From: hillman@carina.unm.edu (Dan Hillman)
Subject: Power Codgers
Date: Fri, 09 Oct 92 09:57:59 GMT
Organization: Dead Goat Graphics
Keywords: Surly Rent-a-Cops, Crossing Guards, drunk with power 

Elderly meter maids, aged airport security personnel, decrepit 
district court judges, whatever. Those elderly folks who have jobs 
of menial responsibility that permit them to get in the way of my 
own life irk me, piss me off, go up my ass a mile, etc.

Why so tense, Dan?

Because in a similar manner in which annoying street lunatics and 
howling babies are drawn to my aura and find comfort in my presence, 
elderly people seem to take special pleasure in doing their menial 
responsibility jobs around me, particularly if it enables them to 
single me out for special irritation. Sure, young people have these 
sorts of jobs too, but I find it suspicious that I am consistently 
hassled by elderly people yet not by younger folks.

Example the First: Surly Rent-a-Cops

One of my places of employment is a corporation engaged primarily in 
that noble pursuit of making Things That Go Fast and Explode. The 
division I work for doesn't do that; nothing is classified or 
restricted and fully half of what they make is produced by other 
corporations.

Ne'ertheless, the company has a fine military attitude and all the 
trappings of that mentality: No photographic equipment, radio 
transmitters, explosive devices, firearms or any other Thing that 
Made America Great is allowed on the sites. To enforce these rules, 
the company hires Rent-a-Cops to, um, secure the areas.

One fine morning, I was walking into the building, clipping on my ID 
badge and adjusting my bow tie, when I was stopped at the front desk 
by Surly Rent-a-Cop. With a narrowing of his sunken eyes, he held 
out his palm in the traditional Officer-Friendly-Sez-Halt-Evildoer 
gesture to stop me from going any further.

"Let me see what you have in the briefcase there."

Dutifully I unzipped my briefcase, opened it wide, and awaited his 
approval. Muttering to himself, Surly Rent-a-Cop pawed through my 
papers, file folders, floppy disks, and happened upon my Walkman.

"What's this," he snarled, seizing the Walkman in his bony claw and 
waving the article of espionage. If he had a weapon, he'd be 
reaching for it right about then.

I snatched it back. "It's a Walkman." 

Aha, you wascally weasel, I caught you, thinks our own Deputy Dawg. 
With one hand braced where his sidearm would be, Surly Rent-a-Cop 
growls, "No recording devices allowed."

"It's not a recording device. It only plays tapes."

"How do *I* know that?"

I show the Walkman to Surly Rent-a-Cop. "*Look* at it. See, no 
'record' button."

Surly Rent-a-Cop is *really* suspicious now. "What do you have it 
for?"

"Listening to tapes."

Rent-a-Cop ponders this while I zip up my briefcase. As a parting 
shot, he mutters, "Well you shouldn't have it here anyway." (See 
Figure 1.)

      o o (bite me)
 ~~ o 
|..|                "Well you shouldn't have it here anyway."
c >|          __   /
 \^/         .  \ / 
 /><\  )    <  )|
/    \m      `  \
\ \ -----   /   |
 \  |   |
Figure 1: Arguing with Surly Rent-a-Cop


The next day, our friend, Surly Rent-a-Cop, again guarded the front 
desk. Rather than risk another confrontation, I walked briskly past, 
looking the other way, whistling and ignoring his demands for a 
cavity search. This practice has continued since. (See Figure 2.)

 ~~     ...do de do...
|..|   /
|< }  /             "Come back here! Hey, you! Hey!
 \./          __   / 
 /><\        .  \ / 
/    \      <  )|
---/ /       `  \
  | /       /   |
Figure 2: Ignoring Surly Rent-a-Cop.



Example the Second: Crossing Guards

These folks were a peeve when I was seven years old, and they've 
just gotten worse. When you're a kid, these are the vultures who 
stand at the corners near schools wearing orange reflective vests, 
fire chief hats, and carrying large red STOP signs who keep you from 
crossing the street when you want to. They like to wait until a 
while buttload of cars are coming so they can walk into the middle 
of the street (ever notice that they bob like pigeons when they 
walk?), and wave the STOP sign of power before letting you continue 
on your way, feeling like an idiot because you've been crossing the 
street by yourself for years.

Well, crossing guards have gotten worse. Maybe it's the dents in the 
front of my car and the children I've painted on the side, or maybe 
it's simply my fine driving habits, but I feel that I am often 
unjustly pointed out by these day-glo nazis.

All I have to do is be driving down a street when school is starting 
or ending and sure enough, there's a crossing guard blowing his 
whistle, waggling his finger at me and waving that ol' STOP sign 
like it was his pecker on payday as if to say oooh, you're a baaaaad 
boy, Dan-o.

Fuck 'em, I say. Any kid who doesn't have the smarts to cross the 
street shouldn't be breathing my air, much less going to school with 
my tax dollars.


-- 
We've replaced the fine baby Jesus we normally use with Folgers crystals.
Let's see if they notice the difference.
Newsgroups: alt.peeves