It is currently Sat Aug 20, 2016 9:04 pm

All times are UTC - 6 hours




Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 323 posts ]  Go to page Previous  1 ... 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17  Next
Author Message
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 11, 2012 6:56 pm 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Sep 17, 2003
Motorcycle: 5 Shadows, 3 Rebels
Rebel: 250
Country: U.S.S.A.
State/Province: NV
City: Las VLX-as
Exactly.

"I need a motor mount, but I brought the motor instead of the mounts to match up."

Never underestimate the lacking brain of a Dudeman.

_________________
"Ride Safe, Chop Safer"
Dismantling, sawzalling, and rattle canning does not make a bobber. That's called an "ANCHOR".
Image
http://shadow-shack.20m.com


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 11, 2012 8:23 pm 
Offline

Joined: Mar 19, 2010
Motorcycle: Yamaha Midnight Virago 920
Rebel: 250
Country: USA
State/Province: MI
City: Near Ann Arbor
That sounds like it was tedious. Why he wouldn't get new sprockets is beyond me.
Dollars to doughnuts that guy's chain is so worn, it would fit a 630 sprocket.

_________________
'87 Rebel
'02 Silver Wing 600
'83 Virago 920
'61 Buick


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sat Jun 16, 2012 9:38 pm 
Offline
Forum Administrator

Joined: Jul 25, 2003
Motorcycle: 98 Valkyrie
Rebel: 250
Country: USA
State/Province: GA
City: Vidalia
Let's see....

Today was an interesting day. I work three out of every four Saturdays. I don't have to, but I do it because the salesfloor end of the company I work for has been shorthanded lately, and has required that the salesfloor staff work two out of three Saturdays until this is resolved. Maybe I've outlived my time, but I was always taught that when there was slack to be taken up, the guys up top were the first to wade in-- you know: do what got them up there in the first place. I was also taught that leading by example was far more powerful than leading by dictum.

Evidently I'm the only person with decision-making powers at _any_ level above "salesfloor target" who actually thinks this, because I'm the only one that does it. At any rate, I'm not going to require someone to do something that I myself refuse to do.

For the few who have actually met me, this will come as no surprise. For the rest of you, perhaps it will:

I do this voluntarily, because I think it's the right thing to do.
I abso-freakin'-lutely _HATE_ working on Saturdays.

You see, during the week, I'm busy with commercial accounts, inventory issues, professionals in the field, and the periodic do-it-yourselfer actually looking to learn how to do something _right_. This is actually gravy; I really enjoy it. It makes those fifty-eight hours just _fly_ by.

But those thirteen hours on three of every four Saturdays...

For those not aware of it, I work for a building supply company (again). Saturday....

That's when the complete flippin' MORONS come crawling out of the woodwork. You know: the ones who know absolutely nothing, but know everything there is to know, and you're stupid for trying to give them precisely what they've asked for.

Today, I earned a medal.

Let me explain to you what a COMPLETELY TYPICAL SATURDAY is like for those of you who work in any industry that caters primarily to pros but doesn't discourage those DIY-channel addicts:

Before I begin, let me explain that you go into Saturday _knowing_ that you will get nothing done. The instant you finish with someone on the sales floor, another one will bite your ankle and drag you off to some other area to more publicly display their ignorance.

Just today, for example:

Coworker: "Hey, Duke-- you 'bout ready to open up?"

"End of day didn't run properly last night: computer issue I need to address. Give me ten minutes. Besides we don't open for another twenty minutes."

"Yeah, well, Mr. G is outside in his truck, and I was wondering if it'd be okay to let him in early."

Mr G.? Sure. He's a pro and a long-time customer who is both so competent at his work that if he can't get exactly what he wants, he'll make it from something else _and_ so familiar with the layout of the building and the yard that he's been a self-service customer as long as I can remember. Wait-- don't fall for it. Uhm E--!"

"Yeah, Man?"

Is he alone?

"Yeah; he's the only car in the parking lot."

All right; let him in. I'm just about done anyway.

"Cool."

"Hey, Duke?"

Yeah?

"Can you go ahead and come up here? There's like fifteen people up here!"

Nice. Registers aren't open; computer's not up, and what's he talking about?? I wade up front, and there are no less than a dozen vehicles in the parking lot. I thought you said he was alone!

"I swear, he _was_! But the second I unlocked the door, these people just _flew_ in here out of _nowhere_! I mean, one guy-- that green Toyota over there?-- he did a U-turn in the middle of the intersection and bounced over the curb to get in!"

And yes; I believe him, because it's Saturday, and the bulk of the people I'm going to see today really are in _that_ big a hurry to test someone's patience. Fine, E--. We'll deal with it.

Now granted, no one else is due to show up for 90 minutes, and the rest 30 to 60 minutes after that. But we'll cope.

I tear into the vault, grab a couple of bags, and open a couple of registers (you know: the completely hopeful but actually impossible idea that these people might be dashing in for a quick thing or two and I can help E-- ring them out and get them out of here. Never happens, but you can always hope).

First guy that sees me: "Hey! I need a circular saw!"

"Sure. What size?"

"I don't know. What's the standard one?"

"There really isn't a 'standard' size. Seven-and-a-quarter is the most popular, but it's not really a standard. I've got five-inch, seven-and-a-quarter, eight-inch and nine-inch. You want direct drive or gear drive?"

"I want the standard one."

Yay. Saturday has begun.

"There isn't a standard there, either. I've got direct drive, gear drive, right-handed and left-handed in both, and in six brands."

"Just give me the standard one."

"Tell you what: how about I show you the home-owner's most popular?"

"Is that the standard one?"

"Sure, Buddy." What ever gets me and at least one of your thumbs out of your life as fast as possible.

I take him to the saws and he complains about the display. "Sir, we're not a showroom or a bogus warehouse. We actually _are_ a warehouse with a small section of the building that was too low to run forklifts in. We made some of that offices, and the rest is out "store" as it were. We display what we can for the Saturday people, but we've got a lot more than what you see bolted to that wall. Why? Do you see something you like?"

"Not really. I just need a circular saw."

"Cool! You got a favorite brand?" ( love asking this of the Saturday People because I've decided that I'm going to give up tobacco completely if even a single one of them answers with _anything_ other than "which one's cheapest?")

I got to keep my tobacco yet again.

"That'd be this Black-and-Decker right here, Sir" I say, hefting it off the shelf and offering it to himm."

"No! I want a circular saw!"

"This is a circular saw, Sir." Granted, not much of one.

"Naw Hell it ain't! Are you blind?! That's a Skil saw!"

I grab a Skil-brand circular saw from the shelf (oh, how the mighty have fallen, Skil). "Skil is a brand-name, Sir. They invented the hand-held circular saw; before them, the were several feet in diameter and used only in mills. This, for example, is a Skil-brand circular saw."

"Yeah, that's a Skil saw!"

"Yes, Sir."

"I know that, Genius! I got me one of them already! I want a circular saw."

"These are _both_ circular saws, Buddy. I've got four or five other brands, too."

"These are all Skil saws!"

"No; these are all circular saws; just what you asked for!"

"You're tellin' me that all these Skil saws is circular saws?"

"Yes I am. I'm also telling you that this is what you asked for. " you know-- in the vain hope that you'll realize you're asking for the wrong thing and try to perhaps describe what you want to me, or tell you what you're planning to do with it. Vain, vain, _vain_ hope, to be sure....

"That ain't no [blankety-blank] circular saw, [more blanketies]!"

