Baboon Pirates

Scribbles and Scrawls from an unrepentant swashbuckling primate.

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Location: Texas, United States

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

The Need For Selective Deletions

Since We're Lacking In Do-It-Yourself Immolation Pits

Do ya ever think that sometimes you ought to be able to immediately address social faux pas malefactors with immediate and permanent results? I'm not talking about the Mom who won't quiet her shrieking kids in the restaurant, or the butthead who insists on taking a cell phone call in a theater. Those types would be better served with some time in the stocks, and possibly a public scourging.

No, I'm talking about the times when someone commits a grave offense against his fellow man. Something that clearly shows that they don't give a rat's ass about having to share common facilities with the rest of the general public.

Take a scene at the Metro Transit Center on a recent morning, f'rinstance. I'm sitting in the car listening to talk radio as I wait for the 8:44 Express into downtown to arrive. My car happens by chance to be facing the bus circle, so I'm given a fair view of all the comings and goings. Once again, I get a glimpse of more "going" than I needed to.

Many of the waiting areas for particular routes have these big shelter/wind guard thingies made of glass & regular brick enclosing 2 or 3 concrete benches. They look like a capital I from overhead, and the glass brick lets you see motion on the other side, but not anything very clearly. The one I'm nearest to is the shelter for the 214/216 Downtown routes, the one sheltering the benches I'm about 5 minutes away from walking over and plopping my butt down upon.

From the other side of the shelter lurches a prime specimen of humanity. Probably in his late 50's, he's got an untucked button-down shirt that's stretched to bursting over a cannonball belly, and the bottom two buttons are either undone or snapped off from excessive tension. It's filthy, as are the polyester pants, worn shiny in the ass and the cuffs. Feet are jammed into nondescript athletic shoes, but the shoe heels have been crushed down, so they look like some sort of house slippers. The heels hanging out are crusty and poxy-looking. I'm suddenly glad I stayed to listen to the radio, otherwise I'd be standing there, and no doubt this guy smells like a Sonoran rendering factory during Roadkill Week.

I'm usually the only one that picks up the 8:44 here, so there's no one else at that shelter. This fact is not lost on our fashion model, who takes the opportunity to unzip his scuzzy drawers, whip out his schlong and commence to spraying a ropy piss stream all over the brick wall and the benches. Motherf#&%er. That's where I usually SIT, you asshole!

I can't honk my horn at this dude, 'cause it's still on the fritz. I contemplate jumping out and yelling, but by the time I get the radio turned off and the windows rolled up, he's finished his irrigation project and has wandered over to see what's edible in the garbage can.

Now, this is not the first time I've seen someone relieve themselves at the Transit Center. The other time, however, it was this 182 year old geezer who obviously had some incontinence problems. This bunghole, OTOH, did this deliberately, rather than walk the 75 yards to the Port-O-John over where they're doing road construction.

As I walked over to the bus waiting area, I thought about how nice it would have been to send this guy a message. Not a horn honk, or an angry yell, but instead an Easton GameGetter II, 'bout 32 inches long, off a 80 lb. recurve bow, tipped with a triple-razor broadhead. I'll bet the occurrences of piss on waiting benches decreases dramatically when offender's hoo-hahs are pinned to their thighbones.

Alas, I would inevitably be seen as the Bad Guy if I followed that course of action. I'd be convicted in the Court of Public Opinion (aka the views of the Mass Media reporters and editors) for failing to respect this man's individuality and his need to express himself in an unconventional manner.

Sigh. At least give me a 007 license with a cattle prod, fer Pete's sake! Someone's got to make the effort!