Life On Dainty Ave
I was just now transcribing a report where some cops busted up a large party taking place on Dainty Avenue. As if the Bay area didn't have enough of a gay stereotype going on. I wonder if Officer Pinkstaff lives on Dainty Avenue?
The above, of course, means I'm back at my lovely job, chronicling the adventures of the mentally ill. I'm not sure if it's ironic or just annoying that my supervisor is just as mentally ill as the people I'm writing about. She's driving me. Fucking. Crazy.
She's a really sweet old lady. Which sucks because I can't bring myself to tell sweet old ladies to shut the fuck up. Bitter old ladies, I can kick thru windows, but sweet ones have me at a disadvantage. She's of the bucolic, hickish variety, and says things like, "I got me a hitch in my giddyup, by golly by golly!" Which doesn't actually mean anything of course, and it makes me want to ask her why she doesn't just use fucking English since she clearly already knows all the words. She also just says shit randomly that doesn't have anything to do with anything that's going on. One minute she'll shout out, "We're losing it!" and the next minute it'll be, "We're kicking some tail by golly, by golly!" It's like being in a video game at the part where you're fighting a boss and it keeps throwing out the same lines of dialogue over and over, regardless of how well you're doing in the fight ("You're no match for me, Spiderman!", "I'm gonna turn you into paste, Spiderman!", "Hey! No fair! Stand still darn it!"). However, unlike the video game, this isn't any fun.
And every time she shouts something out, I take off my earphones and I yell over to her asking if there's something she wants me to do. And the answer is always no. If you're not making small-talk with me and you're talking to me anyway, please either have something you need me to do or shut the fuck up. But I can't tell her that because she's a sweet old lady and I'm a fucking pussy.
I was talking with Howard last night and he was telling me about these fucktards that came into his bar and couldn't figure out why he didn't want them yelling, "motherfucker, yeah!" at the top of their lungs. Right then and there, I was reminded why it is I'm working at this job instead of a Border's or a Trader Joes (both of which would doubtless pay better and involve less driving). And that's because at this job, shitty as it is, I don't have to deal with the public. Ever. Which of course drastically reduces my chances of being arrested for assault.
The above, of course, means I'm back at my lovely job, chronicling the adventures of the mentally ill. I'm not sure if it's ironic or just annoying that my supervisor is just as mentally ill as the people I'm writing about. She's driving me. Fucking. Crazy.
She's a really sweet old lady. Which sucks because I can't bring myself to tell sweet old ladies to shut the fuck up. Bitter old ladies, I can kick thru windows, but sweet ones have me at a disadvantage. She's of the bucolic, hickish variety, and says things like, "I got me a hitch in my giddyup, by golly by golly!" Which doesn't actually mean anything of course, and it makes me want to ask her why she doesn't just use fucking English since she clearly already knows all the words. She also just says shit randomly that doesn't have anything to do with anything that's going on. One minute she'll shout out, "We're losing it!" and the next minute it'll be, "We're kicking some tail by golly, by golly!" It's like being in a video game at the part where you're fighting a boss and it keeps throwing out the same lines of dialogue over and over, regardless of how well you're doing in the fight ("You're no match for me, Spiderman!", "I'm gonna turn you into paste, Spiderman!", "Hey! No fair! Stand still darn it!"). However, unlike the video game, this isn't any fun.
And every time she shouts something out, I take off my earphones and I yell over to her asking if there's something she wants me to do. And the answer is always no. If you're not making small-talk with me and you're talking to me anyway, please either have something you need me to do or shut the fuck up. But I can't tell her that because she's a sweet old lady and I'm a fucking pussy.
I was talking with Howard last night and he was telling me about these fucktards that came into his bar and couldn't figure out why he didn't want them yelling, "motherfucker, yeah!" at the top of their lungs. Right then and there, I was reminded why it is I'm working at this job instead of a Border's or a Trader Joes (both of which would doubtless pay better and involve less driving). And that's because at this job, shitty as it is, I don't have to deal with the public. Ever. Which of course drastically reduces my chances of being arrested for assault.
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