Arrrrrrrrrrant Corner...

First off, ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! AHOY THERE, IT BE TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY! Don't be a square and wuss out. You're working today and you know how boring as hell it can get on a Friday.

Talking like a pirate is good for you, so get out there and strike yer colours!

Now, it's been a while since I last had access to the Internets so I figured it was time to pop in and casually explain myself. Or, rather, to give you a good honest, classically tuned rant for your enjoyment.

I present to you, dear readers, this installment of Robert's Rant Corner!

*bows*

I hate poor craftsmanship.

It is because of poor craftsmanship that I had to pack all my shit, scramble to find a place, haggle over rents, maintain a high level of diplomacy that I simply didn't feel I should have bothered with, move all my shit and attempt to do all this within the span of a week and also before a category two hurricane was (or was not) coming right for me. I also hate long, run on sentences and awkwardly composed paragraphs, but that's a matter for a different entry.

By some miracle, the roof at the old place didn't collapse in on my head. It wanted to, I could tell. When you can look up through the gaping Hellmouth that has opened in the sheetrock above your head and can clearly see the sky peering in amongst the rafters above in such a way that you believe that you are in the MacDonald Observatory, you're the victim of shoddy craftsmanship.

I believe if the storm had hit, it wouldn't have taken more than a mouse fart for the entire mess to come down. Moving was required and further encouraged by the strongly, yet politely, worded letter tacked on my front door one day.

I picture the parish father opening the door to the church and seeing the letter posted by Martin Luther and I am so deadly curious what his response was. He probably sensed things were afoot, yet I'm sure somewhere in his mind he heard a little voice saying, "awww geez, not this shiat again..."

Moving sucks, but I did it once again and somehow I've lived to tell the tale. What really gives me the red ass about it is that so far during this process, I have sustained six bruises, three abrasions, had to perform minor surgery on myself to remove broken glass particles (thanks to a clumsy maneuver involving yours truly, gravity and five shot glasses), four puncture wounds and a lovely long gash on the driver's side forehead. This was achieved thanks to some clumsy maneuvering around the kitchen as I was putting things away in the cabinets.

Pretty much from the hairline to the eyebrow. Dug myself a lovely Frankenstein-esque Marianas trench to remind me over the next two weeks of my epic failure to maintain proper spatial relationships between myself and inanimate objects. Good times.

Naturally, the work crowd found it most amusing. I had a big assed (and extremely red and itchy skin since I'm allergic to latex rubber) band-aid on my forehead all day today and it became instant comedy to those cretins.

I would quip something about sustaining the injury on their mother's headboard while I was playing "I'm going to be your step-daddy" with their mom or that I broke five hundred inch-thick panes of stacked glass with my forehead to impress my sensei so that I could finally get my quadruple black belt. All of it indefensible and unfettered bullshit, true, but it did make me feel better spinning such yarns than having to say, "I done lost yon fight with yon kitchen cabinet door."

Truth is, I'm a gorram clutz. Not twelve hours later, I counted two nearly brutal trip falls into concrete, a charley horse sustained while moving my elbows on my desk and yet ANOTHER broken glass which luckily didn't cut me this time.

All this because of shoddy craftsmanship. Avast!

I also hate people who come begging me for money. They're goddamned everywhere, especially in the Austin area.

Times are tough, I know that well. While I may have a roof over my head and ramen noodles to eat, I'm barely keeping my head above water these days.

Now, I'll kick a buck or a smoke on rare occasions, but the person begging me for it had either A) Be telling the honest to Zeus truth about what their situation or need for the money is or B) If they are going to lie to me, they'd sure as hell better entertain me.

As a general rule, I am wise to their tactics. I can recognize the conversation attempt signal on their faces and my brain is already in defense mode.

"I do not know them, they do not 'know my brother or cousin,' we didn't serve in the Army together, if they ran out of gas then why is their car running, they never were my friend or distant relative, aliens are likely not giving them hand jobs at night while stealing their wallets and they are most certainly NOT going to pay me back."

Happens every fucking time I'm pissed off about something unrelated to begin with and they usually always start with a variation of the same spiel. At HEB, on the street corner, Downtown, in the country, at the electric company offices. They stand there, just waiting to piss me off more.

Not that I dare act rudely. No, I am quite polite, apologetic and emphatic to their situation 99.9% of the time. I know how it sucks to be broke and I'm not going to be disrespectful to someone just because I consider them to be a pain in my ass.

I rarely carry cash anymore for partly this reason though. I talk a lot of shit here, but deep inside, I'm a damned sucker for hard luck cases. I learned how to say no to the tired routines, but I have tipped a couple with a buck or two for making me laugh.

Such as the guy who had a sign that read, "Need money for a burger, six pack of beer and a hand job." How can anyone resist such blatant honesty?

Actually, I'm a goddamn liar. I didn't give that guy a dime. I thought about it for a minute before I realized that there were a group of firemen doing their "Fill the Boot" campaign for Jerry's Kids at the next stoplight.

Helping Jerry's Kids or helping some junkie blow his load. Not a difficult decision to make, my friends. Helping kids with nasty diseases = a Good Thing. The bum can simply take care of his "need" by himself.

I understand the plight of the needy, don't get me wrong. I've been living on the Line for over ten years now, lost one place to fire and another to storm damage and realize full well how utterly screwed I'd be if my job dried up. I'm a paycheck away from disaster and I know this well.

I also have pride, though, and know I'd be busting my ass off from sunrise to sunset to find my ass a job, whether it be in the field I'm in or even if I had to flip sandwiches at Arby's for the time being. I've seen a ton of shit in my life and know I can survive a hell of a lot. Giving up isn't an option.

I guess what I'm saying is this...

You're down on your luck and legitimately need help, fine. I'd be happy to help you if you are willing to work on helping yourself.

If you're simply out to waste my time with some bullshit story that has no basis in truth or is lacking in entertainment or intellectual value whatsoever because you feel that this is so much better than actually applying yourself to something, good luck to you.

When you think about it, is this really something that's too much to ask?