Friday, January 21, 2011

A Disconcerting Flashback

I was flipping through my America's Top 150 channels Thursday night, because nothing was on after a most satisfying hour of watching little punks become prisoners' biatches on Beyond Scared Straight. And as luck would have it, I happened upon one of the grand biatches of all time. Funny how the past comes back to piss you off.

Because I don't want any accidental googling to lead that grand biatch to the Mansion, I must speak in code. For my own protection.

The show was on The Travel Channel. It was one of the Paradise shows, like BBQ or Breakfast or Sandwich. You know what I'm talkin' about. This one was about a sweet dessert that is often served up at diners, sometimes a la mode. The minute I clicked on it, I recognized the face and voice.

It has been 18 years since the displeasure of our acquaintance. All the way back to my days working with the unemployment office, the trying days of that great disaster when the rivers climbed out of their banks, rendering my base office uninhabitable. I was farmed out to a more southern outpost, nearer to home, to assist with federal disaster claims.

In case you've never worked for a government agency, you can't begin to wrap your head around the trappings of bureaucracy that must be endured on a daily basis. Three of us were farmed out like county jail landscapers to do the bidding of the southern outpost. That meant that we did not get a computer or desk, but only a flat surface upon which to pile our stacks of claim forms, along with several pencils, and access to a copier. A computer would have been superfluous anyway, as all federal disaster claims were paper only.

Keep in mind that we did not make the rivers climb out of their banks. We did not sell people property on a flood plain. We were assigned to assist those whose livelihood or homes were adversely affected when sitting under several feet of water. The extent of our help was to fill out the paperwork, affix required documentation, and mail it off to Uncle Sam. Approval and disapproval were not items in our toolbox.

The grand biatch stormed my table when her number was called. Stormed it like a decorated veteran of D-Day, and demanded that I do something to remedy her problem. That being the ownership of a restaurant about to be swept away any moment, a restaurant noted for its flaky round desserts, operating under the name of The Azure Great Horned Avian. Or simpler words that have the same meaning. The grand biatch I will call NotGummi.

NotGummi treated me like an indentured servant. No fine how-do-you-do. She flounced to my table, slammed her papers down, and demanded monetary compensation for the three days she had been without customers because of the imminent rush of river through a sandbag wall. I explained the procedure to NotGummi. That all I could do was fill out her claim and send it in. That was not good enough for NotGummi. "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM???"

It's not like she was a celebrity anywhere but her own mind. But because I had her paperwork, and because of the shirt she was wearing to advertise The Azure Great Horned Avian, I did know. And I shall never forget what a grand biatch she was. It's not my fault she did not bring the correct paperwork. I told her I would set the claim aside, and she could come right back to me when she had those papers. Not good enough.

NotGummi ranted about how she had been feeding the National Guard for free because she had no customers and her food was going to spoil. Like that would make her claim process faster. Like she wasn't going to report that as a loss for tax purposes. Never mind that the National Guard was there building the sandbag wall that eventually saved her restaurant.

So I was not enamored of grand biatch NotGummi as she bragged about her flaky pastries on The Travel Channel. She will never be more than a sow's ear, no matter how much she tries to appear a silk purse for the TV viewers.

4 comments:

lyssa said...

I have no advice for your flaky pastry weirdo, only sadness that you had the misfortune to have to deal with her sass. As far as how to keep your goats from sticking their heads in the fence each and every bloomin' day, here's my story/nonsense/advice that is sure to work:

One day as a newly married couple, my dear, sweet, and home improvement challenged husband came up with a way to plug a hole similiar to yours (only yours is a fence and ours was in the wall). The air conditioner was no longer needed in January, you see. But those window units, well, they're heavy and awkward. Wouldn't it be easier to leave it there year round, sez he? But there's a gap in the space between the unit and the window, sez I. And it's snowing. Not a problem, he sez cheerfully. And proceeded to plug the said hole with his good church pants.
From there on, it was dubbed The White Trash Wall. Was it because of the pants sticking out of the wall, or because he had to wear bermuda shorts to church? We may never know.
So, do what we do: use pants.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Lyssa,
I'm afraid that wrapping some church pants around Nellie's head won't keep her out of the fence. Though it might provide a tasty snack for Nellie's peers.

What we do around here for a gaping hole in part of the Mansion's structure is stuff it with a shop towel. Like during temperatures in the teens, when the kitchen doorknob malfunctioned, and Farmer H declared it was due to somebody trying to break in while we were at work. So he hammered the doorknob out of the door and stuffed the hole with a shop towel. Because shop towels are magical, and stop burglars and arctic winds.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

I admit I have been absent for awhile, but I am intrigued more by your comments than your pie with or without ice cream being served up by a witch. Spray foam ........ he who is prone to temporary repairs keeps the stuff on hand and loves it more than duct tape. Just remember ..... less is more, the stuff expands a lot.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Kathy,
I'm a bit leery of the spray foam for Nellie's horns. I don't want her head being all poofy like one of those goldfish with a bright orange external-brain-looking noggin.

On the other hand, spray foam surely could keep out burglars and arctic winds just as well as a shop towel.

And if you and Lyssa were both talking about plugging up the FENCE instead of what to attach to Nellie's head... well, I've been around Farmer H so long that now I think like him. Even so, there are not enough church pants or spray foam to fix that fence. Farmer H used hog pen fence. You know, the kind with the big squares. That was back when he thought he was going to butcher the neighbor's escaped pot-bellied pigs, which he misidentified as wild boars.