Daily Interruptions While Getting Around
Stopped at a red light next to an exterminator. There’s a sticker on his wagon: Official Pest Control Of The New York Yankees.
The Yankees are a heckuva brand. Any association with that logo, you take it. The Yanks also have a billion-dollar ballpark. What kinda critters are these guys removing?
For the record, a visit to Baseball’s Cathedral isn’t cheap. On the way over, they shake you down for gas, tolls, and parking. Eighty bucks in the hole before you hit the turnstile. Ring up the tickets, hot dogs, and first round of beers, you’re soaked.
Now I gotta deal with bugs and vermin? By the way, New York City rats are built like dogs and only worse. Carnivorous, angry, and aggressive.
Don’t believe me? Ask this guy:
On my way to the office and I’m dying to find a restroom. No dice since I’m trapped in a police chase. Broad daylight, and this buffoon burns the corner with three cops on his tail. You’d think he’d give up the ghost and pull over.
Insane, but determined — he’s a gambler. The odds are out the wazoo that he escapes. Don’t tell this joker, he thinks he’s gotta shot. Let it go, Mack — ain’t worth it. And it’s great wisdom — from a guy who’s never been arrested.
The man has a nerdy look about him. One of those over-sexed maniacs with an appetite for pills and underage girls. Maybe that’s why he’s running.
The rig from hell is a four-cylinder compact that doesn’t come with a radio. What this goober should have ordered was a nitrous oxide tank. Those four-cylinders are screaming uncle, wishing their master splurged for racing gas and a credit line at Pep Boys.
I admire the stones on this yahoo. Not his brains, but his nerve. Since ‘thought process’ is a buzz-phrase these days, I’m curious about his. I only hope the cops get to him before he gets to someone’s daughter and I spring a leak.
The other day I’m speaking to a customer service rep. The guy belched three times with not one ‘excuse me’ during our conversation. It’s also a government agency, what did I expect?
I’m not a taxpayer who demands federal workers kiss my ass ’cause I’m going broke funding their nest egg in lieu of mine. Whatever happened to a pleasant conversation with respect and manners? Who trains these people?
Most are clueless when it comes to customer care. Instead, they’re adversarial and don’t give a hoot about solving problems or wasting your time. A sham with bennies, steady paychecks, and a nuclear-proof pension.
You want me to work, too?
They call it labor for a reason. Forget it, I’ll trouble somebody else.
I’m heading to a meeting in the city. I’ve had it. I’m a customer service consultant and it’s high-time I join the party. I’m selling my soul and cashing in my chips for a government contract.
Once I enter the subway station I hear human shrieks. At first thought it’s a cursed terminal. I pass a pair of transit cops wearing shit-eating grins and fleeing the station. What’s up with that? Not in their job description? Middle of a shift change?
Once I arrive, there’s a pack of rats, bigger than our dachshund, scrambling the platform. They’re freaking out the riders waiting to board, raiding the trash bins, and blocking the train.
What do I do? I’m stuck with a locked cellphone. Do I seek higher ground for a signal? I’ll miss my appointment.
Do I call animal services? They’re a government agency, aren’t they? Do I phone Yankee Stadium to get that pest crew’s number? Do you contact New York’s Finest? The Transit Police? Is this even an emergency, or business as usual?
Pervs and pick-pockets lurking the bathrooms and roadways. Rats on the platform disrupting the train schedules. Will anybody do something? Does anybody care?