"Why do you say that, Guy?" I'm so far beyond even _pretending_ I can 'Sir" this guy that binoculars won't help. Though a scope might....

"I've owned [blankity-blankity-blankin' blank-blank] Skil saws my whole [blankity] life, that's why, you [blankin' blank blank], and you're [blankity blank] in the [blank bla-blank] if you think you can cut a [blank blankin'] circle with that [blank] thing!"

"Now we're getting somewhere! You want to cut a circle. Out of what?"

"Out of a granite countertop."

"Ah; I see. Cutting in for faucets, then. No; you wouldn't want a circular saw for that." I start to lead him to the diamond-edged hole saws

"Yeah I [blanked] well _DO_ want one! I just need a [blankety-blank] 3/4 inch circular saw that I can chuck into a [blankin-blank blank] drill! My God! Where do these places find such unbelievably stupid [blanks]?"

"They just come walking in, and really, we'll take anybody's money."

As expected, I just got a blank(ity) look; he clearly had no idea what I just did there. I handed him the hole saw he was hunting for and before could even wish him a firey death in car cr-- uh, nice day, someone was tugging on my shirt sleeve. I barely finished listening to mister "circular saw" tell E-- how unbelievably ignorant I was about tools when I turned to face my next abuser:

"Is you d' 'lectric man?" Oh, goodie. Another one.

"Yes, Sir! I'm here to read your meter!" I glib, hoping a little humor will get this encounter rolling along better than the last. It didn't.
"So you d' guy fo' queshuns 'bout 'lectwicity?"

"Yes, Sir. I am the guy for questions 'bout 'lectwicity." He burned his eyes up at me, but at least he dropped the hokey dialect.

As an aside here, folks: something I've learned throughout my long life about dealing with the public:

We have a strange double-standard where people are allowed to pretend to be ignorant about how to actually pronounce incredibly common words, and we have to all pretend that even though these folks were our classmates in school and watch or listen to the same programs that we do there is indeed some special physical barrier that prevents them from saying simple words like "electricity." Some of these folks play it as an age thing; others as a rural thing; some as a "youth" thing and even others as an ethnic thing (remember the "ebonics is a foreign language" thing a few years back? I'm sorry, but if you can "skreet," then you can say "screen." And if you can say "streen," then you can say "street."

At any rate, this particular river rat (there's a particular breed of redneck indigenous to this area, and they all live at one of the four rivers that cruise around the area. They are affectionately-- and yes, I really mean affectionately, because we pretend that intentional ignorance and a refrigerator on the front porch is a "charming display of culture") looked up at me, and knew I'd called him.

Most folks will do that, too. All you have to do is be willing to call them on it. The river rat knew that he was supposed to be the type of person who called it "'lectwicity," and that I was not. So when he heard "'lectwicity" coming out of my mouth, he was forced to accept that I knew he could say it right, and that 'lectwicity' didn't sound charming: it sounded ignorant.

Moving right along--

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, I just built a deck out at my place, and I been thinkin' 'bout (some of this actually is real accent, but he'd dropped the genuine put-on crap) runnin' me an outlet out there to the end of the deck so's I can plug stuff in."

"Okay. What can I do to help you?"

"Is twelve gauge wire gonna be enough? Or should I use ten? Wait, fourteen ought to be enough, shouldn't it?"

"Well, that depends. What are you planning on using the outlet for?

"Electricity! God, it's like talking to a [blankity] retard over here!" and then he stormed off. Good for you, Buddy! Fight the power! Be original! Don't be like everyone else and install a water outlet!

At this point, I got paged overhead--

let me explain: because I know commercial sales, lumber, and -- well, I've used this stuff to make a living one way or another most of my life. So when the actual lumber yard gets swamped with phone calls, the phone girls page me to answer the overflow calls.

I punch up the phone line before picking it up, and I cringe when I see it's a number I don't recognize. Yay. Another Do-it-yourselfer. I can't wait.

"Duke. Can I help you?"

"Yeah. What was your name again?" (crappy cell phone reception)

"Duke. What can I do for you?"

"Luke?"

"No. Duke. Like every third bird dog."

"Okay, Brian, I just got a quick question."

At this point, I see someone on the lumber yard with a cell phone in hand. He's walking through the treated dimensional stuff, and the background noises on the phone confirm that he's too lazy to actually walk to the lumber office and actually talk to someone in person. And I can't blame him; I mean-- it's almost thirty feet away from where he's standing, you know?

"Okay, what do you need to know?"

"How much are your boards?"

I'm stumped. I don't think I've ever been asked such an unanswerable question before.

"Uhm... What _kind_ of board?" I watch out the door as I see him scan the various wooden offerings before him.

"I don't know. A good one, I guess."

"Nothing more specific?"

"Just a good board, Brian. How much is a good board?"

I randomly call up a stick of treated 2x6 like that he's standing in front of. "Two-eighty-five a board."

"Is that a good one?"

"A good price?" This question is the most moronic: 'is that you're best price?' What am I supposed to say? Why, No, Sir! There are much better prices, but we were saving them for other people!' Gad but people are -- well, it's Saturday after all.

"Board! is that a good board?"

"Well it's _perfect_ for some things. It's not so good for others. What are you planning to do with your board?"

"I'm gonna make something, Smart-[blank]!"

"What are you going to make?"

"Why does that make a difference?"

"If you tell me what you're building and what size it's going to be, I might be able to help you get good boards."

"You know, I don't have time for this crap!" snaps his phone shut, _storms_ across the lumber yard, climbs into his Lexus (who pays that much for a Toyota, anyway?), and drives off.

Just in time for "Hey, Man, can I use your restroom?"

"Sorry, Buddy. We don't have one right now,---"

"Oh so like none a' y'all ever gotta pee or nothin?" He says, like he's somehow on to my game. "Or like ain't nobody good enough to use yo' [blank] toilet?" And then he did it: he declared it was all racism and that we were all out to get him--

at which point I said "Let me show you something."

"Why you can't just tell me? What you don't want these people out here to know the truth?"

"Because I tried to tell you and you couldn't keep your mouth shut long enough to listen. So now I'm going to show you-- AND ANYONE ELSE WHO WOULD CARE TO FOLLOW (announced to the three or four college-age kids who for unfathomable reasons were drawn to the accusation) what you wouldn't let me tell you."

And off we walked, out through the pipe yard, around through the flooring warehouse, right to a large pile of debris stacked outside the roll-up door near the flooring warehouse. I whipped out a key and opened the man door beside the roll-up (we don't have anyone one staff in flooring on the weekends, so we don't open the doors on the unviewable side of the building). I pointed to the pile of debris. "Please notice the toilets."

Then we walked inside and I showed him the barriers and plywood walls erected near where the entrance to the restrooms is normally visible. "Please notice the "restrooms out of order for remodeling; we apologize for any inconvenience."

I move a barrier and led him into the large cavern that used to house the restrooms. I point to the conspicuously uncrowned floor flanges and bits of plumbing; the missing walls and ceilings, and the new tile work that's been added. "As you can see, we have no restroom. I don't care if you're white, black, striped, or covered in glowing swirls, you're going to have to crap somewhere else." Then I lock back up and lead him into the main flooring area, where I abandon him. "Most of us have been either using the gas station across the street or the McDonald's on the next block. The ladies are using the parts store next door. Now if you're done making a scene, there are people out there who need lots of help, and some of it relates to building materials."

About ten minutes into trying to explain to a woman that you can't plug everything a house contains into a single outlet--

No, by God; I don't get spared this crap, and neither will you!

