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Raiders of rudeness trigger spasms of sarcasm

My Sentiments Exactly

It’s funny how brave the humans are sometimes. And when I say brave, I am, of course, being snarky as snot.

Wait, can snot be snarky? Hmm.

How about slimy as snot? Slippery as snot? Stinky as snot? BAM. I’m totally being stinky as snot.

My main point is this:

There is many an earth-dweller who takes every available opportunity presented to hide behind their busyness, distractedness, tiredness, overworkedness or just plain crappy naturedness to be rotten, you dig?

Impoliteness, if you will. Unkindness, as it were. You know, a complete inability to display compassion, empathy or even some good old-fashioned common courtesy to the other riders of this big, round ball.

Forgive the digression session — but I met the most icky human the other day.

She totally toggled my trigger. She was (and I’m certain, a week and a day later, still is) absolutely devoid of decency, yo.

Someone so vapid of values and empty on empathy that I knew in an instant she was one of them: the Raiders of Rudeness who give the rest of us humanoids a bad name in the universe.

Boorish behavior is nothing new; it’s been occurring since early man thought it was cool for the boy cretins to drag around the girl cretins by their manes. (As an aside, don’t even think about it today, gents. We’ll totally take you by the chin hairs and jettison you to Jupiter, Jack.)

Speaking of that big red splotch, it’s where I wanted to send pukiness personified / inspiration of my sarcasm spasm.

She “welcomed” me to the hotel where my soon-to-be niece Annie’s bridal shower was taking place and was immediately, unapologetically and unabashedly completely offensive.

I struggled to even get her attention despite the fact that she was manning the reception desk and had neither a single customer in person via phone.

She failed to ever look up at me.

At all. Ever. Not once. Seriously. Empty lobby.

Exasperated, I finally said, “Um, hello, could you please help me?,” packages and what not spilling out of my hands. She spat the name of function room while checking her nails.

“Um, which hallway?” I asked as she said in an irritated tone, “THAT WAY” and tossed her head far to the right.

“Could you, maybe, help me with a cart?” I said, balancing five boxes of doughnuts, a purse, a makeup bag and a gift basket the size of Rhode Island on my head a la Carmen Miranda if she was juggling Ricky Ricardo’s band in her hands.

“Nope, don’t have one right now,” she said, still never meeting my gaze.

“Cool, cool, well, thanks for all your help,” I said, channeling all my Italian ancestors to conjuring up the malochhio. #LookItUp

I schlepped into the correct banquet room of the hotel that I will NEVER EVER, in 8 bazillion years, for any reason book and put her out of my mind.

Until the next morning, when I saw her again after having accidentally left my makeup bag behind in the day’s flurry.

“I got a call that you found my bag?”

Not even blinking she said, “Nope.”

“IT’S ON THE LEDGE RIGHT BEHIND YOU AND HAS A NOTE WITH MY NAME ON IT.”

She finally looked at my face. I searched her eyes for any recognition of our exchange the morning prior … or even any signs of human life.

No apology. No remorse. Nada.

“Oh, here,” she said, tossing my bag on the counter.

“Well, you have a great day, full of everything you deserve,” not that she heard me.

Suffice it to say, she’s gonna be needing an old Italian lady with a container of olive oil any moment now. #DontMessWithItalians

Kimerer is a columnist who will gladly tell you what property to avoid at www.patriciakimerer.com.

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