Tuesday, 16 May 2017

Slip Slidin' Away

Are we seated comfortably? Then we shall begin.

Oh, my children, the post I have for you today will bugger your mind. Go get yourself a nice snack and something to drink, make sure you have no distractions and indulge yourself with this most recent account of

The Claim Of the Week

A woman submitted a claim, asking the City to compensate her for a new pair of pants. These were very special pants. These pants were suggested to her as a way of dealing with her "postpartum dystasis". For those of you not familiar with this, it is a medical term that describes what happens when a woman bears down with extraordinary pressure while giving birth and essentially shits out her own asshole. She extrudes her butt. 

Now, because I am a douche and an uncharitable person myself, this is blogworthy all on its own. But, no, it gets better!

You see, this woman tore these expensive pants on a nail that was sticking out of the top of a children's slide at one of our large parks.

Which, of course, begs the question, "If your asshole is hanging out of your asshole, what the actual fuck were you doing on a slide?"

Frankly, the visuals are just too much for me to handle. 

And there's more!

This morning, she got a hold of the adjuster in charge of the file to ask some questions, all of it information contained in the acknowledgement letter we send out when opening a claim. So the adjuster asked her, "Did you receive our acknowledgement letter?"

"Yes," said the woman, "but I didn't really look at it."

{Ed note: Fuck you, bitch. Eat a bag of dicks.}

"Were you able to get photos of your pants?" the adjuster asked.

And the woman's response was--and I swear I am not making this up--"No, because my bottom was hanging out."

I would like to feel sorry for these people, but they make it really hard.

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

This Ain't No Tickle Trunk

Mostly I intend to blog once a week when I have time, but this week, I have to confess, I'm really struggling. This month, I am on the rotation in which my tasks require me to interact with all the reports and details that expose the inner douchebaggery of our fair municipality's citizenry. Looking at all that selfishness, stupidity and entitlement makes one feel really mucky, and this week, I am weighed down by the utter triviality of my job.

Today, I took a call from a claimant that sounded just like this:

Dink: Hi, I'm submitting a claim...
Me: Uh-huh.


Dink: My car got towed because there was street cleaning and I didn't see the sign.
Me: (silent eyeroll) Uh-huh.

Dink: And the tow truck damaged my car. It damaged my oil pan.
Me: I see.

Dink: So, do you need photos of the oil pan?

Me: No, the bill from your repair shop is sufficient documentation.

Dink: You don't need pictures of the damage?
Me: No.The damage will be noted on your bill.

Dink: Oh. Do you need pictures of the oil on the road?

Me:..........................

Christ on a crutch, Dink--if I don't need photos of the actual damage, why the fuck would I want photos of oil blots on the road? Can you not process thought in a linear fashion? Just submit the fucking claim already. Dink.

And yet, he wasn't even the worst burr under my saddle blanket this week. Yesterday, I was doing incident reports from the rec centres and I received three--count 'em!--THREE separate reports from three separate employees about the same incident involving urine on the toilet seat.

It seems a rec centre employee noticed a young (teenaged) male patron pissing on the toilet seat in the men's room. The employee told the patron to clean it up, to which the patron replied with a familiar hand gesture and an invitation to the employee to enjoy sex and travel. Angry words were exchanged, which meant the involvement of two other employees and thus, children, I ended up having to read, save and archive three fucking reports about pee.

Now, on the plus side, it should be noted that *I* personally did not have to deal with either the patron or the piss, but I nevertheless have had one of those weeks in which I have had difficulty finding my work meaningful. Instead of writing a fucking useless incident report about this, I would have summoned Security and had that young pig removed from the facility with a two week ban imposed.

Because natural consequences, people.

Out of nearly forty incident reports, there were about a dozen thefts, mostly reported by people stupid enough to leave their wallets, shoes and phones on the floor of the change room in duffle bags. An elderly couple bitched and whined and felt singled as victims of ageism because the lifeguard on duty asked Ancient Vagina if she was feeling alright, since she had been in the hot tub for half an hour. Yanno, these elderly assholes would be the first ones to moan that there isn't adequate supervision at our facilities if Grandma had had a fainting spell. 