A woman in her early sixties asked if we had surge protectors. I took her to where they are located and asked if she had any particular requirements for them. "Oh, I just need something to protect a refrigerator."

I explained to her that a surge protector wasn't a good idea for that: most of them are wired with 16 gauge wire, and some of them use 18 gauge wire. Neither of these was sufficient to safely use with a refrigerator. While it would work for a while, she would slowly be destroying the compressor on the fridge.

"Well I'm just afraid that lightning or something might hit it." A valid and reasonable concern, particularly in this part of the world.

"Let me show you this device: it's actually a surge protector and it's a GFCI converter or sorts."

"What's that mean?"

"Ground fault circuit interrupting. That means that if power ever feeds to ground for _any_ reason, it will switch off and prevent damage to whatever is plugged in, or prevent electrical shock to the person using whatever is plugged in."

"Well I don't need that; I just need a surge protector."

"Yes, Ma'am. and this does that as well."

"Well then why can't I use the other one?"

"Because this one has no wires. It's all sold-strap power conveyance, meaning that it will handle as much load as the outlet itself will handle." She was clearly lost.

"So I can plug the refrigerator in there, and if there's a strike or something, it won't get my fridge?"

"Well Ma'am, any surge protector can fail. If the surge is sufficient enough, it can bridge the break in the circuit and ---"

"Duke, call Lumber."

"Excuse me a moment, Ma'am. I'll be right back." I grab a phone. "Duke. Can I help you?"

"Duke!" a note of amusement and a bit of anger.

"Yeah, T--; what's up? I've got a customer."

"I won't keep you; I just gotta know something."

"Sure. What?"

"There's a very tall man out here wearing a T-shirt on his head. Did you talk to him?"

"Young black guy, heavy muscles up top and bird legs?"

"So you did talk to him?"

"Yeah. I told him the restrooms were out of commission."

"So you told him to come back here and pee on the fence?"

"Uhm, no. I did not."

"Well he says you did."

"Yeah. Have fun with him. He's an idiot, and from my experience, he's pretty much just looking for attention."


"I'm sorry, Ma'am. Where were we?"

"Can I plug an extension cord into the other outlet?"

"Well yes, but you'll need to be careful what you plug into that same outlet if you have the refrigerator already plugged in there."

"Why?"

"You can overload the outlet. The refrigerator is a high-draw item when it's running, and especially so when it first kicks on."

"But I can plug something else in there if I had to?"

"Sure; you could plug in a low-draw item like a coffee pot or a lamp or something like that, sure."

"How about my air conditioner?" WHAT?!

"No, Ma'am."

"Why not?"

"Because your fridge is a high-draw item. Your air conditioner is an even _higher_ draw item. The typical house outlet is only rated for 15 amps."

"But the air conditioner is right next to the kitchen."

"That doesn't make it draw less power, I'm afraid."

So I can't plug in anything else?"

"Ma'am, it'd be best for the air conditioner to have its own outlet."

"Why?"

"Like I said: the typical household outlet--"

"Oh. This isn't a house. This is a garage apartment I'm converting so I can rent it."

"That's okay; it's the same kind of outlet. And it's only rated for 15 amps."

"Even if it's in a garage?"

"Even if it's in a garage."

"There's no way I can use the air conditioner and the fridge together?"

"Ma'am, there are some air conditioners that are so high-draw that they actually require _special_ outlets rated for twenty and thirty amps!"

"Who will I know if I have one of those?"

"The plug will be different from a 'normal' plug. It won't fit in a 15-amp outlet."

"Why not?"

"To prevent you from burning your house down."

"It's a garage apartment."

"And therefore not fireproof."

"What's fire have to do with it?"

"Ma'am, if you exceed fifteen amps, you will heat up the outlet. Very briefly, like when something with a large motor turns on, it's okay. But you can't run them like that. They get hot, and that leads to fire. If you exceed the capacity of an outlet regularly, you will have fires regularly."

"But the man put in a 20 amp breaker!"

"Yes, Ma'am. That's because there is probably more than the one outlet on the circuit. The breaker can handle multiple outlets, so long as the power they are drawing at the same time doesn't add up to more than twenty amps."

"Right. Yes; he put in two outlets."

"One for the fridge and one for a small air conditioner, perhaps?"

"For the apartment."

"Yes, Ma'am. Two new outlets. They were probably for the fridge and the A/C."

"No; they were for the apartment. It has two outlets."

"Total? Only two outlets in the whole thing?"

"Yes."

"How would you expect someone to live there? I mean, even without an air conditioner, the fridge and a coffee pot or something like that will fill one outlet, and that leaves only one other outlet for everything else!"

"But if I plug this in with the fridge (holds up small 18 gauge brown cord with three outlets on the end) they can plug all their kitchen stuff in there, right?"

"No. You'll be overloading the outlet."

"Well then why do they even make these things?!"

"Because I can take that same cord and plug in a phone charger, a lamp, and a radio and come nowhere near close to the limits of that outlet; that's why."

"Well if you can plug in three things then why can't I plug in the fridge and the air conditioner?"

"It's not about the number of things; it's about the total amount of electricity you're pulling through the outlet. It's invisible, but it does have mass, and the friction of that mass generates heat. Pull too much through at one, and you'll have a fire."

"But it's a garage apartment!"

"Which does absolutely nothing to change the fundamental nature of electricity, I promise."

"So you're saying I shouldn't do it?"

"Ma'am, I am saying with absolute certainty that if you do this, you _will_ have a fire."

"Even if I turn off the A/C whenever I want to use the fridge?"

"Ma'am, I can picture absolutely no scenario in which that will work."

"How about if I only do it when I need to plug something in?"

"Ma'am, let me say it this way: if you attempt to plug in something more powerful than a coffee pot along with that fridge, you will have a fire. If you attempt to plug in the fridge and the A/C, you will have a fire. If you attempt to plug a bedroom, bathroom, and living room worth of stuff into an endless series of 18 gauge multitaps, you will have a fire. Now I can't _stop_ you from buying those things or from doing what you clearly have every intention of doing. I will say that if watching your garage apartment go up in flames is your personal thing, then you're well on your way to having a wonderful time. If it's not your thing, then I would _strongly_ caution you to put those extension cords back, call an electrician, and have your apartment wired correctly."

"But it's just a garage apartment."

"And it will stay that way, right up until someone actually tries to live there."

She left. According to the cashier that rang her out, she left with no less than eight of those little brown cords.



Folks, I wish I could tell you that this was unusual. But this is it: this is Saturday! Every Saturday! Every single one of them. It's the day that absolute morons are turned loose to roam the streets and tackle do it yourself projects over and over and over until they finally succeed at killing themselves. Bonus points if you take other people to Heaven with you, of course.

I wish I could say that these were isolated instances, but they're not. This is what Saturday is, all day, from six am to seven pm, interrupted only on the _rarest_ occasion by someone who actually knows what they're doing or talking about, and even more rarely by that truly blessed individual: the do-it-yourselfer who actually wants to do something correctly with a minimum amount of injury and property damage.


Fast-forward to--

you know what?

I'm actually tired of typing.

I'll tell you all about the granddaddy of buffoons (and the freakin' medal I'm never going to get) at some other point.

All y'all have a great weekend.

_________________

Duke
"Skills must be Learned"
------ Herb Christian


"Ask your doctor if medical advice from a television commercial is right for _you_."


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sat Jun 16, 2012 10:28 pm 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Sep 17, 2003
Motorcycle: 5 Shadows, 3 Rebels
Rebel: 250
Country: U.S.S.A.
State/Province: NV
City: Las VLX-as
More.

