December 5th: Unreasonable

It might just be a perverted little love of mine, but unreasonable customers are my favourite (lie).

Even with my goal of being an internationally appreciated and totally loaded author and entrepreneur, I expect to have face-to-face contact with those unhinged fuckers from now until forever, lest I get bored, shrivel and die. And today was a perfect example of how deep my love burns for those twat-fuckers.

One of my jobs requires directing people through a theatre car park. As one would expect, a Saturday matinee of Les Mis, one of the most internationally successful musicals of all time (not an actual fact, speculation), is quite popular and so it is generally wise to pre-book parking and if you arrive sans pre-booked parking ticket and are directed to travel the whopping hundred metres (WOAH) to the next car park where they can take care of you, you say 'okay' and go park your car. It isn't a difficult concept to grasp. This lady, however, believed it my fault that there wasn't a park for her. I haven't been serving customers for that long, not really, but I am accustom to the abuse of the service industry none the less and so I kept calm, explained her options and nodded sympathetically. Cars started filling the drive behind her. She sat in her car, screaming (I wish I was exaggerating this point, but the dozen necks that craned to hear her operatic assualt of the auditory senses could not be faked). She began demanding that I refund her theatre ticket for the show...in the middle of a filling car park...that isn't attached to the theatre...as it's not a fucking theatre...it's a fucking car park.

So after what felt like hours of trying to calm her down, suppressing the rage that rippled through my arms and back and filled my senses with the sudden urge to spurt wings like a dragon and burn her up, I got my supervisor and went to tend to other cars while he dealt with the psychotic fucktard. The other drivers were sweet, sympathetic and, in the true Australian way,  defensive of my position...what honies.

The bitch did a shit u-ey and screeched out of the tunnel.

I don't think I'll ever get to see her again or find out whether or not she was, in fact, eaten by a waiter-turned-dragon. Alas, some stories don't have an end. Good. Because I would like to go on believing she was eaten by a mythical beast summoned by her explosive nature. I would like to share that stories with the grandkids one day.