No, only one of those incident reports was of any significance at all. And it was a doozy. A rec centre employee noticed two people in the parking lot next to a vehicle. One of the people was choking the other, and forced the victim into the trunk of the car, and closed the lid. Then the choker allegedly stood around for a few moments until another car pulled up, and two people got out. At this point, the choker opened the trunk and the chokee got out, and was--the report says--not agitated.

Therefore, the rec centre employee chose not to summon the police. Probably not the decision I would have made, but what the hell do I know?

Only that it fills me with the kind of dismay that makes me sag on my spine to share the planet with people this fucking stupid, brutal and ignorant. People who think that it's okay to urinate on a public toilet seat and then verbally assault someone who objects. People who choke other people and put them in the trunks of cars. Douchenozzles who masturbate in saunas and others who take a swing at a woman who wants in the hot tub, but he's too busy massaging his leg on the water jet to move out of her way.  

And, the final straw that makes me want off the planet?

THIS

FUCK EARTH.

Monday, 8 May 2017

Bus Stawp

WARNING: This post contains graphic content. And I don't just mean my usual swearing. I mean there might be material in this post that upsets some of you. You've been warned.

Listen, I know I'm an elitist snob. I know I live in enormous privilege, although I do try to be aware of this and grateful. I know also that I am a misanthropist, and this combination of people hating and privilege means that there are just certain things I avoid doing entirely. 

Like riding public transit. As mentioned in my previous post about the rec centres, if a large number of the public are expected to be in attendance, I just avoid doing it. And although it would be better for the planet environmentally if I hopped the Shame Train, I won't. At least, not daily.

Another part of my job is reading the bus reports that come in from the transit authority and either archiving them or assigning them to be opened as claims. The bus drivers report everything. I mean, everything, from collisions to when some dumb fuck stumbles getting off the bus and does a lipstand on the sidewalk (I am an unpleasant person, obviously, because I LOVE reading those ones). Clearly, taking public transit on any kind of consistent basis is just asking to be exposed some variety of dipshittery. 

One of the worst routes is the Number Eight, or as my friend, The Widow, calls it, "the Ocho". The Ocho is so rife with shitty behaviour that she was for awhile considering a blog called, "Riding the Ocho", a compendium of all the crap she saw while traversing the City on this route. (It is still one my great disappointments that this blog never materialized.)

So, what does one see on the bus? Motor vehicle collisions are common. No, I lie--they are frequent. I don't know how one can miss a large 20 ft long vehicle that chuffs and farts like a fat guy after too long at the buffet, but at least twice a week some ditch donkey tries to cut the bus off and clips the bumper or rearends one while it's stopped. And this is not during the winter, children! This is when driving conditions are dry and clear.

One of the biggest complaints we get are about these inadequate dipshits in oversized pickups (usually called something ridiculous like "Titan" or "Avalanche"--oh, the fragile male ego! These are probably the same primates who get their hair cut at Tommy Gun's) who bomb past the bus and clip the bus's mirror with their own. And they don't stop! They just keep driving!

Still these are all usually pretty minor incidents and typically don't result in very much damage (to the bus) or injuries. It's actually riding the bus that you'll find the most disturbing/disgusting/unbelievable crap. I mean, you can take that literally, if you like--there is plenty of pant-shitting on the bus, to be sure. 

And let's not forget the young girls who spit on the bus. Right in the aisle!

Perhaps one of the most revolting incidents I read about was this one: a young guy was half asleep on his way home. He was careful to note in the incident report that he was wearing an expensive Perry Ellis coat and hoodie. He even noted the monetary value of each. So there he was, blissfully snoozing his way home from the office when the chick in the seat behind him barfed all over him, thereby ruining his clothes. 

Poor bugger. There's not much we can do for him in that case, I mean we're hardly liable for the actions of Barf Babe, but he has my sympathies. 

It's shit like this that keeps me off the Loser Cruiser.

While disgusting/funny, that incident was one in which--again--no permanent damage to anyone was done. I wish it was always so, but lately in our City, it has become a "thing" to assault the bus drivers. And I don't just mean slap them in the back of the head as you alight out the front door, either. No. I mean that a couple of times in the recent past, some troglodyte has beaten the bus driver to the point where one will never work at anything in his life ever again. 

