Monday, August 29, 2011

that vile abyss

Title could refer to multiple things:
Cavern system I accidentally dug into last night in Dwarf Fortress, where the Forgotten Beast (which oozed an acidic miasma, no less) made a beeline for the newly revealed tunnel into the heart of my fortress.
No longer can hostile creatures find the main stairway in my fortress and run right to the work areas and dining hall, killing half of the fortress.
I built the second guard post BEFORE I started digging. The beast ran right into my army.
So that was a good night.

But that's not the abyss.

It could be the reflection of myself staring back at me in twitter - the choral voices rhapsodizing on whatever the trending topic is.
The crass (myself included) throwing destructive energy into the ether, demeaning both of us.

I don't know if I hate them because they're so different, or because we're so alike.

A little of both, I suppose.

I was walking through a revolving door this morning, and me and another guy approached on either side of it. I started pushing, and my comrade in arms wasn't even touching the door, just chatting on his cell phone. I stopped pushing halfway and gave him the finger. It felt a little meaningless; he knew he was a fucking asshole. Nobody thinks a revolving door is automatic; he expected someone else to bear his burden. He was well dressed, too; probably assumed he was nobility. I should have beheaded him.

My wife recounted her Tales of Horror in the Target checkout line.
Everyone around her was an idiot. Normally when I hear a tale like this, I think, "you're the common denominator here, not these people" but most of the people in her story worked at Target so I assume it checks out.
The story as follows:
Two lines, 8 people waiting in each. That sounds about right - Target is one of those perverse institutions with two dozen checkout counters that have never been turned on simultaneously in the history of the store.
15 checkout lanes that gather dust.

The woman in front of her drops her pasta sauce. She then proceeds to try cleaning it up, with my wife saying (in a voice that I'm sure was all sweetness and love and not the least bit impatient) "let someone else do that, finish checking out."
Her entreaty falls on deaf ears, so she says it a little louder.
The clumsy woman then does something very dangerous: "Mind your own business."

Which isn't something you should say to anyone waiting in line behind you. Your fucking business IS my fucking business if YOUR fucking business holds my ass up.
But I'm not 7 months pregnant, so I'm less rational.

My wife called her an unprintable name, with an unprintable adjective.
Someone told her to think of the children.

The most hilarious twist of irony is this: after it was sorted there, Andrea realized one of her bottles of window cleaner wasn't screwed on tightly, and she'd leaked it all over the store.
Which is pretty much all you can ask for from one of the box stores, and live to tell about it.

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