sore (dare I say?) thumb. Going through cancer is funny like that (and by funny I mean cruel). Anyway, I've dealt with people staring at me my whole life. It's nothing new really. The only thing is, when people are staring at me, or whispering about me when they think I can't hear, it's usually little kids. That's why the stares and comments don't bother me. Kids have to figure out what they don't understand, and they usually do this by being mean or poking fun. If I were a kid it would be no different. Ordinarily there is a parent there to tell them not to point and stare and explain to them that some people are different than others. Truthfully, I enjoy it when kids stare at me. It gives me an opportunity to freak them out by squawking like a bird, barking, or dancing like a maniac. The points and the stares have never really bothered me...not until recently.

Recently I have noticed it's not just kids anymore. Yes, now adults are getting into the game, and this is what bothers me. A few months ago (and you can read a more detailed account in the blog I referenced earlier), I was at Denny's minding my own business, and a family from what had to be Kentucky was sitting a few tables away. The two kids were pointing, staring, and laughing like kids do, and I didn't think much of it until the lady's meth-dealing boyfriend got in on the action. What appalled me about this scenario was that there was no correction from a parental unit. These kids were allowed to maintain the thought that it's okay to laugh at people who are different. I wrote my blog. I vented. I thought it was a closed issue. Turns out I was wrong.

Last night, I was once again at Denny's. I went up there after work to chill with my friend Brittany and my friend Rachel. It was about 1:00 a.m., so about the time for the bar rush to come in. Rachel retreated to a corner of a booth across from us to maintain some quiet contemplation, listening to an iPod, writing in her notebook, and Brittany and I began to talk. During the course of our discussion I notice some more drunk Kentuckians a few tables away, and I overhear them talking about me and laughing. These are all adults, folks:

Kentucky McFucky - a skinny goatee having bastard who I can only assume is trying to get a used tire business of the ground.

Fatty McChinwobble - McFucky's fat hotdog buying girlfriend.

Dumbass McFucksguysinatruckstopbathroom II - blonde hair, trying to bring back the mullet, failing at all aspects of life.

Vaguey McDoesn'tdesrveaname - who really just kept to herself the whole time.

So, I start to pay attention to them, and I hear Kentucky McFucky say something to the extent, "Maybe we shouldn't. I mean he can't help the way," and then the tone got quiet and I couldn't hear anymore. Then Kentucky McFucky notices me looking and says, "Oh, don't pay no attention to them, man!" They all continue their laughter.

Brittany says, "What are you looking at?"

"These people over here are saying stuff about me," I reply.

Brittany turns to look at them, and about this time Rachel looks at us and asks what's going on. "These people are saying stuff about Ross."

Rachel takes off her earphones and says, "Let's stare at them then," and we all proceed to stare at them for about five minutes, intense staring, long uncomfortable staring. Then Rachel gets up and tells us, "I've gotta go to the bathroom."

When she gets up and walks away she says something to them in passing. I didn't hear what it was, but it made Kentucky McFucky yell "Fuck you! You can kiss my ass!" about 30 seconds later (My friend Brittany was flipping these people off as well). Seriously it was almost like watching a little kid do math, or in their case, a kind of Kentucky algebra. It wasn't until she got back that I found out what Rachel said. When she walked by she casually said to them, "Seriously you guys, loved you in Deliverance" (durr + hick = wait a second that's bad. Fuck you!). Yes, those ladies had my back, and for that I am very thankful. After Rachel's commentary of the social class these people live in, the comments ceased, but the stares didn't. Kentucky McFucky continued to stare at me.

What is it with people? I don't want to sound like a broken record, but how do people have so little tact? I mean, I picture these people sitting around their living room complaining how blacks and women have too many rights, and there is something to be said about Hitler's "Final Solution." This thought must've gone through their minds - "Hey, let's go out and pick on people who are different from us because it'll help is cope with the fact that we're inbred and like to fuck our livestock...durr...hick." Perhaps I'm being too hard on them. Maybe in Kentucky this a sound argument. Perhaps these people are philosophers in Kentucky, in league with the giants of Kentucky Philosophy like Rene Durr-cartes who stated - "I durr therefore I hick...or the Latin Durrigto ergo hick." Perhaps I expect too much of people, or perhaps Mark Twain was right when he said that when the Rapture comes he wants to be in Kentucky because everything there happens twenty years later.

Yes, Kentucky McFucky...you are the target of my scorn...you and your fat sweaty cow of a woman and your cockgobbling friends. I am three times the human being you are. A composite of you and your drooling minion couldn't equal me. I hope when I'm well-known you're still around (because we all know you're going to attempt to market tire smoothies and will end up killing yourself in the process). I hope you see what I am going to become, and I hope when I get there, I find you in the street so I can hire someone to cotterize your anus. Okay, maybe that last rant is a little too Spanish Inquisition, but then again we all no that "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition" (that's for all the Python fans out there). Actually McFucky, I take it all back. Continue with your life - you and your pork-porking mendicants. Continue with your drinking...your fun-making at the expense of others. In fact, drink four times as much as you normally do, and make fun of everyone who is different than you. That way if someone doesn't murder you for your comments your bleeding liver will. Mmmm...either scenario quells my hunger. Your agony is like bubble gum to me. And for now, basque in your glory. Today is your day. Accept thisThumby from my right hand and this bird from my left. I hope you go to Hell...or back to Kentucky...because there really is no difference.