MORE.


MORE!!!

_________________
"Ride Safe, Chop Safer"
Dismantling, sawzalling, and rattle canning does not make a bobber. That's called an "ANCHOR".
Image
http://shadow-shack.20m.com


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sat Jun 16, 2012 11:24 pm 
Offline

Joined: Oct 16, 2005
Motorcycle: 2014 CB500XA
Rebel: None
Country: USA
State/Province: AZ
City: Green Valley
Actually, IMHO, these stories should be taken in small doses to protect the consumer from disbelief.

_________________
John, 2014 CB500XA (Daily Rider), 2009 CRF230L (L'il Red Piglet), 1989 NX250 - sold, 2001 Rebel - sold
Image


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 3:58 am 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Sep 17, 2003
Motorcycle: 5 Shadows, 3 Rebels
Rebel: 250
Country: U.S.S.A.
State/Province: NV
City: Las VLX-as
Just take the recommended dose of brain bleach, and you can handle it all day and night and then some.

_________________
"Ride Safe, Chop Safer"
Dismantling, sawzalling, and rattle canning does not make a bobber. That's called an "ANCHOR".
Image
http://shadow-shack.20m.com


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 5:36 am 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Feb 23, 2009
Motorcycle: Rebel 250 plus a few others
Rebel: 250
Country: Canada
State/Province: NB
City: Fredericton
I'm waiting for the movie..

_________________
2004 Honda Rebel 250
2003 BMW K1200GT
2004 BMW R1200GS
1996 Ducati 900SS
1973 Norton 850 Interstate


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 8:03 am 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Sep 17, 2003
Motorcycle: 5 Shadows, 3 Rebels
Rebel: 250
Country: U.S.S.A.
State/Province: NV
City: Las VLX-as
Dudeman: the Movie


Starring Ashton Kutcher...who doesn't have to exert any effort whatsoever for the role.

_________________
"Ride Safe, Chop Safer"
Dismantling, sawzalling, and rattle canning does not make a bobber. That's called an "ANCHOR".
Image
http://shadow-shack.20m.com


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 12:56 pm 
Offline

Joined: May 11, 2007
Motorcycle: Suzuki C50; BMW G650GS
Rebel: None
Country: USA
State/Province: IN
City: Scottsburg
Duke, so glad you are back writing again. Missed you buddy. The next time I ride to Florida, I am going to have to make a side trip to see you man. I work in IT at a local college and I have had my experiences with stupid users. People always tell the students, "there is no such thing as a stupid question" never worked in IT. They may be right, there are no stupid questions; however, there are stupid people who ask questions. '
Even the college is stupid when remodeling work spaces and electricity. When they remodel, they only put in 2 electrical outlets; knowing each and every staff member needs at least 3 for their workstations: one for their computer, one for their monitor (and the monitor is NOT the computer=dont get me started), and one for their phone. Plus some staff in some departments need an outlet for their calculator, personal fan/heater, cell phone charger, etc.. you get the idea. They only put in 2 outlets and tell us to install power strips when hooking up their computers. I keep waiting for the day the whole place burns down and OSHA gets involved. arghhh.


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 10:36 pm 
Offline
Forum Administrator

Joined: Jul 25, 2003
Motorcycle: 98 Valkyrie
Rebel: 250
Country: USA
State/Province: GA
City: Vidalia
Keeping on with the keeping on:

John, back when everything I did was technical in some fashion or other-- you know: not a lot of "work with the public" type stuff, I would have been hard pressed to believe how unbelievably stupid the human race is as a whole. For those who have never done anything retail related, I recommend it; it gives you an incredible insight into just why there are so many stupid things in the world: warnings on shampoo that say "Do not eat," labels on charcoal that say "do not use in vehicles;" even the stuff you see legislated. Want to know why it's so ridiculous? Go meet the people buying, using, and voting. It's astounding!

Haven't gotten on to moving on, have I? Sorry about that. Here we go:

Thirty minutes to closing (sadly, that still put it at almost two hours before actual quitting time, but at least the Saturday People would be gone for another week) and there's a terrible commotion coming from the front end of the store. I hear hollering and yelling and there's a great sulphureous cloud of vocabulary spreading like a coastal fog. Of course. You see, I was talking to a young lady and her husband about remodeling their bathroom, and they were that rare couple of do-it-yourselfer's who didn't automatically assume that watching two episodes of Holmes on Homes and a few reruns of Trading Spaces made them instant experts. It was so wonderful, so refreshing, so blissful--

there was just no way that Fate would allow me enjoy _that_ for thirty seconds, not when there were still Saturday People to contend with. I excused myself from the young couple and walked toward the front. As I moved toward the commotion, the intercom goes off and one of the cashiers paged me to the front registers. Oh, this was just getting better by the minute. As I neared the final turn toward the registers, one of the sales floor staff sprinted around the corner, grabbed my arm and ushered me up a side aisle.

She looked up and down the aisle to make sure we were reasonably alone, and then began whispering frantically at me, accompanying her unintelligible garbled murmurs with flashing and flying hands, waving so frantically that she could have been detailing the problem or trying to take flight right that very spot. I finally grabbed her hands and gently moved them down to her side. "D--, I'm half deaf. I have no idea what you're saying when you whisper. But I suspect I could already know if you'd just let me keep walking." Figuring it must be pretty bad, I detoured through plumbing to pick up my cane. I usually bring it on Saturday, even if I haven't needed it all week, simply because the eleven hours of non-stop running gets to my backbone, and after 3-ish, I often need a bit of help staying upright. Today, even though my back was screaming at me, I was still walking rather steadily, and hadn't bothered using it. However, I was gathering (and hearing, as the hollering and death threats had gotten louder and more vulgar) that something really ugly was going on up front, and I have learned over the years that the cane makes a good psychological prop.

In a nutshell, I am a big guy. I am also an ugly guy. And I'm rather rough-looking. I don't mean in that "he looks like he could whip Mike Tyson" sort of way, but in that charming "he looks like he'd sneak into your house at night, set your dog on fire, and cut the throat of every person in there while they sleep and hang around to laugh at your screams" sort of way. I don't do it on purpose, but people are funny: "Oh my God! Big bald guy with a bushy beard, shiny eyes and a shambling gate! He's a psycho killer!" What's wrong with people, anyway? The cane, much like my pink helmet and more festive button down riding shirts, simply serve as props to make me look less threatening (let's be honest: I'm a teddy bear anyway, at least anymore, but people are their own worst enemies).

I assumed my tri-pedal gait and marched straight toward the Pit (noticing how much my back appreciated me finally picking up the cane).

You see, the Pit has a cash register on each side, with a lengthy expanse of counter top devoted to each register. Facing the front door, the two tops are joined by a third top that serves as a place for customers to come in the front door and ask various things (where is this; is so-and-so here, etc). The third side of the Pit-- the back side; the side you can see clearly into as you approach the registers-- is completely open. This gives a completely unobstructed view of everything-- and everyone-- inside the Pit. That means that as you walk up, you can see which side the cashier is on and proceed to that side to ring out. You can see if there are two cashiers on duty. You can see if there is a third person in there helping with some sort of situation-- you can see everything and everyone, period.

