Little Abuses of Power

One of the more interesting things you learn when you live in the desert is that bits of it tend to spontaneously combust for no readily apparent reason. The Forestry Department would have us believe that wildfires in the desert are mostly caused by people carelessly tossing cigarettes out of car windows or not keeping a good eye on their camp fires. Crazed arsonists are also frequently blamed. And while all of that may be true, I think a more logical explanation for the frequency of wildfires is that it’s just too damn hot. I imagine little bits of dry brush sitting in the heat all day, straining to keep from exploding into flame and then suddenly saying, “Ah, hellwithit!”

As I drove home Friday afternoon, I came upon a fire. Well, it wasn’t much of a fire by the time I got there. Emergency crews had been working on it for some time, and what was left was just smoldering dirt and Joshua trees. It looked like a couple hundred acres of desert had burned. This sounds worse than it is. Like I’ve said before, I live in dirt. When you live in dirt, any contrast in the scenery is a welcome change. But I digress.

Our community employs a Citizen Patrol to supplement its meager police force. When you’re in the Citizen Patrol you get to wear a spiffy semi-official-looking uniform and drive around in an official Citizen Patrol vehicle (complete with flashy police car-like lights on the roof). You don’t get to arrest anyone or carry a gun, but if you spot crimes being committed you get to report them. You’re also on-call for parades and other community events and, as I found out on Friday, you get to direct traffic if there’s a brush fire near a major road.

As I approached the scene of the fire, I could see crews out spraying down the smoldering desert, and several emergency vehicles were parked alongside the road. The car in front of me slowed way down, and I followed suit. Up ahead I could see the official Citizen Patrol truck parked cock-eyed in the middle of the street with its lights flashing. Two people in Citizen Patrol uniforms were directing traffic around the truck, and as I approached, one of them admonished me to “slow down!” That threw me for a loop, and my gaze immediately dropped down to my speedometer. I was only going 5 mph. Any slower and I would have been going in reverse!

The Citizen Patrol is mostly made up of older, retired folks. So, it’s a lot like being a Wal-Mart door guard in more ways than one. One afternoon we were leaving Wal-Mart (I guess I go there more often than I would like to admit) when a door guard stepped in front of us and demanded to see our receipt. We politely refused. We were in a hurry to make it to an appointment, and resented being treated like criminals. The door guard got a nasty look on her face and repeated her demand. Said receipt had already disappeared into my wife’s purse, and would probably take a week to find again, so we said (a little less politely this time), “What will you do if we just walk out of here.” Obviously stumped, the door guard’s eyes rolled up into the back of her head while she considered how to respond. Before she could do anything, we skirted around her and proceeded out into the parking lot. There was no hue and cry behind us, and we made it to our car unmolested.

I guess it just goes to show you what happens when you put people in uniform and give them a little bit of power… They feel obligated to
wield it.

Wal-Trash

I had a brilliant idea on Saturday night. We had just finished a late meal at one of our favorite Mexican places (I had camarones wrapped in bacon, if you must know), and were getting into the car. I was thinking about a project I was going to work on the next day, and realized that there were a couple of items I needed to pick up for it. We were already out and about, so I thought it might be a good idea to just go and get the stuff then. Unfortunately it was relatively late – almost 10 p.m. – and I didn’t think there would be any place open. Then it hit me.

“Hon, is Wal-Mart still open 24 hours?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I’ve got a couple of things to pick up. Let’s stop on the way home.”

Now I don’t go to Wal-Mart very often. Truth to tell, I avoid the place like the plague. Half of the rudest people in the world shop at Wal-Mart. The other half work there (and before any of you Wal-Mart employees email me to tell me what an ass I am for mentioning that, please note that you’ll only be proving my point). Every time I go there, my blood pressure goes up. I normally don’t suffer from high blood pressure.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah. It’s late. Shouldn’t be crowded. Right?”

Wrong.

I’m coining a new term – Wal-Trash – feel free to use it. It’s the only way I know how to accurately describe the type of people that go to Wal-Mart at 10 o’clock on a Saturday night. The place was packed, and I mean packed with people. With hardly an exception, they were all grossly overweight. At least fifty percent of them were wearing some sort of bedtime gear (bathrobe, bedroom slippers, pajamas, etc.). The other half were dressed in clothing that didn’t fit well – the women had shirts that were cut too low on top, the men had shirts that were cut too low on the bottom. They all shuffled along with vacant looks in their eyes. We felt like we had just stepped onto the set of Shaun of the Dead. I walked by one couple that was deep in conversation and listened as I passed by.

“Buluubrruuub nugluh dugug?” Asked the woman.

“Ahulubru numbnumb sudubabub.” Answered her husband.

I barely resisted the urge to run to the sporting goods department and grab a rifle – or a baseball bat – and headed off to electronics to get my things. Grabbing them as quickly as I could, we headed to the registers. We got in line at the “self check-out” behind a woman who was trying to scan baby diapers (while her baby was wearing them) and laughing hysterically.

“Um. No.” I said, and we switched to the Express Lane.

“Owareootoo?” Asked the checker as we put our items on the counter.

“Huh?” We said in unison.

“Owww… arrrrre… ootoo?” She repeated slowly, as if we were the idiots.

“Er. Fine. Fine.” I said, looking about nervously.

She drooled a little bit as she scanned our purchases. We paid quickly and ran out the front door – not giving the door guard a chance to ask to see our receipt. We hustled to the car and peeled out of the parking lot as quickly as we could.

“That was creepy.”

“Yeah. Remind me not to have any more brilliant ideas.”

Lost: One Sense of Humor. If Found, Please Call…

I know. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything. It’s only just… well… I’ve lost my sense of humor. I’ve been looking high and low for it, but it’s just nowhere to be found. I’ll start posting again as soon as I remember where I put it. Or after I’ve replaced it… I wonder if I can find a deal on eBay… Hmmmm… Maybe I’ll use that store credit I’ve got from Wal-Mart.

Bringing Sexy Back

So, I was thinking about bringing sexy back.

I was thinking I’d return it to Wal-Mart, because they’ll take anything back without a receipt.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’d like to return this sexy.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m bringing sexy back. I’d like a refund.”
“Is there anything wrong with it?”
“It’s defective.”
“Defective? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, it’s just not working for me anymore.”
“What do you mean? Was it working before?”
“Well, yeah. It worked pretty well when I first got it.”
“How long have you had it?”
“About 20 years.”
“20 years? Sir, I don’t think you can return it after that long.”
“But this is Wal-Mart. I thought you guys took anything back.”
“Do you have a receipt?”
“No, but I bought it here. I swear.”
“Um. Okay, but I think we can only give you store credit for it.”
“Can’t we just do an even exchange?”