Tips for Retards™ – Tip #45

This isn’t so much a tip as a recounting of my run-in with a local retard.

I get to my building on Tuesday night and didn’t immediately want to commit homocide of some kind.  This is likely due to the fact that my building management has decided to plunk down some of its surplus cash and improve the relative dump that is my building.  I have always maintained, however, that I love my apartment itself1.  The reason I moved there was because of the space I was living in, not the space outside my hallway.  But I digress…

…I enter the building and head to the new, snazz-o-fied © elevators.  As I hate everyone, I generally try to avoid going up in the elevators with anyone in hopes of evading the inevitable, useless and trite conversation homo sapiens are forced to engage in order to maintain the planet-wide illusion that they give a shit about the meat-bag next to them.   This particular day, I was lucky enough to encounter a scooter-bound brontosaurus (who had parked directly in front of one of the elevator cars so as to prevent anyone unfortunate enough to be riding in it any hopes of escaping the metal death-box) and another goober who was shiftily waiting behind him2.

I wanted nothing to do with this side-show-Laurel-and-Hardy;  I continued walking to my mailbox.  Rounding the corner to the mail room,  I heard the elevator “ding!” followed by the screaming of strained metal and informercial-purchased gears as the scooter lurched slowly forward.   I arrived at my mailbox.  From what I could hear, it was apparent that the bronto-scooter didn’t really count on the goober behind him wanting to actually use the elevator.  Like a good douche, he stopped immediately upon entering the car, leaving no room for anyone else.  Not to be outdone, the Goober took it upon himself to force an entry anyway.  He crowbarred his goober-girth into the 2 available inches behind the scooter.

“Dude!  My feet!  DUDE!  MY FEET!  SHIT!  FUCK!”

My snickering was audible.

“Fuck man!  My feet!”

I closed my mailbox and started back towards the elevators.

“Fuck!  Ah – that’s ok, Chris…I’ll take the next one.”

The thought being such a world-class fucktard to a “friend” made it all the sweeter.  Laughing loudly, I got to the elevator bank and hit the “Up” button.  The next elevator came seconds later; I entered.  Goober followed quickly behind me and hit his floor.


You fucking asshole.

I think I actually said it before hitting “25.”

1this would seem to fly in the face of the notice I gave my landlord on April 1, 2009, but these kind of plot loopholes only serve to exacerbate the constant migraine  that I endure daily.

2I have previously encountered said goober in the laundry room:  On that particular day, I had noticed that the vents must have been blocked, causing the dryers to not heat up at all.  The result was a lot of hour-long-tumbled clothing, still sopping wet.  I warned Goober of this tragedy.  He looked at me blankly and said, “That’s ok – I don’t live in the building.  I live in a halfway house near here.”   I was bathed in relief…


~ by seangstm on April 3, 2009.

3 Responses to “Tips for Retards™ – Tip #45”

  1. Retard… that word makes me laugh everytime…

    Where’s your next home going to be?

  2. Beaches. Queen/Woodbine. We found the perfect place, perfect location. Very excited.

    I’ll email DR about getting together before then. 🙂

  3. Ah Beaches is definitely in my top 3 locations to live in Toronto… good choice…

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