Ah, the registers. The new set-up since the storefront was remodeled is more efficient, but it's become something of a dummy magnet. You see, there are two central registers behind a three-sided square of countertop (this area is affectionately known as "The Pit" during the week, and "The Third Circle" on Saturday) You see, on Saturday, the cashiers go to lunch. This is no different from any other day: one of them goes from eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty; the other goes from twelve-thirty to one-thirty. If we are fortunate (and we are during the week, but on Saturdays everyone is too busy dealing with Saturday People to stay in the Pit very long), individuals from the sales floor will rotate in and out of the Pit to assist the solo cashier. None of this changes the fact that anyone walking up to the registers has a crystal-clear view of just precisely what is going on.

And it never fails that while there is only one cashier in the Pit, someone will walk up to ring out, see that there are three people standing in line, then move to the other side of the Pit, place all their items in front of the unmanned cash register and wait.

HOW MORONIC DO YOU HAVE TO BE TO THINK THIS MAKES ANY KIND OF SENSE?!

"Well, I don't want to wait in that line, so I'll go over here to the completely unmanned register and that will get me out faster! Yeah; they'll never out-think me!"

Then they have the audacity to become angered when the cashier finishes with her current customer and moves to the next person in line! I mean, how _DARE_ she do that? Can't she see that you, Captain Saturday, are far too important to the universe at large to stand in line like a common heathen?! My heart breaks for you, and my eyes weep genuine tears of sorrow. Mostly, it's my heartbreaking sorrow that you're allowed to go out unsupervised, drive a car, and reproduce, but if it helps, it is _genuine_ sorrow that I feel.

Standing at the register was my current charge. My two favorite cashiers as well, and one of them looked ready to commit crimes to heinous to detail in this family-oriented tale. I'm no expert on being not-white, but I'm willing to bet the nearly non-stop torrent of racial epithets _might_ have had something to do with that. Actually, neither of them are pink, but the other is studying to be a preacher, and seems to have better control over his outward expressiveness. Oh yes; this is going to be great. I can just tell: you see, I'm psychic like that.

I gave up eavesdropping as I approached, as there was nothing helpful being said. Honestly, there was nothing that should ever actually _be_ said being said. I made a note to praise both the cashiers both verbally and in their personnel files for the aplomb with which they were handling themselves. Had I been any sort of not-white, I'm pretty sure I'd be arrested for what his onslaught would have prompted from me. They were both killing him with kindness instead, though it was clearly all that S-- could do to keep from killing him in a more conventional manner. Can't say I blame her: she herself is an incredibly intelligent, verbally-gifted single mother who is currently studying to break into the medical field. If I didn't know she was only going be here until school got in the way, I'd have made her my right hand months ago. She's amazing. Everything this old tub of garbage was spewing was insult both to her and to all the people who think highly of her. Most of all, it's an insult to her ten-year-old son, who is a very bright, very out-going young man who has more sense then half the grown men I've ever met. I was reasonably confident that if she'd actually jumped at him, I'd have held him down for her.


He was a large man. Not "large" in the politically-correct way that we mean "really fat," but like me he was a big guy. He was, if I had to guess, in his mid-sixties. He was clearly a very physically capable and physically active man. Like me, he walked on a cane, but the lanyard that tethered it to his elbow told me that he wasn't fortunate enough to enjoy any length of time away from it. I almost-- _almost__-- felt bad for just how badly I wanted to physically express my distaste for the way he was treating my people. I made an intentional effort to lean my cane against the counter, just to get it out of my hand. Keeping with the psychology, I made a point to prop on the counter while we spoke.

I had already made up my mind. "Sir, you are invited to leave. In fact, I insist on it. There is nothing here that anyone can do for you, and you are clearly unhappy with the service you're getting."

I'd really like to quote the next few lines from his mouth, but I'm going to ask you to indulge me and just imagine the next six to eight lines as being filled with [epithet deleted] and occasional punctuation. It's pretty much the same thing.

"No, Sir. I have no interest in helping you. No one who talks to another human being like that is welcome here."

More of the above. In four minutes of the most vile torrent you can imagine, I was able to pick out the following few words and make the following sentence:

"I want to return this but I lost my receipt and it's all your fault."

"I don't care. I want you gone."

Again, I can't quote. Everything below is sort of paraphrased. I say sort of, because most of the words are directly quoted, chronologically, but there were so many unprintable things wedged in between the words that actually quoting him, while possible, isn't worth wasting human effort on.

"Well I'm not leaving until--"

"Yes Sir, you are. On your own, or with help. But you're leaving." I gestured back to my cashiers "After the way you treated them, I couldn't face myself in the mirror if I lifted a finger to help you. You have to go." I began to move around the counter to help eject him.

You know, I've never actually _had_ to eject someone physically. Generally, I am able to resolve a problem. For all the fretting and fuming about Saturday "People," I'm actually enjoy problem solving enough that I'm able to overlook a lot. Sometimes it doesn't work, and I have to ask someone to leave. When it gets that bad, they usually mouth off a bit and then go. I've never had to help someone out the door. And I'd be a cussed _liar_ if I didn't say I wasn't looking forward to rolling this guy straight into the street.

As I started toward the exit of the Pit, S-- put her hand on my arm and spoke softly, clearly forcing herself to stay calm "It's okay, Duke. I am a better person than getting worked up about the opinions of some half-dead piece of piece of redneck garbage. Go ahead and help him."

I was shocked. I looked at L--, asking him wordlessly. He nodded and waved a dismissive consent. I didn't want to simply turn and help him without him knowing that I was doing it for them, and not him, so I asked, loudly and clearly: "Are you sure, S--? Because I've already decided to eject him."

She nodded and said "If you can do something for him, then do it."

"How about you, L--?"

"Yeah, Duke. I'm fine with it. Honestly, it's not like a bunch of ignorant bluster means anything. I probably won't even remember it when I'm preaching his funeral." (I think S-- and I were the only people there who appreciated the subtle dig he got off there.)

"Mister, I am going to try to solve your problem, but only because these two are willing to forgive you. Don't mistake their kindness for mine."

"Well it's about [lots and lots of unsayables here] time! I paid good money for this thing last week, and I want to return it!"

The thing in question was a gallon of off-brand sanding sealer. The good money in question was about thirteen bucks. The can was faded and rusted. There was another can of the same product on the counter that was neither faded nor rusted. No question someone had already done the "Sir; this is what a can bought yesterday would look like" explanation of why I can't help you without a receipt. Why do people think we hand those things out anyway? Because we like buying the machinery, paper, and ink that it takes to print them? We'd save a fortune by simply not printing them and putting up "all sales final" signs.

As I began the laborious process of wading through the sales records for this item (I'll spare you the details of that; suffice it to say that it's nearly impossible to track a cash transaction that took place more than a week or so ago, and it's a needle in a haystack to find one that didn't take place within the last two hours), I picked up the can he had placed on the counter. The tracking report came back that there had been no cash sales on this item all month. Odd.

I noticed that the price tag was still on the item. Price tags: lots of folks today think that these are outdated and quaint in a world of barcodes and scan guns, but there is a wealth of information on those things besides just how much it costs. For instance, the date code. In this case, it said that the item he was holding was shipped to our store in April of 2010. What are the odds that he bought this yesterday? 'Great.' I thought to myself. 'He's belligerent, ignorant, and suffering from early dementia. This is getting better and better.'

At this point, there was quite a crowd gathering around, both employees anxious to see how this played out, and customers evidently curious to see how much they could get away with should they decide to also lose their minds. D-- was there, and I subtly tapped the price tag (sanding sealer would have been in her department).

"I mentioned that" she said, as if talking to someone out of the old man's sight. "But it didn't change anything."

Just to test the waters, I pretended to study the screen while making 'small talk.' "And you're sure you got this yesterday?" which was met with an unrepeatable affirmative. I glared a warning at him. "At this store?" More crudeness. I'd had enough.

