Searing cowardice
I know I am tempting the outraged wrath of those readers who smoke, but cigarette consumers have managed to piss me off in a royal fashion today.
I am well aware that they are coming to feel increasingly like a persecuted minority. More and more restrictions are placed upon their indulgence of their vice every day it seems. I know damned well that resentment is starting bubble over and the desire to lash out at an uncaring, repressive society is well nigh irresistible.
Unfortunately, this is one more of those places where smoking is not permitted. I don't recall the last time I encountered a store where smoking while shopping was permissible. In fact, most times when I do have issues with folks wandering in with a smoldering roll of tobacco in hand, it's because they're drunk and tracking about as well as a derailed freight train.
However, somewhere in the murky depths of patron minds lurks the suspicion that arcades exist in a separate though similar dimension. Of course, they can't smoke in the store. That would be uncouth and rude. Ah, but once within the safe confines of the arcade area, there they no longer have to resist the urge to tear into that pack of Ukrainian unfiltereds.
Sure, there are signs liberally posted throughout the arcade area to thoughtfully remind those absentminded enough to forget about the prohibition, but I think folks consider them part of the ambiance or decor and not actually pertinent information for their use. Perhaps they find it a novel little jest like the "this side toward enemy" printed on one side of a claymore mine.
Which means I get the pleasure of chiding ostensibly responsible adults to please follow the bloody rules. From which, I will get mumbled apologies or excuses that they were not aware from behind closed doors. The translation for anyone with even two neurons to spark together is that they're sorry you caught them attempting to slip one by on us. Sure buddy, it's a fucking game to us.
Not to mention that about half the time, the bastard on the other side of that closed door is going to make a bare-arsed lie of a denial. It isn't them. Doesn't matter if circumstance has decreed that they are the only person utilizing a booth at that time, it must be someone else. If there are plumes of smoke billowing from under and around the door frame, I simply must be mistaken. They would never flagrantly disregard the policy and wishes of this store.
What?! Do they blithely assume that if I can't see them holding a sodding cigarette, that I can't do anything about it? If I can't behold the action with my own eyes, then it cannot be happening? That's toddler logic, Skippy. I understand the complexities of unobserved reality. No one here can directly gaze upon China, but I guarantee there's at least a billion people able to persuasively argue it isn't a figment of the imagination. In addition, I comprehend the method of deductive reasoning. If I see or smell smoke, that indicates combustion. At this point, I could choose to pursue the variety of smoke and thus it's origin to refute the spurious denial of the misbehaving customer, however, that's going to far more lengths than the situation requires. For I am armed with an arcane and rarefied secret; there is NO circumstance where any form of combustion is acceptable. I may be slightly more considerate if I need to retrieve an extinguisher and summon the fire department. I may be moved to a modicum of sympathy if too much vigorous activity coupled with insufficient lubricant culminates in a trip to a very professional burn ward and terminal case of "tennis elbow." I will, by the same token, hoist you by your own severed ligaments and douse you with alcohol if you're puffing away. Lie about it and I'll toss a lit Zippo into that puddle at your feet.
After dealing with the first half dozen relatively more straight-forward and pleasant sorts of arcade smokers, my good cheer and indulgence is markedly lower. Toss in a few of those craven anal polyps prevaricating brazenly and I'm well into intolerance and fantasies featuring terms such as "grievous bodily injury," "exsanguination," "persistent vegetative state," and/or "evisceration." Much as I grow annoyed by morons too self-involved to mind the signs, I have a rabid grudge for those too fucking spine-less and pathetic to own up to it when caught.
So if I sound entirely too surly when I snarl into the arcade area that smoking is not permitted within the building when you've "just lit up" without thinking about it, I've probably had to make that announcement too many times already. Do NOT be the guy who brings it all to a head.
And if you're that smug fuck who took a whizz all over the inside of your booth because I had the temerity to enforce store rules, I hope you enjoyed your infantile tantrum of scorn. It was a pleasure to banish you from the premises.
