Zach Hates You

Me: on sexy black SV650 getting off of work at 4am.

You: sweet effin Charger with brush guard, light-bar, and a shotgun.

As I was getting off work and heading home, I saw you far down the street ahead of me.  I didn’t want to catch your eye and just wanted to make it home, but you stopped in the middle of the road and waited for me.  I knew our encounter was going to be special.

I tried to get into the turn lane to go across the overpass, you matched my speed in a playful, “I’m going to check out your butt,” way.   So I slowed to let you be in front of me (ladies first) and made it to the turn lane I needed.  While I was slowing down to come to a stop behind you, a quick lane change and we were right next to each other.  I couldn’t muster up the guts to give you even a meek wave as you glared at me.  You rolled down the window so we could finally speak!  Never will I forget our first conversation, “Don’t do anything ‘dumb’ on that thing.  I already got you for having your plate bent (I knew you were looking at my ass!).  That’s one thing, don’t give me another.”

Oooooooo!  Fiesty!  Not wanting our talk to end so soon, I made a daring suggestion, but was still a statement that was nothing but truth, “I’m just off from work ma’am and can’t wait to get into bed.”  Unfortunatly, you didn’t pick up on my hint and barked back at me, “I just got on shift, am on three hours of sleep, and don’t want to put up with any bullshit.”  A girl that’s straight to the point.  No beating around the bush.  Rawr!

As the light was changing, I knew our wonderful time together was over.  I wish it could have been longer.  With a sigh, my foot pushed the motorcycle into first gear.  But before we parted, I had to say one last thing, “Have a good night,” which you promptly ignored while slamming your gas pedal and shooting onto the freeway.

So you know, I followed your words of “not doing anything dumb.”  I wanted to make you proud of my riding skill and prove that I was not a dumb rider.  I expertly went well over the posted 30 and 35 mph speed limit by a good 40 mph and quite dexterously wove my motorcycle across two lanes of traffic while almost grinding my foot pegs into the street.  I do believe you have been impressed.  There’s even a S turn that I set my own personal record on last night.  There’s no way I could have done it without your little pep talk.

You fucking pig.

Location: 1st Ave and Edgar Martinez Dr

“Respect is esteem for, or a sense of the worth or excellence of, a person, a personal quality, ability, or a manifestation of a personal quality or ability. In certain ways, respect manifests itself as a kind of ethic or principle, such as in the commonly taught concept of “[having] respect for others” or the ethic of reciprocity.

Esteem for, or a sense of the worth, or excellence, of a person, a personal quality or ability, or something considered as a manifestation of a personal quality or ability, for example, “I have great respect for her judgment.”

Deference to a right, privilege, privileged position, or someone or something considered to have certain rights or privileges; proper acceptance or courtesy; acknowledgment: respect for a suspect’s right to counsel; to show respect for the flag; respect for the elderly.”

Via wiki.

Recently, I’ve been told a number of times from other human beings that I’m not “respectin’” them enough.  Well, to be honest, I don’t respect them one god damn bit.

Lets begin with example one:

Location: Nightclub dance floor.

At the club that I work at, there are TVs in front of the DJ booth lining the walls.  Nice, flat-screen TVs that have stanchions with rope in front of them to give about a foot of room between the dance floor and the TV.  Now, I don’t know why every single damn week I have to tell people to stop leaning on them.  Every. Effin. Week.

IT’S A FUCKING TV PEOPLE.  DON’T LEAN ON BREAKABLE THINGS!

I know, it’s a hard concept to understand.  Now I’m sure you’re asking, “But why can I not lean on this very expensive shiny glass picture device?  I’m a patron and I can lean wherever I desire.”

On this night (the same night as the fuckstick with the mohawk), there is a short (again) annoying patron was leaning against the row of TVs.  I stop glaring at the rest of the dance floor, and shine my flashlight on the guys face.  The Surefire Defender is not something you can really ignore.  It’s made for blinding people temporarily in tatical situations, or for me, lighting up dumbass patrons in nightclubs.  I flash him a couple of times with my light and he acts like he doesn’t notice.  I flash him a few more times before I give in and understand that I’ll have to get off my perch on the dance block to have to talk to him.

I don’t want to talk to anyone.  We’ve been over this.

He’s with his girl friend who’s wearing one of those stupid “LOOK AT ME I’M A PRETTY PRINCESS” birthday tiaras.  She isn’t looking all that happy standing off to his side on the outskirts of the dance floor while everyone else is having a good time dancing.  Turns out I’ll be making her night even worse.  Poor girl.

I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder and say “Hey buddy, don’t lean on the TVs for me.” He responds, “Pfft, why?” with a grimace.  I’m thinking, “Because I fucking told you asshat,” but tell him, “You don’t lean on your TV at home right?”  The man of many words gives me a heartfelt answer yet again with a snort followed by, “So?” and continues his glare.

As I said earlier, this guy is not tall.  He isn’t physical threatening.  The dude is skinny and about the size of his girlfriend.  Needless to say, his attempt at intimidation isn’t working to well for him.  After his last curt response, I’m done with this guy.  I pull him off the TV and tell him, “Listen asshole, you want to keep playing with the rest of the people here, you do what I say.  I think your girlfriend would like to stay here for the rest of the night, and you better start behaving.”  He didn’t take my advice too well and starts talking about how I’m not respectin’ him and how I’m not respectin’ him in front of his girl, and blah blah blah.

