I just ran errands at lunch and had a crazy exchange that cannot go un-shared: in the post office, I walk up to one of those tables they have to sort through mail and there's a dude standing there with papers strewn everywhere taking up 3/4's of the table and a neatly stacked pile of mail at the other end. I don't want to be rude, so I say...
Emily: "excuse me, Sir, is this [pointing to neat stack of mail] yours?"
PO D-bag: [glares] "... no"
Emily: [confused] "do you know where this person is?"
PO D-bag: "no"
So I move the pile over to the edge to make myself a one-foot by one-foot workspace at the table to fill out my returns form... In the meantime, Tim gets back from checking his post office box and I move my purse to share my tiny table space with him. At least 5 minutes passes with Tim and I talking while I fill out this Returns form and all of the sudden D-bag starts talking...
P.O. D-bag: [looking down at his mail pile and mumbling] "it would be really rude of you to just walk up and shove my mail aside if that WERE my mail. I would be really upset if you had done that – it’s very rude."
Now, Tim and I both think this guy just has a really dry sense of humor and is kidding. I look up at Tim and he's frozen, mouth gaping, smiling at PO D-bag and silently giggling. I look at PO D-bag and he's still looking down at his pile of mail, but not smiling and not making eye contact. So I'm thoroughly confused and all I can muster is, "p-pardon?"
PO D-bag: [angrily now] "I SAID - I would be really upset if that was my mail and you just walked up and shoved it aside. Its incredibly rude to just shove that aside..."
(silent, gaping mouths from both Tim and I) and he continues...
PO D-bag: "and no I don't work for Dell but Michael is a client of mine..." [emphasis on 'Michael' and 'client']
[about 5 more solid seconds of silence from Tim and I]
And then Tim just goes, "... ok"
And then PO D-bag theatrically scoops up his mail and ha-rumph's away...
Tim and I stared after him for another good 5 seconds and then just burst out laughing. After thinking about it, we were a little miffed at ourselves that we didn't realize he was serious right away because there were a slew of fantastic responses we both would've had if we'd known from the beginning that he was crazy. Such as:
PO D-bag: "and no I don't work for Dell but Michael is a client of mine..."
Tim: "... well does he know you're insane?!"
or
PO D-bag: "and no I don't work for Dell but Michael is a client of mine..."
Emily: "oh, that's great! We need a pool boy, too - can we have your card?"
Unfortunately, we were too stunned to produce any worthwhile sound-bytes from this extremely random and confusing exchange, but in some ways I think our actual situation and responses were even better. I’m sure Tim’s “…ok” pissed him off even more. Man, if only life had a rewind button sometimes...
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I Apologize For That Right There, Lord
There are two specific things that make me giggle that definitely should not make me giggle. Things that, while I’m giggling, I’m secretly trying to figure out how I can dodge the lightning bolts that God is surely charging up to send hurtling to earth to smite me.
For example, try adding the word “the” in front of almost every horrible disease or ailment out there. Get really creative here – I’m not talking about things that already contain “the” in the title, like “the flu.” Think big here. Think ailments that normally make you uncomfortable talking about… try this one on for size: the aids. Or even better: the HIV (pronounced phonetically and not alphabetically). The gout. The arthritis…. There are so many, and they are even funnier when you add them into a sentence – try it. You’ll like it, I promise.
The other thing is swearing. I’m actually hesitant to admit this, and I do feel it’s necessary to admit that I know I should be ashamed of my sailor-esque mouth, but, honestly, I have so completely integrated cursing into my every day vernacular and its damn near impossible to make a point or tell a joke without it. (See, I was being clever right there with that “damn”). Unless it is being hurled at me in anger or hatred, a well placed curse word always makes me giggle. For hours of pure entertainment, though, combining my two awful habits is perhaps the best option. All anybody has to do to totally incapacitate me with laughter is utter “son of the bitch” in a slightly Borat-ish accent and tone.
Try using these fun new verbal judo tools in your everyday conversation to liven up the mood. Just make sure you dodge the lightning bolts.
For example, try adding the word “the” in front of almost every horrible disease or ailment out there. Get really creative here – I’m not talking about things that already contain “the” in the title, like “the flu.” Think big here. Think ailments that normally make you uncomfortable talking about… try this one on for size: the aids. Or even better: the HIV (pronounced phonetically and not alphabetically). The gout. The arthritis…. There are so many, and they are even funnier when you add them into a sentence – try it. You’ll like it, I promise.