It was at that moment that I began to channel my brother D-. You see, he used to work for a phone company, back when real people answered the phones. He fielded complaints, technical calls, etc. His last day at work there, he got a standing ovation from his co-workers. He lived and worked near a military base that was nearly doubling in size, and there were more requests for new phone lines than the installers and service crews could keep up with. They were working twelve-hour days, but some people can't appreciate what's involved in installing eight thousand new phone lines and figure it's going to be done in the next ten minutes. There was one such customer who had called repeatedly, every hour on the hour (during business hours) for three days. Never mind that she wasn't promised a working phone line for another four or five days. Clearly her husband, SPC-4 Husband, was far too important to wait for phone lines to actually be run through the woods to the new on-base subdivision, and some sort of satellite phone should be made available to her immediately.

The third day, her husband called instead of her, and apparently went nuts while talking to the woman who answered the phone. He demanded that he be allowed to talk to her manager. Now folks, that just doesn't happen. It's not that the manager is too important or whatever, but in this case, there just isn't one. Everyone in the call center knew their jobs and did them well. When someone demanded a manager, the phone was usually just handed to someone else.

In this case, it was handed to my brother D--. He listened to the man's tirade, and upon getting his name, it clicked that he had already fielded numerous calls from his wife with the same result: your phone will be installed on X day. It is impossible to install it any sooner because there are no phone lines run out there yet. The phone company has no control over the army moving people into neighborhoods that have not yet been supplied with phone service. And D-- had finally had enough when SPC-4 Husband started unloading:

"Listen, Buddy. Your wife called here three days ago to request a phone. She was told then that it would be installed on Day X, which is _still_ a few days away. She was told that we can't do it sooner because there are no phone lines run to the new neighborhood you're moving into. She has called every single hour since that conversation to complain that your phone is not installed in spite of the fact that it's not supposed to be installed yet. You're calling up here to complain that your phone isn't installed even though the day you were promised a phone doesn't get here until next week. Right now, we have nearly three hundred men working seven twelve-hour shifts a week just so that you and all your neighbors can have phones next week. We are doing all of this for you, and we don't even know who you are. How much longer do you think it's going to take if you P*$$ US OFF?!" Then he hung up the phone, received his ovation, and left, never to return to that job again.

And at that moment, standing there in the Pit, listening to my people-- people that this person had totally abused moments before yet they still _insisted_ that I help this jerk, if only to prove to themselves that they were better people than this guy, I understood everything that D-- was going through in that moment.

In my youth, I would likely have gone over the counter at that point. But today, I've got a family. I need the job. Every fiber of my being wanted to go over the counter and club him like a baby seal until he apologized personally to each and every person in that building. But hey-- the job market's tough right now: We advertised for a new cashier last week. In two days, we had just under three hundred applications, and this is a very, very small town.

So I stood their, feeling my knuckles crack under the strain of tightening fists and looked at him and said "You need to watch your mouth. There are children, women, and total strangers in here that can hear every word you're saying. The only thing you're accomplishing is proving that it doesn't bother you to act like a complete jackass in public. Listen to me very carefully: I do not _want_ to help you. I do not _have_ to help you. I am helping you _only_ because these people right here are better than you are, and have asked me to help you in spite of your treatment of them, and in spite of my good judgement. I want to roll you out that front door so badly that I can taste it. If you can't conduct your mouth like it's being used by a sensible adult, I _will_ roll you out that door."

"Oh It's goin' down now! Looks like I'm gonna have to hit somebody in the head with my walking stick! I've been known to do that, you know!"

I pulled my cane to me-- non-threateningly, of course; I really wasn't trying to escalate the situation, no matter how badly I wanted to. "Good. We can have us a little sword fight right here in the store. And then when we both fall over, we call roll around and slap each other repeatedly until someone decides which one of us is the baddest crippled senior citizen in the whole county. Or you can stop making ridiculous threats, control your mouth, and maybe salvage some of your dignity."

He looked at me like I had punched him. Ah, if only he was looking at me _because_ I had punched him....

I resumed my work, sent the computer back further through the cash transactions, and studied the old man casually while I waited for the results of the report. I couldn't shake the feeling that I knew him from somewhere. He contended himself with more bluster and idle threats, but at least curbed his vocabularic choices and dropped the volume.

The report came back (finally!) and showed that the last cash transaction on that item number was in 2010. There were seven cash transactions total on the report, all of them in the same three-week period of-- you guessed it: 2010. "And you're sure you got this yesterday?"

"How the [yadda yadda yadda] should I know? It might have been last week! How am I supposed to keep up with it?"

"Most people do it by keeping the receipt. It has the date on it."

"Well I [and on and on and on ] left it in the bag and now [etc, etc] it's gone!"

"I imagine so. Bags left out in the wind sun and rain are notoriously poor filing cabinets."

"What difference does it make when I bought it? I bought it here!"

I turned the computer toward him "because I haven't sold any of that for cash since 2010. If you can't give me anything to work with, we're probably done here."

"Well what if I got in 2010?"

"I'd tell you to use that stuff up quickly; it's only got a ten-year shelf life, then I'd turn around and go back to my business unless you needed some help out to your truck."

"Well I just bought it! I paid cash for it! I can prove it!"

"No; you can't. That's why you and I have been standing here for the past thirty minutes (it was now five minutes to closing time): because you lost the only proof you had that you bought it here yesterday for cash."

"Well you ought to keep stuff like that in the computer!"

"Nearly forty years ago, when the owner opened this company, adults were perfectly capable of looking after their own affairs. Unfortunately, we have decided to continue believing that this is still true today. We give people receipts and hope for the best. The clever ones put them somewhere safe until they're sure the are keeping the product. Others stick them in a bag and leave them in the back yard for a while."

"Well you know what? Suppose I just take my business elsewhere? Hunh? I was just fixin' to build a big ol' fine house and I gotta buy my stuff somehwere and I don't believe I'll ever come back here again! How about that?"

"I can't see anything to complain about."

"Oh, you want me to take my business somewhere else? How would [owner] feel about that?"

"Since the only business you have is cussing out my people and trying to get money without any proof of purchase, I don't think he'd mind."

"I'm gonna build a house--"

"No you're not. For one, you're even older and more stove up than I am. For another, you'd need that sanding sealer you're trying to return."

Ever see a goldfish just stare at you and glub his jaw up and down without making a sound? Turns out ignorant old knuckle-dragging inbreds can do that, too."

S-- took advantage of the silence and offered "I'm sorry, Sir, but you don't have a receipt and the only sales we have of that product are from over two years ago---"

I cast a sidelong eye toward the new can on the counter and studied the date code. It, too, had a date code of 2010. I pulled up the inventory database and combed through the records while he blustered some more. Seems we hadn't actually bought any since 2010. It was still possible, as we had two on the shelf, that he did pick it up recently.

"I bought this here yesterday! I paid cash, too! God [yadda yadda yadda], am I going to have to shoot someone else to get my [etc, etc] money back?!"

And that's when it hit me. I knew why I recognized him. "You're M--C--'s grandfather, aren't you?'

"Oh, so you know who I am?"

"Yeah; you're M--C--'s grandfather."

"Then you know I ain't just talking through my [], don't you?"

"I haven't seen anything to convince me that everything you've done since you got here came straight through your [ ], actually, but yeah, I know who you are."

"And you're gonna talk to me like that?"

"I'm going to talk to you the same way you talk to me. If you think you need more respect, then you might want to think about showing some."

