Relative Sicknesses

I'm sick.   I have a cold.   My head feels like it's full of wet cement.   I went to five drugstores trying to get the stuff that I always use to clear the congestion - Sudafed Non-Drowsy, Non-Drying gelcaps.

I can't find them.   They contain pseudoephedrine (not that jack-ass phenylephrine HCI) which apparently, someone's stupid children use to make meth-amphetamine.   In response, someone's stupid politicians decided to restrict the sale of pseudoephedrine in order to appear to be doing something about drug abuse.   Whether this has anything to do with it, I don't know, but the gelcaps are gone.

So, the upshot of all this is they make the meth in Mexico now where people understand the laws of supply-and-demand - chalk one up to outsourcing - and I get to show my license and sign an electronic screen in order to get an over-the-counter cold remedy.  Yes, I got psuedoephedrine, but not in the form best suited to my needs.   This is why we can't have nice things.

You know, if restricting a useful product actually cuts down on the stupid, maybe we ought to try it on other things, like, say, legislation?

Oh yeah.   Happy Frickin' New Year

It Was just a Matter of Time

The state of Arizona, my home before Nevada, is jonesing for cigarette tax money.

Goose? Egg? Gold?

And what are the poor Madd Mothers going to do once no one drinks any more?

Atheists Dont Suicide Bomb

On the same day that the Pope signs a decree blasting atheism, true believers scream for the death of a school teacher for "insulting" a god.   This would almost be ironic if it weren't so pathetic.



I hate religion more every day.

Enjoy some Jesus and Mo while you can. Before it's classified as a Hate Crime

Peeve

You know what annoys the shit out of me?

Service-industry types with attitudes.

Like the kid picking up carts today at the Von's when I asked if they had the dry-cleaning service.   "Dry cleaning, well yeah, of course", like it was something that any dolt should have known ahead of time.

Or the "Greeter" at the Verizon shop yesterday, acting like she's patrolling the line outside Pure at midnight.   "I'll see if I can fit you in".

What these punks don't understand - and I don't quite know how a business can communicate it to them is - I am the customer.   I don't have to shop at Von's.   I don't have to use this particular Verizon store.   And, you are the customer-service person.   When I ask you a question, you are not supposed to act like you're doing me a favor by answering it.   If you want to be a prima-donna, then take acting/music/dancing lessons, get really fucking good and then spit on anyone that comes near.   But when you work at Von's for chrissakes, raking in shopping carts, you don't get to be all that with me.   I (and a lot of others) won't return to your punk-ass store, revenues will drop, the manager will have to make cuts, and, guess who gets let go?   You, or the cart-raker who's actually had customers come into the store and tell the manager what a great job he's doing?

And yes, you are too cool to be working for minimum wage, we can all see that it is beneath you - BUT YOU ARE DOING IT - for whatever reason, and no matter how much it brutalizes the celebrity, bling-bling image you have of yourself, you need to get with the service part of the program and stop treating people like morons because they don't have your extensive knowledge of the myriad of services provided by the Von's Customer Service Desk.   Don't condescend to me because my pitiful addiction to cellular communication caused me to have to stand in your line.  

If you're Microsoft, and your customers really can't go anywhere else, then you can be a dick.   But you're not.   And I can go to a dozen other Verizon shops within a six-mile radius and I can grocery shop at Albertson's (2), Smiths (3), or Whole Foods (1) (where, actually, the staff is nice)

HOA Hell

Any one car cannot be parked out on the street for more than one 48-hour period.

Period.

My Place in the World

This is a picture of a carpet/grout/tile restoration truck.   The driver of this carpet/grout/tile restoration truck, one morning, during my onerous commute to work, decided he needed my lane.   He was in the right lane, catching up to a slow-moving semi.   Oh, what to do?   Of course.   Merge left.   Unfortunately, I happened to be about even with all the happy graphics on the port side of this box when they started moving over into my metal-space.

I laid on the horn and moved left myself (fortunately, there was no one there, otherwise I would have had to just slam on the brakes).   When I caught the driver's attention, I threw up my hands as if to say, "What the fuck?!"   Well, he threw up his hands as if to answer "I don't know!"   For the record: He did not cover his mouth in horror as if to imply, "Oh my god, excuse me", or "I'm sorry!"   No.

It's apparent that carpet/tile/grout restorers are of such integral value in this city, and excess drivers of such relative little worth, that this man's job is really of no concern to him.   If he gets let go from this job for flattening a Subaru full of schoolkids, he'll find another.

It's Vegas, baby.