I work at a tremendously busy urban public library service desk. While the majority of the people I serve are professional and polite, a few people need to learn some manners. Here is the current lineup of Library Losers™.
First, a general rant.
When you are speaking to me **as a peer, **gents, here’s a tip: Do *not *stick out your hand to me, or I will refuse to shake it. Oh, that’s socially unacceptable? My bad; guess we’ll both be embarrassed. I will not shake strange men’s hands simply for the sake of propriety. Since our social status is equal and you are not my boss, my thesis supervisor, or the Pope, I decide when you will touch me. Your gender pretty much gives you power over all the other aspects of my life, so don’t feel too bad. Learn some manners and come back later. Sorry, no enthusiastic library public service desk comforts for you.
And now for our lineup.
To my boss. Hey, when I write you a heart-wrenching long email about a personal problem I am experiencing with our contract cleaning company, it means I have a valid complaint and want to be involved in the solution. It does not mean I only wanted to vent, or that I’m amusing myself with contrived diddles while the company wastes money on people with no work ethic. But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. I will never again presume to be involved in the solution of a problem created by the Corporate Ruling Class. Thank you for teaching me my place. Thank you for totally ignoring my concerns. I will now shut up and resume being the obedient mediocre corporate slave that you want me to be.
Hullo there, Friendly Slow Guy. How may I help YOU today? Check this out: When I am helping you with your headphones and video, that does NOT give you license to paw me with your hands. If my skin is so silky smooth that you must touch it, then offer me a modeling job. Do not put your hands on me without my permission. I am not some exotic pet that exists for your amusement or viewing pleasure, regardless of what this sick porn-obsessed culture has taught you. I am a person working for very little pay to get through school and better myself, and I have better things to do than deal with your pansy-ass clumsy clown antics.
Yo Electrician Guy, what’s doin’? I know you’re a friendly old grandfather who’s an usher in your church, and everyone likes you. But guess what?* I don’t like you. *I don’t want to hug you, I don’t want your compliments, I don’t want your eyes on me, I’m sick of your endless excuses to touch me, and I don’t want you slapping me on the back like I’m one of the guys. One of the reasons I dress like a boarding school matron and give up all my rights to be a sexy feminine woman is so that I don’t have to deal with unwanted male attention. So leave me the fuck alone, you snivel-snorting pignut, and quit asking me questions about my personal life, because it’s none of your jiggety-shit business. If you want to touch a pretty young girl, go find a girlfriend. Oh, you’re not that kind of man? I beg to differ. Draw! I will end you.
Hey, cow-porker from hell. I think it’s great that you make more money than I do even though you only have a HS diploma. But fair’s fair, since you’ve been here longer, right? Let me be clear: the next time you dump your responsibilities on my already bursting-at-the-seams-with-shit-to-do desk and condescendingly say “This will give you something to do,” you will receive a bitch-slapping unlike anything in all your high heaven-splitting dreams or holy sulfur-drenched nightmares. The affair will end with your defeat and humiliation and my ultimate triumph as Mistress of Combat. Make no mistake: I will take you down with my bare hands in front of the whole library, to the amazed wonderment of the crowd that will gather to cheer me on. Within minutes, Wagner’s glorious Operas will thunder over the loudspeakers and usher in the era of my victorious reign within the library’s sanctimonious space.
To the man I am dating: Hey shit-for-brains, visit a crime scene and GET A CLUE. When I tell you about the aforementioned violations of my Modesty—and let us not forget the pathetic assgoblin who exposed his microscopic Member to me on the street 3 weeks ago—it means I am looking for empathy and support. It does NOT mean that you should take the *guys’ *side, you quivering pickle-dick. I have a good mind to give you a thrashing that will blow you into outer space and land you on a faraway butt-shaped asteroid with no televised football, *Penthouse, *or toilets. Oh, one more thing: I know you like rap music, but talking like you suddenly popped out of the ass of some Manichean inner-city ghetto doesn’t become someone whose parents make almost 100K per year. You’re not fooling anyone. I’m warning you: Shape up or I’ll be fixin to move on.
To the cow-porker who left me to deal with an angry customer *when it’s not even my job *and who listened from the back room with other cow-porkers while this customer embarrassed me in front of the whole library: You and everyone else in your clique-y department are a steaming pile of manure-filled pussballs. Why the fuck do you think I am working in your department, ass-bubble? Because I like you? Wrong answer, it’s because I want to earn extra money. I’ll be damned if I do your job at one-third of your pay while you jack off in the back room, you slobbering blibbernit. It is a good thing for you that I am the Mistress of Combat; I have Skills and I learn fast, and wthin months I will probably be better than you. Goodbye! You are so woefully ignorant that you are not even worth a beating.
To the cow-porker who hired me into his department at the shittiest pay I have ever worked for, and who is now copping an attitude because I do not want to attend a far-away conference at his whim: Hey loser, pull up your big boy pants and* Get Over It.* It’s not my fault that you accepted my offer to go for the whole three days but then gave the assignment to someone else who could go for only two days. What the fuck? Does this make sense to any person of normal intelligence who resides in the world of Facts and Reason? And don’t act pissy around me because I rightfully refused to attend only the third day, you beastly blulbering cow-nerd. Where the hell do you get off asking me to disrupt my schedule to attend one day of a conference? Oh, and fuck your giant Jupiter ass for not filling out my hiring paperwork on time, thereby delaying my first paycheck an additional two weeks. You’re lucky I even deign to look at you each day, you double-crossing Fascist shit-nugget! You deserve a made-to-order Mega Whipping™ which will end with your round ass in Pluto’s orbit and your head buried underneath the San Andreas fault line, where it will explode due to deep sea pressure.
To the dodo man I like and who I think likes me but has not made a move: Stop staring at your shoes and get your head out of the clouds, falafel-farter. What do you want to do? If you want me, talk to me. If you don’t want me, quit leaving messages on my phone, flirting with me, and asking your friends about me. Haven’t you heard? Women like a man of action. You’re falling fast from the exalted place you occupy in my heart and mind. I’ll save you the suspense: I am not going to call you, because I know that if you want me bad enough you will call me. I am also not going to pursue you; I am worth more than that and have never needed to, nor do I plan to, stoop to that level. Finally, unlike some of the girls you may know I am not going to beg and I will not humiliate myself for your sake, even though I am positively mad for you. If you’re “just not that into me” (which is what it looks like), I’m moving on. Men in my life are like buses, honey—one leaves and another pulls up. If you’re waiting for me to make the first move, you’ll be waiting until the Judgment Day *and beyond. *Figure it out before I move East in five months, or we shall both be the sorrier. I will not come around this way again.
Fuck this state, fuck this crappy economy, fuck this conform-at-all-costs professional culture into which I will soon be thrust, and most of all fuck the endless parade of blathering and insipid idiots who irritate me day in and day out. To all of you I say: Do NOT take liberties with my personal borders, my body, or my pride—or you will find yourself in a very difficult position, on the hard carpet floor of the library, with the toe of my flat shiny loafer under your chin and my firm little heel crushing your sternum.
There’s a hand-shake phobia these days?