S-- looked at me. "Who is M--C--?"

"You know M-- that worked in the lumber yard until last week?"

"This is his granddaddy?"

"Yes."

"Never would have guessed that. M-- was always so nice to people."

"Hey! Am I gonna get my money or not?"

"Sure. Just as soon as you get it from M--."

"Like Hell!"

"Look: you didn't buy that from me. M-- did. And going through is account history, it looks like he bought it... about two and a half months ago. My guess is he picked it up for you so he could get the employee discount, didn't have any cash, so he charged it to his account. Then he brought it to you and you paid him so he could clear the bill on his account. That sound about right?"

"Maybe."

"Then get your money from him. That's who you bought it from."

"You oughta know better than to talk to me like that if you know who I am."

"I know who you are. You're Crazy Old Man C--, drug dealer and gun runner through the sixties and seventies. Been to federal prison three times, once for gun running and twice for shooting people."

"Then you know you should have some respect!"

"Old man, let _me_ tell _you_ something. They closed M--'s account when he quit last week to start his new job. It's paid out even. I _could_, technically, take that as a return to his account, which would give a credit balance, and have a check mailed to M-- for him to cash and give you the money. But I'm not going to. I will, however, help you manage your threats."

His eyes bugged again.

At this point, my personal phone rang. It was my brother J--. "Let me call you back in about ten minutes, after we close up, J--. I'm kind of in the middle of something."


"You might not be able to accept that none of us are as strong or as able as we used to be, but the fact of the matter is that I'm nearly twenty years younger than you, about thirty-five pounds bigger, and a HELL of a lot smarter. For example, do you have any idea how _stupid_ it is to threaten to beat someone with a stick, and _then_ threaten to leave and never come back? That's just stupid! If you threaten to beat someone with a stick, they _hope_ you don't come back. You're not even smart enough to get that right! First threaten their wallet, and if that doesn't work, _then_ threaten their safety. Don't threaten their safety and then threaten to never actually do it. That's completely moronic.

Second, don't threaten to hit someone with the stick that you are at that moment using to stand up. It's pretty clear that if someone knocked that thing out from under you you'd go down in a sad little overall-wearing heap. How do you want someone to believe that you're going to start wielding it like some sort of viking warrior while you're laying down there?

Third, don't threaten to use a stick on a guy whose forearms bear three scars from knife fights. He already knows that he's been through a whole lot worse and come out on top: it just doesn't bother him.

Forth, never identify yourself until after you have your way. Yeah; I know who you are. I know you're a thrice convicted fellon, which makes threatening to shoot someone even worse for you. Suppose one of these little ladies over here (two of the several customers who had watched all this with fascination) recognized you ten minutes ago when you threatened to shoot me, walked off somewhere and called the police saying "there's a convicted felon down here who has a gun!" We wouldn't even be talking right now: you're stupidity would have landed you right in the back of the ride to what, at your age, would likely be your retirement villa.

So plainly, never, ever identify yourself if you're going to threaten people with violence.

Fifth: don't act like a horse's smurf. If you had come in here and acted at all civil when these folks tried to help you, I'd have respected that enough to go all the way. Inside of ten minutes, you could have had your money and left, and everyone would be as happy as it is possible to be after pulling a ten hour shift on Saturday.

Sixth, and I think you really need to remember this one, don't threaten to reach into your front pocket, pull out a pistol and shoot me. First of all, you've shot two people; neither of them died. I've been shot three times; I'm still here. We are both intimately aware that shooting someone may not be as final as you'd like to think it was, and that makes the threat weaker. Secondly, if you _are_ going to do it, don't do it standing right in FRONT of me! I mean, all you really did was tell me that there was a small pistol in your front pocket. So you see, now I'm aware of it. If you'd actually decided to go for that pocket, you have lost all the surprise. You have to hope that you can get your arthritic fingers into that front pocket, around that gun, and back out of that pocket faster than I can grab the back of your head and smash your face repeatedly into this counter. Given that we're less than three feet away from each other, I'd have to think it would have made your day a whole lot worse than you were planning on.

If you're going to threaten someone with a gun, don't threaten to pull it out. Pull it out, then threaten to use it.

I can't say that I'm sorry I can't help you, because I _can_ help you, but I'm not going to. I do hope that you will take in at least _some_ of what I suggested, and then all your bragging and bluster to the next unarmed woman behind a cash register might get you whatever pitiful bit of respect it is that you're looking for. In the meanwhile, I'd suggest getting in your truck, hauling tail out of here as fast as you can, and ditching that gun."

I pointed at D--, who had taken the cue earlier and made a big show of putting the phone down "because that woman right there has just finished letting the police know that thrice-convicted felon Crazy Old Man C is up here with a gun in his pocket and threatening to beat and shoot people if he doesn't get the thirteen dollars that he never spent here. You've burnt up enough of my life; it's time for you to go."

And with that, L-- held the door open for him while S-- and E-- and the others started killing lights and helping the last few Saturday People who had stopped shopping in the hopes of watching two old men beat each other with sticks.

I swear, there is just _nothing_ good about Saturday people.

S-- walked up and said "thank you, Duke." and kissed my fuzzy cheek before she left. L-- looked at me and said "I can't believe you volunteer for this crap! You deserve some sort of medal for working here."

That-- more than anything else: more than venting the frustrations caused by Saturday People in general, more than posturing like I was a young lunatic rounder again, even more than putting Crazy Old Dudeman in his place--- just a small amount of appreciation from people I _do_ respect, made the whole day worthwhile.

L-- walked past D-- on the way out. "Did you really call the police?"

"Oh God no. I felt sorry for the old [explicative]. I just called my husband and told him I was going to be late because we had a situation. Then I just hung on to the phone until I could slam it down."

L-- laughed. D-- looked at me and grinned. "I love working here!" she beamed as she headed out. "Don't you?"

"Right up until Saturday."

_________________

Duke
"Skills must be Learned"
------ Herb Christian


"Ask your doctor if medical advice from a television commercial is right for _you_."


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 10:37 pm 
Offline
Forum Administrator

Joined: Jul 25, 2003
Motorcycle: 98 Valkyrie
Rebel: 250
Country: USA
State/Province: GA
City: Vidalia
The worst part is that until he called again this afternoon, I totally forgot to call my brother back. :oops:

_________________

Duke
"Skills must be Learned"
------ Herb Christian


"Ask your doctor if medical advice from a television commercial is right for _you_."


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 18, 2012 4:12 am 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Sep 17, 2003
Motorcycle: 5 Shadows, 3 Rebels
Rebel: 250
Country: U.S.S.A.
State/Province: NV
City: Las VLX-as
Wow.

All I can say is wow. Or stunning. Ignorance above and beyond the call of duty. Mind bending. Complete and utter astonishment. I guess the bullet point here is "wow".

_________________
"Ride Safe, Chop Safer"
Dismantling, sawzalling, and rattle canning does not make a bobber. That's called an "ANCHOR".
Image
http://shadow-shack.20m.com


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 1:21 pm 
Offline
Forum Administrator

Joined: Jun 25, 2004
Motorcycle: KTM Yamaha You name it
Rebel: None
Country: USA
State/Province: TX
City: Plano (dallas)
This thread has been so long running, and filled with so many anecdotes of outright wanton ignorance and idiocy, and such a great source of entertainment to us all.

