5.10.09

Stupid - 3, Doug - 0


My daughter, who is sick today, has taken to calling plenty of people "idiots." She gets that from me. She is rarely wrong in her assessments. Here are three incidents from the past two days.

Case One: I am the Universe, the Universe is Me.


I was in Safeway picking up bread. Sunday night. Around 7:30. As per usual,there were two tellers on. I had bread and bananas, so I went into the express line. The limit in said line is 15 items or less. There was one girl in front of me who was in her twenties. In front of her was an older woman with a cart full of items. In front of her was a woman using WIC vouchers. For some reason WIC always screws up a teller.

The woman with the cart full of items was who I was interested in. From what I could see, she had 15 items exactly, but I was convinced there were more hidden behind her mineral water bottles.

While waiting for the teller to figure out the WIC vouchers, the old lady turned to the younger lady in front of me and randomly said, "Younger people always have some place to go and something to do."

The younger woman could only nod. Hell, I wouldn't know how to answer that.

When the older woman finally got to go, I counted 18 items. 18. That was three over the limit. Did Lori the teller tell her? No. Lori let it go. Thanks, Lori. You hate your job. We get it.

The total came to $57.12. The older woman busted out her checkbook. You would think she would have the check partially written out ahead of time. Nope. Then she had to write it over the total so she could get forty bucks back. U.S. Bank must be happy to have her as a customer. She only took five minutes to endorse the check.

Lori asked the woman if she needed help with the bags, as is customary at Safeway. She replied in the negative, and then proceeded to block the narrow aisle while she counted her two twenties.

The younger girl ahead of me eventually made her way past, and then it was my turn. The bread went over the scanner.

"Excuse me," the older woman said. "I think I would like someone to help me with my bags."

She avoided my gaze. Good thing, too. Had she said one flip thing to me, one apologetic thing, I would have unleashed on her like a drunk husband who is sick of having pasta every-other-fucking-meal!

Case Two: We Are Trapped in Paperwork


I took my girl to the doctor. There was, as there always is, an issue. Since it wasn't under my insurance, they had to find HIPPA papers to see if they could treat her. HIPPA, for those that don't know, is supposed to protect your medical privacy. Medical offices violate it the most. This time, however, was an exception. After talking to me and calling my ex-wife, they finally decided I could have my daughter treated. When I get home, this is what is on my answering machine.

"This is [the doctor's office]. We have [your daughter] in for treatment. Mr. Brunell, we were wondering if you could give consent to this treatment."

Seeing as I was at the doctor's office giving consent that they weren't accepting, I could understand why they would try to reach me at home as if I were in some weird David Lynch film. Suppose someone would've answered. Would the receptionist have said, "Well, you can't give consent here, but we reached you at home where you did give consent. Unfortunately, if we reached you at home, you can't be here, and that means you don't exist, so we can't very well see your daughter."

Case Three: I Don't Know What the Fuck I'm Doing and Have Never Been Here Before

The post office. The young woman has a box under one hand and a baby under the other. The woman looks to be about 23 years of age. Old enough to drink, fuck and get shot for stupidity.

The box under her arm is closed ... barely. Not taped up. We are in line waiting for a window to open. It will be a while as a passport is getting processed.

Finally, it's the young mom's turn. She puts the box on the counter and tells the teller, "I need to mail this."

The teller looks at the woman like she's insane. "Okay. First, you need to address it. Then you need to tape it up."

The young woman doesn't even look pissed. She just looks incredulous. "Um, okay. Do you have tape?"

"We have Priority tape. Do you want to ship it Priority?"

"Is that more?"

Affirmative, Ghost Rider.

"No."

"I can sell you tape."

"Okay. So how do I address this?"

"With a label?"

"Do you have labels?"

"I have Priority labels."

I shit you not. She took an essentially open box with no address to the post office to be mailed. I guess she thought they were psychic or something. What the fuck?

Stupid got me. Three zip. I need a vacation to Oxford or something.

2 comments:

Nikki said...

Oh god, the dreaded check writer! I fricken despise people who write checks but can't be bothered to fill out at least some of the damn information before the time comes to hand over the check. Seriously, you know what damn store you're in, you know the date and your damn name. Write out your effing check so all you have to do is put the amount in. How effing hard is that?

You know what else I hate? ATM bankers. There is a line of people who want to do nothing more than access a few of their measly dollars, but some idiot insists on doing all their damn banking right at the ATM. Check balance, deposit, check balance, withdraw, check balance, do it again on another account. ARGH!!

-Doug Brunell "America's Favorite Son" said...

Remember these words. They speed shit up. "I will cut you."