The other thing is swearing. I’m actually hesitant to admit this, and I do feel it’s necessary to admit that I know I should be ashamed of my sailor-esque mouth, but, honestly, I have so completely integrated cursing into my every day vernacular and its damn near impossible to make a point or tell a joke without it. (See, I was being clever right there with that “damn”). Unless it is being hurled at me in anger or hatred, a well placed curse word always makes me giggle. For hours of pure entertainment, though, combining my two awful habits is perhaps the best option. All anybody has to do to totally incapacitate me with laughter is utter “son of the bitch” in a slightly Borat-ish accent and tone.
Try using these fun new verbal judo tools in your everyday conversation to liven up the mood. Just make sure you dodge the lightning bolts.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Jim The Passport Nazi
** Disclaimer: I apologize in advance to any and all Postal workers who happen to read this entry – not all of you are Nazi’s.
Until this year, I was not privy to the intricacies of the whole passport procurement process. I got my passport at 17 years old, during the second semester of my Junior year of high school, for a trip to Italy that I never got to go on because I needed to stay in the US and go to some soccer camps in the hope of finding one that would think my soccer skills good enough to let me go to their school for free. Which is to say, my mom got me my passport – I just grudgingly accompanied her to the photo mart to get my mug shots, so I was not fully aware of what a treasure trove of story value exists with the entire passport obtaining process… until now.
I won a trip for work, and Tim needs a passport to be able to go with me. The funniest part is that the trip is just to Canada, which of course a year ago (or so) we wouldn’t have even needed said passport, so he’s a little bitter to begin with. Otherwise, though, we are both very excited for a free and much needed vacation. Also, we’re excited because the post office we visit on a regular basis to get our mail contains a passport office run by a middle aged man named Jim who is, without question, smarter than everybody.
Jim works hard, keeping the long hours of 11:30am to 4:30pm Monday through Thursday, and seems to be constantly upset that there are always so many people crammed into line waiting to speak to him. Tim and I have heard many partial conversations between Jim and his poor subjects, and they are always very one-sided and include lots of very audible, annoyed-sounding sighs. Jim’s the kind of postal worker who believes that he has been tasked with absolutely crucial work, and he runs his passport office tighter than the military regiment he remembers from Nam. You must walk up and stop between 2 and 4 inches from the desk, present your documents facing Jim, and be able to rattle off answers to his 37 questions without hesitating for even a second or breaking eye contact with his intuitive lie detector-eyes.
When all was said and done, it was relatively easy for us to deal with Jim, but only because we’d had so much practice listening to his antics of torturing other would-be travelers. I think Jim and the Soup Nazi need to find each other – they are kindred souls and would be besties for sure.
Until this year, I was not privy to the intricacies of the whole passport procurement process. I got my passport at 17 years old, during the second semester of my Junior year of high school, for a trip to Italy that I never got to go on because I needed to stay in the US and go to some soccer camps in the hope of finding one that would think my soccer skills good enough to let me go to their school for free. Which is to say, my mom got me my passport – I just grudgingly accompanied her to the photo mart to get my mug shots, so I was not fully aware of what a treasure trove of story value exists with the entire passport obtaining process… until now.
I won a trip for work, and Tim needs a passport to be able to go with me. The funniest part is that the trip is just to Canada, which of course a year ago (or so) we wouldn’t have even needed said passport, so he’s a little bitter to begin with. Otherwise, though, we are both very excited for a free and much needed vacation. Also, we’re excited because the post office we visit on a regular basis to get our mail contains a passport office run by a middle aged man named Jim who is, without question, smarter than everybody.
Jim works hard, keeping the long hours of 11:30am to 4:30pm Monday through Thursday, and seems to be constantly upset that there are always so many people crammed into line waiting to speak to him. Tim and I have heard many partial conversations between Jim and his poor subjects, and they are always very one-sided and include lots of very audible, annoyed-sounding sighs. Jim’s the kind of postal worker who believes that he has been tasked with absolutely crucial work, and he runs his passport office tighter than the military regiment he remembers from Nam. You must walk up and stop between 2 and 4 inches from the desk, present your documents facing Jim, and be able to rattle off answers to his 37 questions without hesitating for even a second or breaking eye contact with his intuitive lie detector-eyes.
When all was said and done, it was relatively easy for us to deal with Jim, but only because we’d had so much practice listening to his antics of torturing other would-be travelers. I think Jim and the Soup Nazi need to find each other – they are kindred souls and would be besties for sure.
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