The ultimate result of shielding men from their own stupidity is to fill the world with fools.
I recently urged people to be gentle with those seemingly kind old chaps you see buzzing around garbage bins like blue-arse flies and refer not to unfortunates looking for sustenance, but to the resident sheet-sniffer. After a couple of unpleasant incidents with the incumbent garbage nazi in the precinct I’ve lately moved into, my former advice to be gentle with these creatures changed to be very aware of them. Self-appointed old bin bastards (OBB) are invariably fussy despots, much like the obsessed roadwork controllers, if you like, of apartment precincts.
Tim is of scant build, 67 kilos would pull him up, 78 years of age and about 167 cm, snowy hair becoming the focus when trims are delayed. His mien was that of a comfortably off retiree, back-room boffin was my first thought, proving close to the mark. Polite but distant, inclined to the discourteous, a surprise to find this effete private gent was the garbage nazi. We tentatively tested each other with unimportant talk but his rude and annoying trait of cutting me off mid-sentence quickly became a put-off. I attributed his ignorance to a dearth of cerebral companionship.
A valid complaint was his frustration at residents using all eight bins simultaneously when filling a couple at a time would be energy-conscious by halving the number of hydraulic lifts with fewer CO fumes. The bins stay on the footpath and are pulled to the kerb on collection days. After lining them up one collection morning and feeling unwell, he afforded me great honour by asking me to pull them back from the kerb after clearing. A far greater honour though, would have been asked to position them on the kerb. Apparently I wasn’t regarded as being up to that task without an element of doubt.
He had a heart scare the day before and was pensive with body movement, fearing each one his last. I was going into town for supplies and offered to do his shopping. His curious retort that he didn’t want my charity took me aback somewhat as I hadn’t offered a loan, I had no idea he was financially embarrassed and pride was playing a part. To my ultimate distress I ignored my instinct which was imploring me to walk from this churlish old man.
An Eurasian-looking comfort lady in her seventh decade calls on him on pension fortnight and is later picked-up at an appointed time by her pimp or by her brothel partner, a gruff, well-off but ignorant sow of a woman, allegedly attained per the escort industry. Explained his rusted, unkempt, shit-box of a car and the veracity of his comments of never having savings to draw on should an emergency arise. He moved her, whatever that meant, into a nearby flat. Most likely, it meant paying the bond and two weeks rent and nothing more forth-came. She paid nil rent and was turfed out three months later. Her goods and chattels disappeared the same way they had arrived, by degree, in bits and pieces in the pimp’s car and in Tim’s clanking and disintegrating Celica, a house of cards assembled with bric-a-brac.
What he gets in return for the fiscal fawning is his concern of course, but these pampered, ignorant dregs do not return favours or help an ailing benefactor, and to suppose she would automatically respond in kind is so alien to her mind-thought as never having entered her ambit of thought. She is much like Maugham’s drab and conniving Mildred, an artless, rotten leech who returns her doddering backer little or nothing except heartache and despair, a fact he acknowledged when accepting my offer of assistance.
Despite his misplaced suspicion of me as a do-gooder who must be punished, I readily agreed to pay a couple of due accounts at the post office using cash drawn from his ATM account, the pin number of which was written on spiral-bound stationary measuring 20 cm X 13 cm. Spiral-bound memo pads is stationary which I thought a relic of the past and to see it still in use interested me. A few days later, I found a hand-printed note in my letter-box sternly telling me to turn the TV down and it was written on the same size spiral-bound paper that the OBB had used on his note with the PIN number.
Tim’s flat is too far from mine to be irritated by electronic noises even on the quietest night, yet he passes it to get to his car and once commented my tv was audible. I checked with another tenant if the tv was overloud and got a “never hear it,”report.
It Gets Couriouser And Couriouser.
Nearby lives an aging botox babe whose swollen ugly dial doesn’t auger well for her gender. Called out to me on Wednesday 29 February, wanting a lift to town for Anglican communion, offering ‘petrol’ money. Now, a 58 km return trip I would be happy with $20, still waiting and being avoided. Nice bitch. Talking ….
An Australian working-class demographic.
You know you are a bogan when…..
1. You let your twelve-year-old daughter smoke at the dinner table in front of her kids.
2. Bikers back down from your mum.
3. You think loading the dishwasher means getting your wife drunk.
4. You’ve been married 3 times and still have the same in-laws.
5. Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker makes your list of “Most Admired People.”
6. You’ve ever had to scratch out your sister’s name in a message that begins “For a good time call….”
7. You’ve ever worn a dress that is strapless with a bra that isn’t.
8. Every day someone comes to your door mistakenly thinking you’re having a garage sale.
9. You have a working television that sits on top of a non-working television.
10. You think the Nutcracker is something you did off the diving tower.
11. Your dog was desexed by court order.
12. Your 13 year old daughter and her husband wanted belly button piercing, and you said no and got them matching tattoos instead.
13. You mow your lawn and find a car.
14. Your tyres are worth more than your car.
- Partly Two…Be gentle with garbage nazis. (lesjohns.wordpress.com)