But perhaps the most heartbreaking incident regarding public transit I can relate is the story of a young man who, according to the transit security videos, spent the better portion of the morning riding the train back and forth from the north to the southside. He never exhibited any agitation or aggression, or anything unusual at all. He just showed up on the camera several times changing cars, etc.

Then, at one point, he deboarded the train and seemed to loiter a bit on the platform. He checked his phone, but again, appeared calm and composed. While the train waited to take on passengers for the trip further south, the young man approached the edge of the platform and sat down on the edge, his legs dangling over. After a moment, he hopped down onto the track in between the two cars. 

And there, he waited patiently for another few seconds until the train left the station. He was immediately caught between the second car and the platform, which forced him to turn front-to-back, back-to-front for the entire length of the car until the operator realized what had happened and stopped the train immediately.

By that time, of course, the damage was done. The young man was virtually cut in half. Surprisingly, he survived somehow for two days following the accident. He was 16 years old, and in the two days before he died, no-one came forward to report their son missing.

And yes, I saw the video.

CLAIM OF THE WEEK:
Well, after that, I think we need a little something to lighten the mood, don't you?

The Claim this week comes from the Transit Files and concerns a claimant who is so fucking stupid, she failed the stool test. This walking, talking synapse-free zone submitted a claim complaining that she fell on the bus after it moved forward suddenly. Happily in this instance, we had video from inside the bus that shows the vehicle to be perfectly stationary the whole time. What really happened was that Brain-Stem-Not-Attached wasn't paying attention to where she was putting her ass, and she missed the seat COMPLETELY. Instead she went down heavily in the aisle. 

But she still wants us to pay for her physio. Even though he damage is self-inflicted. 

I hate people.

Sunday, 23 April 2017

Wreck Centre (or The Poo In the Pool)

Part of my job is reading and archiving incident reports submitted by employees at the various recreation centres and pools and arenas owned and maintained by the Municipality. First, let me say that the personnel employed at these facilities don't make enough money for the level of douchebaggery they endure. Every. Single. Day. They are all my personal heroes.

Secondly, I don't go to to the rec centres anymore as a private citizen. I simply know too much about what happens there. Some of the rec centres are worse than others (local peeps can ask me privately which ones). 

As far as I'm concerned, though, the hot tubs are really just giant petrie dishes. 

Theft is common. Douchebags bring bolt cutters into the change rooms so they can bypass padlocks and jack your shit. And we can't put cameras in the change rooms, so we really have no way of catching them. 

If I read one incident report about abusive patrons, I read a dozen. Weekly. Most of the time, it's men who violate a rule, like over-extending their stay on the exercise equipment when other people are waiting to use it. Or letting their family of five use all of three of the badminton courts. All y'all really need to get your shit together when it comes to pubic behaviour. Why do you have to be such huge buttnuggets on such a consistent basis? So much hostility! When confronted with his self-indulgence, one of these dicksmacks insisted that he is a "Canadian citizen" and that he "paid to be here and has the right to do whatever he fucking wants." People say shit like this and I wonder if they can actually hear themselves. I mean, that statement offers us insight into the working of that guy's mind that reveals a disturbingly high level of douchebaggery.

And he is hardly an isolated incident.

People shoot up in the change rooms.

They canoodle in the family room.

Guys masturbate in the saunas. 

And, of course, there is the famous Poo In the Pool.

If there is a "fecal incident", it's usually the product of a child. And yanno what happens when there is a dump in the deep end? 

Well, let me inform you first that the pool is NOT drained. Patrons are required to leave the facility, the poo is removed and the pool is closed for about 48 hours, while skin-blistering levels of chlorine and other chemicals are cycled through the system in order to destroy any pathogens or contaminates. After extensive and repeated testing, the pool is reopened to the public. But the water in the pool following a fecal incident is never actually replaced or removed.

I'm sure it's perfectly safe, since our Municipality had exactly ZERO deaths from cholera last year, but I'm afraid I am completely off the idea of public facilities. It's a matter of knowing too much. People gathered in any significant number only means heightened potential for douchebaggery. Some asshole is going to pull something.

