Hillbilly Mom Reaches Her Boiling Point

Those people are back. You know who I'm talking about. Those
people piss me off people. People, people, people!

Let's begin with my morning pissers. I can not park in the place I
parked for 6 years. Last year, a usurper took over that spot. This
year, a new pisser has taken that spot from the former usurper.
It's not such a great spot. It's waaaay to the end, and next to a
fireplug. Which is probably illegal, except our lot is private property.
Now that I must rush to drive across town in 4 minutes, I have
adopted a new parking space. It is in the second row, on the end.
I take the end, because I can park way over on the line, and still
have room for the door of my large SUV to open. It's a steep lot.
That door swings all the way open, thanks to old friend gravity.
But what should happen at my new parking space? SOMEBODY
must park RIGHT NEXT TO ME! We are the only two cars on
the second row. There must be 20 or more spaces in that row.
I have a magnetic attraction for bad parkers, I suppose. Does
That Somebody merely park in the space next to me? Oh, noooo!
That Somebody creeps over onto the line. WHY? What is this
advantage? That Somebody parks facing uphill, which puts the
driver's door next to the driver's door of my large SUV. Now
I have to grab that 800-pound door when I open it, so it won't
slam into That Somebody's car. This process has become tiresome.
It would be different if That Somebody got there first. Then I could
adjust my large SUV so I had room. Nope. I park with nobody
else in that row. I come out for the 4-minute rush across town
to Basementia, and there is THATSOMEBODYMOBILE
crowding me. I don't even know who it is. It has a handicap sticker.
Why doesn't it park in front of the building, in a handicap space?
That's not really a riddle, but the answer is: Because I'm not there.

Next on the pisser list, the copy machine. Every time I go to use
it, I get "Load paper in Tray 1." WTF? How can it be empty
EVERY time? I dutifully fill its gullet with 500 sheets of gourmet
copy paper. Don't think I don't try Tray 3 first. I'm pretty crafty.
Nope. Tray 3 is also anorexic, yet dares to beg for a meal. Lest
we forget Tray 2, I must explain that it copies all funky in a freaky
sideways manner, and I do not have time to figure that out, since
I have always been a bit spatially challenged.

Pisser of the Third Kind is the kid who slammed the book down
on the tile floor just to see me flinch. Only he missed that visual
treat, because I was in the hall with my back against the wall. Oh,
I stuck my head in, asking, "Was that really necessary?" And then
came the wrong answer, "What? That? My book slid off the desk."
Now IT IS ONNNNNN! I returned to the hall until the bell. I
presented the lesson. Then I asked, "Will you show me how your
book slid off and made that loud noise? Because I have never seen
a book do that. It's only when the person holds it over his head
with both hands and slams it down flat on the floor. If it had slid
off, it would have landed in the chair. And if it continued to slide
from the chair, it would have landed on its spine, which would
hardly make any noise." Heehee. His eyes were big as McDonald's
pancakes. He tried it. He tried it 3 times. Nope. It wasn't happening.
Methinks he will not mess with me again.

Pisser to the 4th Power decided that he didn't need my math class,
because, well, he was good at math and was only put in there
because he went to alternative school all last year, and that made
all his grades go to 'F's, and he wanted out. Which all came about
because first cat out of the bag he asked to go in the library to do
his work. His work from his OTHER math class, when he hadn't
even gotten my work yet, and was absent yesterday and had that
to make up as well. I wrote him a pass to the counselor, since she
is the only one who can change his schedule. I wrote on the pass
that he said he didn't need my math class. Heh heh. He came back
pretty quick, fuming. I told him that whatever he was mad about
when he came in, it's no use blaming all his unhappiness on me
and my class. And the funniest thing happened. He held up both
hands, changed his tune, and said, "OK...OK." And he was a
little gentleman the rest of class. Oh, then the Bookslammer said
he didn't need my class, could he have a pass to the counselor?
No. Why? Because, well.....he's the Bookslammer. The lying
Bookslammer. Karma's a b*tch, pal.

I shall close with the fast-food pisser, that turkey-talking he/she
ambiguous Pat kind o' boygirl who took my order for #1 son's
chicken strip meal. I don't take issue with the genderbending.
I take issue with talking so fast that you literally sound like one
of those turkey-caller thingies. Gobblegobblegobble I couldn't
understand a word you said, even though you repeated it twice
in the speaker thingy, and once at the window. DARN, guygal!
Come off that 3-day meth binge, stop your speeding, and take
your minimum-wage career more seriously. Or look into one
of those auctioneer jobs.

Whew! I feel better now that all that steam has escaped me.