When I first joined the CBR250 forum, at first I laughed when I found they have a member actually named "DudeMan"... and nearly every one of his posts belongs in this thread. rofl

_________________
cheers,
dj
"I'm No Expert"
2004 Rebel 250 (sold after 12,903 miles)
2007 KTM 525 EXC
2011 CBR250R
Image
Motoring on two wheels since 1983


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 1:32 pm 
Offline

Joined: Oct 16, 2005
Motorcycle: 2014 CB500XA
Rebel: None
Country: USA
State/Province: AZ
City: Green Valley
He's one of two that I've put on "ignore".

_________________
John, 2014 CB500XA (Daily Rider), 2009 CRF230L (L'il Red Piglet), 1989 NX250 - sold, 2001 Rebel - sold
Image


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 3:45 pm 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Sep 9, 2004
Motorcycle: Suzuki Gsf1250
Rebel: 450
Country: Canada
State/Province: NB
City: Rusagonis
jsonder wrote:
He's one of two that I've put on "ignore".



Dude! Now I gotta go look! rofl

_________________
"If you think there's a solution, you're part of the problem" G.Carlin


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 4:25 pm 
Offline
Forum Moderator

Joined: Sep 17, 2003
Motorcycle: 5 Shadows, 3 Rebels
Rebel: 250
Country: U.S.S.A.
State/Province: NV
City: Las VLX-as
Dj wrote:
When I first joined the CBR250 forum, at first I laughed when I found they have a member actually named "DudeMan"... and nearly every one of his posts belongs in this thread. rofl



I think every MC forum out there has been plagued by a member named "dudeman" at one time or another.

And each time it's ignorance in it's purest form.

_________________
"Ride Safe, Chop Safer"
Dismantling, sawzalling, and rattle canning does not make a bobber. That's called an "ANCHOR".
Image
http://shadow-shack.20m.com


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 7:24 pm 
Offline
Forum Administrator

Joined: Jul 25, 2003
Motorcycle: 98 Valkyrie
Rebel: 250
Country: USA
State/Province: GA
City: Vidalia
Dude, you gotta show him this thread, Man! :shock:

_________________

Duke
"Skills must be Learned"
------ Herb Christian


"Ask your doctor if medical advice from a television commercial is right for _you_."


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 10:32 pm 
Offline
Forum Administrator

Joined: Jun 25, 2004
Motorcycle: KTM Yamaha You name it
Rebel: None
Country: USA
State/Province: TX
City: Plano (dallas)
jsonder wrote:
He's one of two that I've put on "ignore".


Let me guess, I'm the other. rofl :wavey1: :D

wheezeburnt wrote:
Dude! Now I gotta go look! rofl


Most of his real gems appear to have been deleted recently... but there was muuuuuch :popcorn:

Shadow Shack wrote:
And each time it's ignorance in it's purest form.


Verbatim, copy and paste, the DudeMan spake: "Duuuude, If I were worried about safety I don't think I would have taken up motorcycle riding, ya dig."

Duke wrote:
Dude, you gotta show him this thread, Man! :shock:


Actually, I think I *did* link to it in one of his threads, but... see what I told brent. Who knows if he ever saw it. :bounce1:

_________________
cheers,
dj
"I'm No Expert"
2004 Rebel 250 (sold after 12,903 miles)
2007 KTM 525 EXC
2011 CBR250R
Image
Motoring on two wheels since 1983


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Tue Jul 10, 2012 2:56 pm 
Offline

Joined: Jun 27, 2008
Rebel: 250
Country: USA
State/Province: MA
City: Amherst
davidc83 wrote:
I work in IT at a local college and I have had my experiences with stupid users. People always tell the students, "there is no such thing as a stupid question" never worked in IT. They may be right, there are no stupid questions; however, there are stupid people who ask questions. '


I work in IT as well, and I've managed to floor a couple people who told me there was "no such thing as a stupid question." I can tell you, categorically, that there is. Most (although certainly not all) are asked by stupid people. Here's my favorite, the story of a person who wasn't actually stupid: she was just waaay out of her depth and expertise. At least, that was my initial belief.

This happened about 5 years ago, as best as I can recall.

It was one of those days where everything's broken. I had three laptops on my desk, all running virus scans, and a couple of desktops on my workbench running the Windows installer. Add all the other daily stuff, and it was busy. Into this comes a phone call from C, a problem user.

"Alex speaking, how can I help you?"
"This is C. I just tried to turn on my computer, and nothing happens!"
"OK... I'm really busy, so let me ask a couple of quick questions. First, define 'nothing'. Do ANY of the lights flicker, at all?"
"Umm... let me check." *sounds of fumbling* "No. No flicker, and it doesn't make the noise it usually makes, either."

OK. What do I do with this? Well, I know the building maintenance staff were in her office last night... "Can you please check whether BOTH ends of the power cable are plugged in? I know they were cleaning in your office last night, and I think they might have just shoved a broom under the desk. Sometimes that knocks the power cord out of either the wall or the computer, which is what this sounds like."
"No, no, I already checked that. It's plugged in."

OK, I'll go down to help. So I head over to her building, and follow the usual procedure. This is the computer that's not working? Yes? Ok. Hit the power button -- nothing. Not a flicker, not a buzz. Good. I hate it when it just turns out they were hitting the CD eject button... they feel stupid, and I've wasted my time. Everybody loses. Next, check the power. Power cord's plugged into the surge suppressor, that's plugged into the wall, good. What about the other end of the power cord? "Umm... didn't you tell me on the phone you'd checked this? The power cord is just lying on the floor here... that's why the computer doesn't work."

Now I wish, I really wish, that I was making up the next exchange. It would give me hope for the human race.

C, pointing to the computer her officemate is using: "Well, I checked the computer over there!"
Me: "You didn't check the one that wasn't working?"
C: "No, but if one's plugged in, the other must be, right?"

I got roped into trying to explain that two different physical objects didn't necessarily have to BOTH be plugged in. I spent 45 minutes on it, and gave up when I realized that she wasn't ever going to get it. That was the point when I said "OK. Your television isn't working. Would you go look at the toaster to see whether it's plugged in?" and she said "Well, if they're both in the same room, maybe...."

_________________
Image
My Flickr page.


Top
 Profile  
 
 Post subject: Re: Official Dudeman Thread!
PostPosted: Tue Jul 10, 2012 7:08 pm 
Offline
Forum Administrator

Joined: Jul 25, 2003
Motorcycle: 98 Valkyrie
Rebel: 250
Country: USA
State/Province: GA
City: Vidalia
I am reminded of something I overheard many, many years ago whilst I was doing my banking. Before the online banking thing went so huge banks had to have entire departments dedicated to it, most branches had one person who fielded calls from those struggling to adapt to the trendy new technology. Now I don't know the entire conversation; I don't know who or what or why--

all I know is that on the way out the door, I walked past a young man's office and was just close enough to hear a tiny part of his phone conversation:

"Yes, Sir; you enter your password there.... Okay, that's where you should enter your bank account number.... Yes, Sir..... No, Sir; you don't need spaces or dashes..... No, Sir; there are no capital numbers......"


I remember at the time thanking every direction the universe had ever travelled that kept me from having his job.

:lol:

_________________

Duke
"Skills must be Learned"
------ Herb Christian


"Ask your doctor if medical advice from a television commercial is right for _you_."


Top
 Profile  
 
Display posts from previous:  Sort by  
Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 323 posts ]  Go to page Previous  1 ... 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17  Next

All times are UTC - 6 hours


Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 4 guests


You cannot post new topics in this forum
You cannot reply to topics in this forum
You cannot edit your posts in this forum
You cannot delete your posts in this forum
You cannot post attachments in this forum

Search for:
Jump to: