The Category is: Words that end with "ers."
I've had this rant on my mind about the oh-so-lovely couple who rode in on their crotch rockets to have dinner at Chick-Fil-A on 71st Street one night last week. I say "couple," but I can't say for sure if one of 'em was a woman or not, but I do know that they're both assholes.
Parking in the handicapped spot (those are the ones with the cartoon wheelchairs painted on 'em, in case that wasn't clear) without a permit is not good, but I'll be more willing to forgive it if you get out of the car lookin' old & tired or struggling with a cast or brace. Climbing off a ball-rocket motorcycle generally rules out the extremely aged or injured.
Non-impaired... No, wait, non-impaired isn't the right word since we are talking about people who are most likely mentally deficient, and that is an impairment... People who aren't dealing with an actual physical problem but choose to take the handicapped parking space anyway are jerks. People who park on top of the damn ramp are fucking jerks.
Seriously, how fucking inconsiderate do you have to be to think it's okay to put your fucking motorcycles in that striped space between the first handicapped parking space and the door of the restaurant? It's not like it was midnight, it was 7:30 and the place was full; full of families, from kids to old people, people of all sorts, no tellin' who else might've showed up who might actually need to park in that spot; but you took it upon yourself to decide that whoever might need that spot most likely wouldn't need that extra space that was marked-off with striped paint. Naaah, no chance anybody might need some extra room for their wheelchair lift -- of course not, that space three feet from the door was just for your bikes. Yeah. Assholes.
Just so I'm not stepping on the wrong toes, (I know I'm stepping on toes, I'm just making sure I'm stepping on the right ones), "Bikers" wasn't the "ers" word I had in mind. When I hear the word "Bikers," I think of the guys with big Harleys and lotsa hair and tattoos and black leather vests with the names of their fallen comrades embroidered onto patches.
The couple who parked their rockets in the handicapped loading area were not Bikers. They were part of another group of "ers." They climbed off the motorcycles and took off their handy shopliftin' coats and then one of 'em checked to make sure his saggin' pants fell back down below the line of his boxers, and the other one was wearing a US Postal Polo shirt; now wouldn't the mail man be proud of that co-worker?
It just goes to show, Assholery comes in all colors and does not discriminate...
It just saddens me to think there wasn't some angry disabled Veteran with a hankering for some fried chicken that night -- It would've warmed my heart to see a big ol' 3/4-ton van pull in there and knock 'em both down with a side door.
More later. _\,,/