And let me just say also that one really ought to pay attention to the signs in the rec centres which inform you that you enter at your own risk and that the City is not responsible for your lost or stolen belongings.  Because we're not kidding. We really are not responsible. Do not, as one twonk did, wear your prescription glasses into the sauna (????) and then submit a claim to me later, saying you want us to pay for their replacement after they slipped off your face and broke. That claim isn't just "No", it's "HELL NO". 

Because we're not responsible for your (stupid) personal choices. 

Speaking of people not taking responsibility for their own douchebaggery, here is my first installment of a new feature I'll call

CLAIM OF THE WEEK

Oh, my children, this is delicious. It was looking like a pretty average week until this one appeared on my desk. Due to confidentiality, I can't disclose names or locations, and will paraphrase what appeared in the statement, but this is GOLD.


Buddy has submitted a claim to the City seeking compensation for injuries and damages sustained in an altercation with the City Police. It seems Buddy was jaywalking. In his claim, he states that he does it all the time at this location, but "I had no idea that the cops were cracking down at this time, or I would have been happy to use the crosswalk." He further goes on to say that he was intoxicated and on his way to the local blues club (which, I will add here just as a matter of interest, is run by the local chapter of the Hell's Angels). He describes how, when the officers ordered him to stop, he took off, but "there was nowhere for me to go, so they tackled me to the ground." During the scuffle, he sustained (superficial) injuries to his face and elbow, although he is claiming concussion. Buddy feels this could have been handled in a "less confrontational manner" because "cops should know better than to confront intoxicated people."

Oh, and he submitted the claim on his company letterhead. 

I don't even know where to start with this. From beginning to end, this claim is just a torrent of DOUCHE. First, this weaselheaded fucknugget incriminates himself by admitting to the infraction of a jaywalking bylaw on a more or less habitual basis. He then confesses to public intoxication and admits that he attempted to elude the officers in the lawful execution of their duty.

But it's their fault because he was drunk.

So yanno what happens to this frivolous claim? I hand it to my supervisor, who assigns it to an adjuster who specializes in bodily injury claims. A claim will be opened and Buddy sent an acknowledgement letter that essentially says, "We got your complaint, you whiny bitch". The City Police are put on notice by our office. An investigation will follow, inquiries sent for police reports and medical reports, and Buddy will be required to fill out a variety of forms. All of this requires time and resources and it will, I assure you, inevitably end in denying him money because this is a frivolous claim

And who pays for this? YOU DO. These are your City tax dollars at work, people. It's a very sad thing that we can't just send this dick a letter that says, "Plzdiekthx!" No, this cumsplat has the same rights as you and I to waste my time and your money, even though the only reason this stupid fuck is still alive is because breathing is an involuntary response. He's butthurt because he made an unwise life decision to outrun the cops. And you are going to pay for his butthurt.

Aint it great?

Thursday, 13 April 2017

The Return of Douchebaggery Abounds

I know it's been awhile. I'm sorry. And I'm even sorrier that I'm apologizing for an extended absence from this blog while living my goddamned life.

But possibly what I am sorriest of all about is the absolutely astronomical levels of douchebaggery to which I have been exposed over the last while. SO MUCH DOUCHE. So much douche, in fact, that the overwhelming stench of vinegar, water, and cheap latex has driven me back to blogging. After more than a year's sabbatical, I have come back to dump my outrage and vitriol, inspired by the anal sacs with whom I share this benighted little planet.

I don't even know where to start. Do I start on a global level, at the top with Trump and his Gestapo? Cuz that certainly has set the tone. 


Or maybe I aim a little closer to home, where Canadians with the least in terms of critical analysis fret about Sharia Law and sit around in their ballcaps and hoodies, quaffing Molson's while listening to Nickelback and reminiscing about a (whiter) Canada that never really existed?

Or do I make it even more personal, with stories about the brainless, entitled shitsacks with whom I am forced to interact because I need to eat? I know it is the height of First World Problems to bitch and whine about office work, but seriously--I have lost any sense of investment in the continuation of my species. I swear to God, if there was a vaccine for stupid, there'd be a handful of people left. And if there was another vaccine for douchebaggery, well, then, my friends, the cockroaches would have it all to themselves. 


