I was born with an unfortunate birth mark. It’s really embarrassing, because it’s about two inches long, brown, and sits just above my bum. Yep, very embarrassing, but for some reason lots of people seem to think it’s on my forehead, and looks like this:
There is not a day goes by where people will walk past dozens of other people, to ask me for directions, how something works, or for the meaning of life.
Yesterday I was in a bank to change over some coinage, using a simple machine the bank has. It has two buttons A and B,and it counts coins. I was. A bit of a hurry so I just wanted to get them counted, deposit the slip and get out of there, so I could have something more for lunch than stomach pains. But no.
Some sheeple corners me, and demands I tell them all about the magical money machine. I told them they are in a bank, so ask the staff there, a very reasonable thing to do I thought. But no, this just made their wool stand on end, and they got angry. Again they demanded I tell them how it all worked. So I said to them “Look, if we were in a jungle, and your only chance of survival was for me to tell you how that machine worked, I doubt even then I would tell you. ASK THE STAFF HERE.”
I mean, I’m just trying to go about my day. I’m not out there to be rude or anything, I just want to get my business done, so I can enjoy life. I’ve made it through my years so far by observing things and working them out, and if I can’t work them out, I work out who would be the best person to ask about it, which is usually someone employed to tell you, not some stranger on the street with a birth mark that looks like poo above their arse.
Side note here, I don’t wear low cut pants so people can see the birth mark, in fact, most people don’t know it’s there…, dang, I’ve blown that now.
Anyway, I pushed past the sheeple, broke free of the bank, and headed out the doors to the wide blue yonder… “Excuse me, how does this parking meter work?”