Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Don't Tread on Me -- The Fine Art of Misdirected Anger

As the screeching, wailing, keening, volcanic rage and sadness bubbles and builds within, I'd like to rant and bitch about random illness and the injustice of life. What I'm gonna do instead is take it out on the dickhead who came into the rental agency yesterday.

While I was bringing a car around for Nice Lady Customer, Dickhead entered the building. When I got out and showed Nice Lady the car, she said, "You need to hop in the back and come with me. The guy in there is a real bastard."


For some reason -- the moon? I dunno -- my co-worker's mere presence in the world was pissing people off yesterday. He couldn't say anything right. But I'd say the same thing to the same customer and everything would be hunky dory.

Enter Dickhead.

He accused us of stealing the radar detector he'd left in a rental van, cross-examined us about who might've had access to said precious radar detector, and informed us he wasn't leaving until said precious radar detector was found. By us.

Of course he presumed it'd been stolen by the techs. A lower life form has yet to be found. Despite the fact that they have access to every piece of personal information you possess -- including the DNA of your mistress -- and they never do anything illegal with it, they're still bottom feeders.

Anyway, no possible perp went undetected by Dickhead. We finally showed him the giant drawer comprising our lost-n-found -- DVD players, cell phones, CD collections, designer sunglasses, self help books, and many other far more valuable, useful and enjoyable items than his precious radar detector. But, we'd still stolen it.

At this point my patience, thin as it is these days, was about to snap. I looked Dickhead in the eye and told him we didn't appreciate customers coming in here and accusing us of stealing, and if he was going to wait, he could do it inside the dealership, (away from us.) He took one look at my face, paused, and said, "I'm going outside for a cigarette."

Good choice, Dickhead. Run away. Far away. Fast.

Because now I was in the mood to steal -- his wife's healthy body, for my sister. And nothing would've stopped me. Fuck the fuckety-fuck fucking dickheads.




Anonymous Bev Stephans said...

Unfortunately, dickheads are found everywhere! I've dealt with them at work, where I shop and where I live. Our resident manager could be called a dickhead but since she is a female, I guess twathead will have to do.

Try to keep smiling. It drives the loonies, loonier!

March 26, 2008 2:07 PM  
Blogger HelenKay said...

You clearly need to go to a writing conference, hang by the bar and down a few drinks. I volunteer to be your drinking partner.

March 26, 2008 5:34 PM  
Blogger Ann Wesley Hardin said...

LOL @ Twathead. Too funny! Yeah, death, dickheads, taxes and twatheads. Nice to be able to count on something!

HelenKay, what I wouldn't give...

March 26, 2008 9:14 PM  

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