Listen, I know there are (a few) good things about people. But who cares? I'm not here to sit around singing, "Kumbaya" and emitting a beam of hope in the douchey darkness that surrounds us. No. This blog is not called, "People Are Fantastic". Cuz, fuck me with a stick, they are not. I am, at this point, convinced that we are all a bunch of narcissistic twonks, and the people we approve of just happen to be twonks on the same frequency. 

I have no doubt that I will eventually get around to Trump-bashing like (most of) the rest of the world, but all of you can see that shit for yourselves just about anywhere you look. And it doesn't matter where you live in Canada--all you have to do is look and you will find some dillhole in his Titan with the flag from his favourite hockey team fluttering from the cab window, driving home where he can repost racist proganganda on Facebook about how Syrian refugees make more money than pensioners. 

You might have to look a little harder right now, is all, because the playoff season just started, and all the "hosers" are busy worshiping at the altar in their local watering holes.

So for now, I'm going to focus on the things you don't get to see. Stories from my workplace. I work for a largish municipality in the department that deals with members of the public who feel that they have a grievance with the city. 


For example, maybe they've hit a pothole and blown out their axle or their oil pan because their Audi hit this motherfucking crater at 70 kms per hour in a fifty zone. 

Or maybe their basements are under two or three inches of shitwater because they've experienced a sewer back up due to the tree roots on their side of the property choking the lines, but they never bother to auger down there because it's just easier to wait for something like a sewer back up to happen. 

Or maybe they collided with an emergency vehicle in full emergency mode with all of its lights and sirens going. Cuz there r kewt kitties on ur fone and wtf, it's not like driving a three tonne engine of death requires you to pay attention or anything, you witless cocksplat.

All of this probably seems a bit mundane. And you're right--it is. Potholes and sewer back ups and collisions by themselves aren't all that exciting. But because John and Jill Q. Public are involved, I end up with a LOT of blogworthy material. I have endless material, really. Every day is a new revelation. Just when I think I have plumbed the depths of human stupidity, selfishness and entitlement, something happens at work and I am awestruck anew. So since there is really no end of these appalling stories, I will leave you for now with this one...

Last fall, I received a Statement of Damage form from a claimant who wanted the City to pay for her dry cleaning bill. Why? Because she sat in birdshit.

Now, obviously our department deals with issues of liability, which is a fancy insurance/law word for "Whose fucking fault is this?" Obviously this pinhead feels it is the City's fault that she sat where a bird shat. And somehow, she seemed to think that the City should just be handing out cheques to every citizen with shitty drawers! And accepting liability for everything! Fuck fiscal responsibility when there is poop on your pants! 

Why exactly this fucknugget felt that we should accept liability for birds dumping is beyond me. And how do you prove liability in a case like that? What are we supposed to do to address this issue? Do we follow along behind her with a high pressure hose, blasting birds and their feces off her favourite seats? Chase down every fucking bird in the downtown core and interrogate it until it admitted to shitting on her bench? 

"C'mon, pigeon! Fess up! We know it was you!"
"It wasn't, Joey, I swear! Look at it! That's magpie shit if I've ever seen it!"


No, she actually expected us to take her at her word and just issue her a friggin' cheque to cover the cleaning bill because this dim cockwomble lacks the personal responsibility to look before she sits down. By her reasoning, we're liable, because she's fucking stupid. 

And she's just one douchebag in thousands.



Monday, 12 October 2015

The Rocks Stars of My Fucked-Up Office

In my new department, I no longer work with lawyers. I now work with insurance adjusters. I don't know anything about insurance adjusters, other than that I don't want to be one for a living. And the ones I work with are really interesting individuals. You can decide for yourself how to interpret that after you've read my descriptions of them.
 
Let's begin with Bananarama. She is about my height and weight (i.e. a little short for a Russian shot-putter, but lots to hold onto). She is also about my age, which means she must have left high school in the early to mid-eighties. And looking at her, you'd think she was still there. Bananarama's do hasn't changed one single hair since she graduated. I swear. She has the biggest bangs of anyone on the floor. Hell, on any of the ten floors of the building we work in. No word of a lie, Bananarama's bangs look like this:

Goddesses on a mountaintop...