I am well aware that they are coming to feel increasingly like a persecuted minority. More and more restrictions are placed upon their indulgence of their vice every day it seems. I know damned well that resentment is starting bubble over and the desire to lash out at an uncaring, repressive society is well nigh irresistible.
Unfortunately, this is one more of those places where smoking is not permitted. I don't recall the last time I encountered a store where smoking while shopping was permissible. In fact, most times when I do have issues with folks wandering in with a smoldering roll of tobacco in hand, it's because they're drunk and tracking about as well as a derailed freight train.
However, somewhere in the murky depths of patron minds lurks the suspicion that arcades exist in a separate though similar dimension. Of course, they can't smoke in the store. That would be uncouth and rude. Ah, but once within the safe confines of the arcade area, there they no longer have to resist the urge to tear into that pack of Ukrainian unfiltereds.
Sure, there are signs liberally posted throughout the arcade area to thoughtfully remind those absentminded enough to forget about the prohibition, but I think folks consider them part of the ambiance or decor and not actually pertinent information for their use. Perhaps they find it a novel little jest like the "this side toward enemy" printed on one side of a claymore mine.
Which means I get the pleasure of chiding ostensibly responsible adults to please follow the bloody rules. From which, I will get mumbled apologies or excuses that they were not aware from behind closed doors. The translation for anyone with even two neurons to spark together is that they're sorry you caught them attempting to slip one by on us. Sure buddy, it's a fucking game to us.
Not to mention that about half the time, the bastard on the other side of that closed door is going to make a bare-arsed lie of a denial. It isn't them. Doesn't matter if circumstance has decreed that they are the only person utilizing a booth at that time, it must be someone else. If there are plumes of smoke billowing from under and around the door frame, I simply must be mistaken. They would never flagrantly disregard the policy and wishes of this store.
What?! Do they blithely assume that if I can't see them holding a sodding cigarette, that I can't do anything about it? If I can't behold the action with my own eyes, then it cannot be happening? That's toddler logic, Skippy. I understand the complexities of unobserved reality. No one here can directly gaze upon China, but I guarantee there's at least a billion people able to persuasively argue it isn't a figment of the imagination. In addition, I comprehend the method of deductive reasoning. If I see or smell smoke, that indicates combustion. At this point, I could choose to pursue the variety of smoke and thus it's origin to refute the spurious denial of the misbehaving customer, however, that's going to far more lengths than the situation requires. For I am armed with an arcane and rarefied secret; there is NO circumstance where any form of combustion is acceptable. I may be slightly more considerate if I need to retrieve an extinguisher and summon the fire department. I may be moved to a modicum of sympathy if too much vigorous activity coupled with insufficient lubricant culminates in a trip to a very professional burn ward and terminal case of "tennis elbow." I will, by the same token, hoist you by your own severed ligaments and douse you with alcohol if you're puffing away. Lie about it and I'll toss a lit Zippo into that puddle at your feet.
After dealing with the first half dozen relatively more straight-forward and pleasant sorts of arcade smokers, my good cheer and indulgence is markedly lower. Toss in a few of those craven anal polyps prevaricating brazenly and I'm well into intolerance and fantasies featuring terms such as "grievous bodily injury," "exsanguination," "persistent vegetative state," and/or "evisceration." Much as I grow annoyed by morons too self-involved to mind the signs, I have a rabid grudge for those too fucking spine-less and pathetic to own up to it when caught.
So if I sound entirely too surly when I snarl into the arcade area that smoking is not permitted within the building when you've "just lit up" without thinking about it, I've probably had to make that announcement too many times already. Do NOT be the guy who brings it all to a head.
And if you're that smug fuck who took a whizz all over the inside of your booth because I had the temerity to enforce store rules, I hope you enjoyed your infantile tantrum of scorn. It was a pleasure to banish you from the premises.
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