He’s right, I don’t respect him.  Not in the least.  To show this, I turn my back and hop back up on the dance block in the middle of one of his idiotic sentences.  For some reason, this doesn’t go over well for him.  At this point, the guy I was covering the spot for is back so I begin to mosey around.  This guy is glaring at me everywhere I go.  His girlfriend is almost in tears and he is just pissed at me.  As I walk around the club, one of my co-workers asks who my boyfriend is.  This guy is upset and he hasn’t moved from where I pulled him off of the TVs.  Not happy.  Mission accomplished.

It’s almost time for let out and the lil bastard is just working himself up to say something to me.  He’s sneering to the point where he’s almost frothing at the mouth, breathing heavily and his lady is even more upset then before.  She’s pulling on him to leave while he’s ignoring her and looking at me.  She must be jealous of all the attention he’s giving me.  I’m way more pretty anyway.

I have to go deal with the little bastard that has the shitty mohawk at this point.  While I’m dealing with the jackass wannabe fighter, the little dude that I wasn’t respectin’ is waiting for me outside.  Let out takes about 15-2o minutes and he waits around for all of it.  He waits around for so long his girlfriend went to the car in tears and he asks one of my coworkers where I am.  My buddy tells me of this conversation later.

Jackass: “Where’s that white motherfucker at?”

Coworker: “Which one?”

JAss: “The tall one with a shaved head and a beard!”

C: “Dude, we have like 4 of those.”

Assface: “The asshole that looks like Jay Buhner.”

Motherfucker.  After hearing that I wish I would have been there later one.  I’m happy that he made his girlfriend cry though.  I think I’ll chalk that up to ME making a girl cry while at work.  Booya!

Example number 2:

Once again, at the wonderful club with the best patrons in the world on a Saturday night.

I receive a radio call informing me that I’m needed at the back door.  My lazy ass gets off the dance block that I was overseeing the crowd from (no, you can’t sit on the dance block) and I head over to the door to see what the crap is up.  As I climb the stairs I see why I’m being called out.  There is a giant of a goofy man outside smiling his big fake teeth smile when he see me approaching.

Fucking Lurch.

I don’t know Lurch’s real name.  It doesn’t matter.  Lurch is more fitting then whatever his parents named him.  About 6′10, wiry and dumb as the dentures in his mouth, this guy use to work with me at one of my previous jobs.  For some reason he LOVES me.  And I’m OK with that.  There’s nothing to complain about have a large dude (probably) having my back when the shit hits the fan.

As I call out his name in greeting, I notice something out of the corner of my good eye.  Some motherfucker is leaning on my bike.  “holdonasecman” I mumble while my urge to kill suddenly rises.

“Hey moron, get the fuck off my bike!” I yell to the smelly hobo leaning his nasty hobo elbows on my bike’s seat.  He doesn’t seem to understand English.

I fucking HATE hobos.  They’re smelly, annoying, and there’s so many of them, you couldn’t throw one without hitting another.  On the weekends the stupid shits are everywhere asking me for money that I will never give to them.  At one point I’d give them money.  I’ll discuss my hatred for hobos with another post someday.  Fuck bums.  Not literally.  Maybe with fire.

Stepping towards the waste of oxygen, I yell once more at him.  This time his eyes light up with acknowledgment, but still he rests his nasty arms on my beautiful SV650.

One more step and I’m reaching for my Asp baton.  “Please take your filthy fucking hands off my motorcycle,” I say quietly as I’m removing my baton from my pocket.

“That’s better, all you had to do was say ‘please,’” he says before noticing my gloved hands and my baton being readied for wack-a-hobo.  His eyes widen a bit more, but now he gets indignant.  “I didn’t mean to disrespectin’ you man.  I don’t go disrepectin’ people for no reason.”

That’s it.  I’ve heard enough of that fucking word.

“Listen you fucking idiot, when I was in Preschool, maybe even before that, I learned that I’m not to fuck with other people’s belongings.  It’s something that I still do to this day.  It keeps me out of trouble.”

He begins to open his mouth and I point my gloved finger at him in a not so friendly way.  “No.  Shut up.  Shut the fuck up.  Respect means not touching other people’s shit and my motorcycle is no exception.  Usually motorcycles belong to people that look like me.  Do I look like someone you want to fucking disrespect?”

At this point his “fight or flight” response kicks in.  His hobo sense is tingling or maybe that’s just the Colt 45 in his system ready to pull a Crazy Train all over his pant leg.  He begins to say something to work himself up to fight and save face in front of his hobo friends and I cut him off with, “You’re not worth my time you piece of shit.”  I tell my buddy over my shoulder as I walk back into the club loud enough so the bum can hear me, “If he touches my bike again, call me up again so I can cut off his fingers.”

I guess he left in a hurry after that.  Shame.  I wanted to be able to count past 10 using fingers that belong to me.  Maybe next week.

The moral of the story dear readers is don’t go disrepectin’ or I’ll take your god damn hobo fingers.  Oh, and don’t be short.  No one likes short people.