Living as an adult, you quickly come to accept that your time really isn’t your own. A third of your day is spent at work and a third sleeping, giving you a measly 8 hours to do what you need to in a normal work week. In this present day world, if you even wish to show any semblance of being a responsible adult to get -ish done, it now has to eat away at your weekend, a time which is supposed to be dedicated to goofing off and lounging around in your underwear as you eat cans of frosting while removing lint from your navel.
No matter what it is that you want to do, you have to waste your time waiting on others.
In a perfect world, you’d never get sick, break a bone, or have to awkwardly explain how unusual objects became stuck in various orifices. But alas that’s never the case. Waking up one morning, you feel as though you’re deaths incarnate. Every place on you that oozes has crusted over, you’ve hacked up half a lung, and you and your toilet have become the best of friends. Therefore, it’s probably a good idea to go ahead and contact the body-fixer.
You call that very day, completely delirious and thoroughly convinced that a miniature Mickey Mouse is drinking your orange juice – the “helpful” medical staff takes your vital information and then informs you the soonest the doctor can see you is next week–wonderful. Before hanging up they inform you that you should arrive thirty minutes before your one o’clock appointment to fill out the necessary paperwork in an effort to save time. You choke down concoctions of Robotussin and Nyquil, probably causing irreversible damage to your liver in the process, just so you can make it to your appointment. You shuffle into the office at 12:30 pm, the agreed upon time, wearing a soup stained t-shirt and sweatpants that emit an odor usually found in a teenage male’s hamper.
The various paperwork they throw your way question your family’s medical history, medicine allergies, fetishes, and insurance information. Crawling back to the window, you drop off the clipboard along with the flower/pen hybrid and struggle to make it back to your seat, waiting for your name to be called. One o’clock rolls around, so naturally you can assume you’re next. Then 1:10. 1:20…
1:30 and you’re finally called to the back. You’re taken into the room and told the doctor will be with you shortly. Another thirty minutes pass, the doc comes in, takes one look at you and sends you away with a prescription. You suffer for a week, hour after agonizing hour, only to be given permission to purchase extra-strength flu medicine.
Of course the lack of consideration for your time by those who study in legally being allowed to touch you wherever they feel like, doesn’t come close to service appointments: in-home television repair, heating and air, escorts and of course-cable television installation. Unlike most who can give you a rather firm time, or an hour or two estimate, their window is the entire day. You understand that you’re not the only customer, but you’d think they could at least to attempt to work with you in nailing down something more specific. They rarely work weekends, meaning you have to take off of work to wait around for them all day, and, if you’re unlucky, lose a day’s pay. On top of that, you have an entire 24 hours with a busted item which could have been used to alleviate your boredom (television) or you’re forced to suffer on a 110˚ day with a busted A/C (awesome). So they give you an 8-10 hour block in which they intend to show, and you’re locked in and confirmed for that time.
Let’s play with the busted air-conditioning example. Six hours have passed and you’ve yet to receive word that they’re on their way. Seven hours in you have discovered that you’ve run out of checks and don’t have nearly enough cash on hand to cover the cost. You quickly grab your wallet and keys, sprint out to your car, start it up, speed to the closest ATM and book it back home, taking about fifteen minutes. Approaching your home, you see a slip of paper fluttering ever so gently in the wind on your door. Your shoulders drop as you sigh in disgust. You know exactly what that note is going to say. You pick it up, and sure enough, it confirms what you expected—you had missed them. Not only are you still without, but you’ve now been charged a service fee for them to simply show up and leave. Fan-flipping-tastic. You’re hot, angry, and have to wait at least another week before you can take off of work again. Enjoy sitting around your home bored, sweating like a pig.
Chris hates anyone or anything which goes against how he feels a sentient being with more than three brain cells should act. He hopes to use his “Encyclopedia Douchebag…ica” as a springboard into becoming a full-fledged, tax exempt religion complete with holidays and greeting cards, mainly so he can steal from its coffers. His hopes are…not that high, knowing that those who needs his guidance most, are unable to read his words… what with the extra flesh from their sloped, ape-like foreheads blinding their eyes from the truth.
When not acting like a complete bastard (which is not very often), Chris writes about all things video game related on his blog iNOOBriated, and his Twitter. He also offers his services as a freelancer for Beckett’s Massive Online Gamer. Yep, he’s a neeeeeerd.