February 3, 2012 Leave a comment
With the full power of our esteemed panel of judges rested and ready for action this week, we decided to broaden the scope of our consideration. Instead of evaluating a solo shitmove, this week we consider a common shituation. Think of it as three shitmoves and 45 poor puns in one resounding judgment.
At the risk of insulting your intelligence, we’ll start where you stand: Waiting in line for something.
Everywhere we turn, lines. Breakfast lines, lunch lines. We put our names on lists waiting in line for dinner. Movies. The grocery store. The post office. Lines at bars include the bathroom, the Michelob Light tap and pickup lines. Airports are shitty with lines, both coming and going. Line dancing. Traffic is one big line. At Quizno’s, we wait in line to be told what we can and cannot order (cucumbers are for salads, numbnuts [http://shitmove.com/2011/12/31/2011-a-look-back-through-shit-colored-glasses]). You get to know the people in line for roller coasters and at concerts. The mere sight of a turnstile promises to net you a new friend.
Each of the below scenarios illustrates that, contrary to the laws of physics and lessons of our betters, you can both cross a line and stand in it at the same time. And yup… they’re all total shitmoves.
1) The Audible Weight Shift
We are quite surprised to realize you don’t want to be here, standing in line with us. We would never have guessed it from the undumb and super satisfied—almost serene—look on your exceedingly attractive face. It is only when you exhale loudly and pissily pass your weight from one leg to the other that we realize our original impression might have been a tick or two south of accurate. While you stand there taxing your frame with the very weight it has been charged to uphold, ponder this little brain teaser: If you think standing in line next to one of our judges tips the suck scale, try standing next to yourself.
It’s the fucking post office/ fucking Costco/ the fucking most popular lemon slushy shack on the boardwalk. It’s a weekday at 5:30pm/ Saturday at 11am/ a Saturday afternoon in August on the East Coast. So you tell us, dipshit: What in your 45 years of living and taking air in this efficient world makes you think there isn’t going to be a line? We can only hope your unique mix of utter stupidity, audible body language and aggressively bad breath will not survive beyond the confines of your sweat suit.
2) The Conspiracy Theory
We would like you to consider the prospect of being our best buddy. See, we simply don’t know enough people already and commonly seek new camp pals while waiting in line to send a package to friends we don’t have. Would you kindly consider wearing the other half of our “Be- Fri-“ necklace in between poorly worded theories on why the world is out to get you?
If you have ever started a sentence with a sigh while standing in line, you are a shitiot. If you’ve ever turned toward us and launched your expert opinion on how many more people you would have staffed as the supervisor in this particular situation, you are a shitiot. If you’ve ever turned to your poor seven-year-old child and espoused one of your most insightful lectures entitled either “I Don’t Have No Idea What’s Takin’ So Long” or “There Ain’t but the Four Cashiers Workin’,” you are a shitiot. We have enough shit to navigate in our daily dealings without you inviting us to invented conspiracies based on your internal emotional state and your poorly formulated and filtered ideas of right and/ or wrong.
3) The “Can I”
For the most part, our judges are simpatico with those hard-working souls on the other side of the line. We’ve even given high fives to clerks at the DMV. In fact, most of us are those people in real life (though we will soon slough off that mortal coil for a new fate as a full-time, full-paid shitologist). Most of our vitriol is aimed at that rampantly idiotic and rightly maligned majority detailed in numbers 1 and 2 above.
But we do admit that there is a certain dead attitude among select customer service professionals that provokes its own judgment. In the interest of keeping this post pithy, we will sum it up with one point, though we could easily fill volumes…
If we are next in line, having realized our objective of joining the line in the first place, and you call us to your station by asking “Can I help you?”… you are not a shitiot, you are The Shitiot (the Dostoyevsky translation was off by a couple letters). Do you think we’d be standing in this line listening to the shitstorm spewing from these morons for 29 years if we didn’t need your help? The question is not whether you can help us but rather how you can help us. The proper question in this scenario is “How can I help you?”
We need you to use your training to send our package/ scan our items/ get us a fucking lemon slushy. We don’t need you to register your disdain for your job by asking a rhetorical question that purports to assist us. You are not subtle; you are not bright. We have regard for your professional function in society and if you don’t, we’re in no position to help. We care no more about your life than you care about ours. So let’s stick to business. Oh yeah. You can help. We’re 20% sure of it.
Ixnay on the Itshay
While the dissension didn’t hold up under the majority’s methods of persuasion, there was one judge who attempted to point out that calling shit on such common occurrences as these indicated that every other judge was, in fact, the shitiot here. But, as confirmed by a Skype session with his mother, this judge had three fingers pointing right back at him. And, as any opposite opinion does not go unpunished, we were forced to subject said judge to a simulation of these shitty line experiences.
And so we: 1) Constructed a “shipping store” in our warehouse; 2) Kidnapped a postal employee in the wee hours of a Thursday morn using only a burlap sack and sock full of quarters; 3) Enticed Tanya, a harried but curvaceous woman who was walking down the street with a box under her arm, into our warehouse by telling her we had four free scratch lottery tickets for her if she tried our new shipping store; and 4) Avoided violating most federal and local laws in the process.
Everything went according to our best laid plans. The postal worker thought he was in the right place due to his general fuzziness and the fact that our warehouse is painted “concrete blue”. Tanya thought she was due for a windfall because she’d prayed on it just the night before after skimming through The Secret (which you might also know under its working title, The Wish).
So we gave our dissenting judge a single envelope to mail and placed him in line on Tanya’s “good side”. Within 14 seconds, she proceeded to regale him with multiple and, at times, contradictory customer service insights and sighs. After four arguments (one between Tanya’s brain and Tanya’s mouth), six burps, three “’scuse me”s, 19 “hu-unh”s, a brief interval wherein the postal worker could have sworn he left his scissors “right here”, one half of a successful transaction and 13 hours, our judge passed out from sheer exhaustion just as he was about to be welcomed with a question that started with the words “Can I…”
And not to worry, we freed our captives after erasing their memories (which went faster than normal because we didn’t have to maneuver their imaginations, which were mysteriously absent).
When we gave our boy the old smelling salts and he still hesitated before signing his agreement, we made him go out back and pick his own switch. At which point he relented.
100 – 0 with one recorded absence from a judge who was busy hooking up with Tanya as she shouted “I knew I was due!” in the parking lot.
Tune in next week when we consider the current state of civil rights in our fair democracy. And for shit’s sake, “like” us on Facebook already, sign up to be in the Typo Club (both upper right of this page), follow us on Twitter @shitmoves and tell your one funny friend where to go to get his/her/its shit straight (here).