Every single time, this woman hoves into view, my brain starts playing the best fucking '80s soundtrack you've ever heard. I just have to hear her voice around the corner, and I am suddenly wearing parachute pants and sipping on a Canadian Cooler to the sound of Frankie Goes To Hollywoods' "Relax".

But Bananarama is not the only rock star in my department. Another of the adjustors is a woman who's age is difficult to ascertain because she's been ridden hard and put away wet for the better part of at least one decade. She's painfully thin and inclined to wear boots and shoes with impossibly high heels. She walks like Pan, and I swear her hip is going to dislocate outside my Hovel one day. Half of me is convinced that I am working with none other than Marianne Fucking Faithfull.

Why'd ya do it, she said. Why'd ya let her suck yer cock?
The resemblance is fucking uncanny. Her voice is the same strange blend of nasal and whisky-throated roughness, she speaks cynically and as if maybe she's got a flask in her desk. The only thing missing is the English accent. I keep hoping one day she'll come to my Hovel, spark up a cig, lean against the temporary wall and say, "I can't believe people are still bangin' on about me and Mick and that fuckin' Mars bar. It was a fuckin' lie, and even if it wasn't--but it was, love, a rotten fuckin' lie--it was forty years ago."

And then maybe she'll gift me with a version of "The Ballad of Lucy Jordon". Marianne won't have anything to do with me, but I think that's because she knows I'm onto her. I don't take it personally; it's our little secret.

So far, my interactions with everyone in my department have been pleasant on a personal level. However, it is amazing to me how much people give away that is inappropriate and they don't seem to realize it.

For example, the department is somewhat short-staffed (hence, my secondment), so a new adjuster was hired. I'll call her Ruby. Ruby is awesome. She works across from me and is thus far, a most welcome addition to the team. I hope she stays.

But the day before Ruby was scheduled to start, one of the other adjusters mentioned to someone else that she knew Ruby from another department of the City.

"And just so you don't freak out," said the adjuster, "Ruby's black."

This comment fell down between the adjuster and her conversant like a choking victim. The clerk to whom the adjuster was speaking was horrified and not sure how to respond--meanwhile the comment lay there thrashing.

Finally, the clerk said, "Oh. Okay." And then, "You know other black people work in Law, don't you?"

*choke* *gasp*

"They do?" said the adjuster, with genuine surprise. "I didn't know that."

Apparently, this adjuster never goes to the ninth floor.

And finally, still another of the adjusters engaged me in conversation about two weeks ago. The subject of Asians arose.

This adjuster said to me (and I quote), "I don't call them Asians. I call them Orientals, because Asian is too broad a term."

I was so stunned, I didn't know what to say. I mean, I thought of several comments after the fact, but is it actually my job to educate these people? I question whether it is really *my* place to confront this woman with her ignorance. Is it really worth it to say, "Honey, you're mistaken. Oriental can indicate anyone east of the Ukraine and out past the Pacific Rim right to the Pacific, but Asian is usually restricted to a handful of nations in the farthest east."

I dunno. Because an older, middle-class white woman who uses the word "Oriental" will probably not hesitate to use the word "lezbo", either.

In brief, these are some of the people in my department.

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Not Mine

I'm off to an appointment in a little while so I don't have a lot of time to write (and, yes, I will get back to my European adventures), but I'm kind of on a roll with work, so I'm just gonna leave this here for your august consideration.

I do not work in Bylaw, but it is a department we deal with from time to time. The story I am about to tell you is true (and a matter of public record, by the way). It is a golden example of why I hate people as a species.

As if Stephen Harper and the Conservative Party of Canada (also criminals) aren't reason enough.

Anyway, our Municipal Prosecutor appeared in Court not long ago on a case of Public Drunkenness and Mischief. The accused took the stand, and the M.P. began to question him.

M.P. : Sir, you have been charged with urinating in public.
Dick Bagg: I didn't do it.
M.P. : Sir, Officers Coffee and Doughnut both have sworn testimony that they saw you alone in the alleyway.

Dick Bagg: That's right.
M.P. : They also state that they saw your penis with urine coming from it.
Dick Bagg: Not my penis.

These are the people I deal with, mostly from a safe distance.

Coming soon: The People I Work With.