I normally give follow-up posts the title of “[Original Blog Title], Part Deux” but today I’m breaking tradition because, quite simply, this one needs it. And once again, I would like to warn those of you with virgin eyes and ears that this one will be laden with profanity. Ahem. So let’s get to it.
If you recall, a few posts ago I described in full detail how my bike was deemed an “eyesore” and that it needed to be moved so that the smokers, apparently an endangered and therefore protected species at the workplace, wouldn’t be offended by its presence. Being the new person I obliged so as to avoid any confrontation, but you knew exactly what I was thinking.
Well, folks, with today’s incident, what I was thinking finally came out in full color. And it was ugly.
First of all, I wasn’t all that pleased that I was (unknowingly) being moved for the fourth time in my one month on the job and this time not to a desk. I am now sitting at a table. No shit–a fucking table with no electrical outlets, poor lighting and no room for anything beyond what I need to use. Pretty soon I’m going to be in a fucking tent in the parking lot. And since I had forgotten to pack my belt today, I called Ann and asked her to bring it by for me. She did and in the process I threw the few personal artifacts I had on my last desk into the back of the Escape until The Powers That Be decide where in the fuck I’m going to sit for longer than a week.
So after all of my stuff was moved and I finally got my “desk” arranged the way I wanted it, I was greeted by one of the mailroom guys, presumably one of Barney Rubble’s toadies.
“Hey, you’re the guy with the bike, right?” he said. I nodded and knew that what he was about to tell me wasn’t going to be good.
“Yeah, okay. We’re going to have to ask you to move it again because the tire is hanging blocking the entry gate and somebody might trip on it when they go inside.”
Now keep in mind that this is the place where they told me to park Bikey because the area is so infrequently used. And admittedly, my tire was hanging over the gate opening but not by much. It’s not like the fucking gate only opens one goddamn way, people. I parked it there because I could easily chain the bike’s frame to a pole. This is the only place it’s easily done. Otherwise, it’d be a snap for a thief to take the bike’s rear tire off and run away with the rest of the bike. And I’m sorry, but if some asshole has to go in there and can’t see my tire, the idiot deserves to trip over the fucking thing. Barney’s toady continued.
“And in case they need to get the barbecue out…”
“Yeah yeah, okay. I get it,” I said. This was about the time when I began to feel like Ned Flanders in The Simpsons’ episode “Hurricane Neddy” in which he goes insane. This incident is akin to the part when the lens falls out of his glasses and he begins to mumble, “Calm down, Neddly diddily-diddily-diddily, doodily…” It was beginning.
I began to speak in foreign tongues about how ridiculous this whole thing was. I threw my iPod across the table–a stupid thing to do in hindsight–and the earbuds hit the ground. As I rolled my chair back, the earbuds got wrapped around the chair’s caster a few times. The spark had ignited. I unraveled them from the caster and then made my way down to move Bikey.
As I approached the enclosed area, Barney and another smoking fatass were doing their thing in front of the gate. One said “Good morning” to me.
“Hi,” I mumbled angrily, breaching etiquette and not saying “Excuse me” as I walked past them to unlatch the gate. And here’s where I noticed a few interesting things:
- The barbecue, looking unused since the Carter Administration, is stored inside this gated area next to the gas line
- The Cigarette Smoking Men like to hang out outside the gated area and smoke, as is obvious by the cigarette butts inside the area
But my bike is the real problem. Yeah. Then one of the fat assholes spoke up, obviously aware of what I had been told.
“You could chain it to the pole in the corner,” he said.
“See, that’s the problem. I can’t get the chain around the bike frame when it’s parked over there. There’s absolutely no point in parking it there if that’s the case.”
“You feeling a little frustrated?” he said as I noticed a huge grease stain the chain left on the left knee of my khaki pants while I knelt to unchain Bikey.
This is the part where Dave goes berserk.
“Gee, how in the Hell did you ever fucking guess?” I replied with just a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Holy fucking shit, man. With the way things are going with me and this fucking bike, I might as well start to fucking drive again. Jesus Christ…”
“Um…I’ll leave it at that,” he replied as the two rolled their bulbous frames back into the building. I left the gated area and made a quick call to Ann about what’s going on. As I was doing this, the fatasses moved the barbecue even closer to the gas line so that I could chain Bikey to another pole. This had to be the most exercise they’ve gotten since they lifted that pot roast with a fork at last night’s Fat Guy Smorgasbord.
So excuse me for asking, but am I the one being a dick here? Am I really that irrational to think the way I’m thinking or are the gastropods in charge flexing their long, flabby arms of the law a bit too freely? Really, I feel like I’m being discriminated against for a number of reasons: no bike racks, offending the smokers and those who don’t know when to put the fork down and get the fuck off the couch, being dictated by a bunch of corpulent Bike Nazis, the constant nagging over where I park my bike, etc. I’ve heard of being discriminated against for being fat but I’m beginning to wonder if these fat fucks are taking out their revenge on me and my healthy habits for having to buy two airplane seats the last time they flew.
Meh, make your voice known below.
Three years. Over 100 pounds lost. Non-smoker. Riding bike to work to save money, get exercise, help the environment, save a tree, free up the streets a little more. In fact, Ann filled up the Escape today for the first time since May 9th.
I worked my ass off to get to my current weight, yet I’m being made to feel that I’m doing the wrong thing and getting harassed by an obese, smoking jackoff for my efforts.
Holy fuck, people. Ho-lee fuck.
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