No…it’s not what you think it’s going to be.
Our dear finned friend, Shark, requested a rant as my first post. Five minutes ago, I could have waxed moronic about how much I loathe WordPress, how CSS can fuck off and die until I re-read my handy-dandy manual and railed against fonts. Alas, I wasn’t in touch with my inner hate so I have to draw on an experience from Monday.
Years ago, my father decided to arbitrarily launch his bad self through his dashboard window. Six months of bed-ridden recovery later, he received his shiny, new hip. Bionic daddy – I has one! He moves around very well with the exception of a drop foot that can hinder his mobility from time to time. Even with this challenge, he has never filed for a handicap parking permit.
As I type this very post, my spine is deteriorating. The days where I cannot walk are few and far between but they are, without a doubt, hell. I will not file for a handicap parking permit.
You see…even those with mobility issues, be it intermittent or constant, reserve these precious spaces for those who truly need them.
The other day I had to loot the ATM. Kang’s Coiffure House requests that all tips for hairdressers be remitted in cash. I don’t carry cash. Ever. Not wanting to piss off the woman who could ruin my world for a very long time, I dragged myself to the ATM (or MAC machine for the Philadelphians). Imagine my surprise when I notice a spry, 20-something pull into the *only* handicapped parking space as I was retrieving my cabbage.
Not one to bite her forked tongue, I turned around, looked the asshat directly in the eye and…
Kang: Excuse me, sir. Are you handicapped? I didn’t see your placard.
Asshat: No. No I’m not.
Kang: Would you like to be?
Asshat: :stammers: Ermmmm…
Kang: :points at car: Really. So…you’re not handicapped and you’re parking where? You’re parking in a spot for the handicapped when there is a standard parking space available – right next to you. That’s stupid. Just stupid.
Asshat: No. You are. (really – this is the level of discourse)
Kang: No. I’m not stupid. I’m not the one wearing a Wal-Mart name tag.
If there is one thing that will drive me to the brink of causing a bar fight with a broken bottle, pissing on the meek is at the top of my list of things that enrage me. Unless it is a matter of life or death, there is no reason to overlook common consideration for the sake of convenience. None. Ever.
For whatever reason, I find myself absolutely fearless when it comes to douchebaggery. I realize that I may very well be on the receiving end of a slap or worse, yet that critical filter that keeps people from confronting others simply does not exist in my world.
If you treat others poorly and I bear witness to it, I’m going to say something. That’s just the way I roll.