"I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people..." -- Sir Isaac Newton
Just a few rants on things I've experienced these last few weeks that make me want to vomit.
Yesterday, at the supermarket, I had the misfortune to get in line behind one of those stereotypical welfare queens armed with an EBT card. I had not noticed that the woman had already filled two shopping carts with frozen pizza and watermelons and had a third all ready to go for the enormous pile of pre-packaged, chemically-enhanced shit that passes for food in some quarters.
This does not shock me; I have often remarked about the shopping/spending (and personal) habits of the professional poverty-stricken class in New York City. No, what shocked me was what she said to the cashier:
"I don't want to spend no mo den six-fiddy".
By this, she meant $650. That's $650 worth of processed, frozen crap, "paid" for with my tax dollars.
The Overlord makes a pretty penny. He likes his steak, seafood and drinks Pepsi by the gallon. He has NEVER spent $650 in a supermarket in an entire month, let alone at one go. He also has a natural aversion -- a consequence of being raised Italian -- to anything that comes out of a box, has ingredients that cannot be pronounced or which have numbers in their names, and avoids anything labelled "FD&C red and yellow #5" as if it came with a case of AIDS and smallpox added for seasoning.
One day someone will conduct a serious study on the shopping habits and food choices* of the lower rung of American society as funded by the Welfare State. My prediction is that they will discover the Proles have a) been anesthetized into a state of barely-conscious by a lifestyle financed by handouts, and b) that what these assholes eat has contributed to the lowering of the national IQ even more than children eating paint chips ever did.
In fact, I'm betting we'll also discover the paint chips had higher nutritional benefits, all along.
* The Overlord does not wish to suggest that he has the right to tell others how to live, and especially what they should eat. I just have preferences for fresh food with more nutritional value than the box or plastic bag it came in. But if we're going to continue to finance people who consider Salt, Sugar, MSG, Caffeine and Pork Rinds to be the Five Food groups, we should stop caring a fig about their health care, afterwards. Like everything else government does, the stated purpose of Food Stamps is to provide nutrition to people who otherwise can't afford it while keeping them dependent upon a permanent bureaucracy, and on the other hand, to create a crisis of obesity, diabetes, and worse, that keeps them dependent upon another bureaucracy.
And so, the Circle of Life continues...at least for overpaid, underworked, and seriously-evil government "workers".
Speaking of whom, my second beef: there is nothing on this Earth more-pathetic than a bunch of overstuffed, under-brained, lower-middle-class, retired civil-servant idiots riding motorcycles in large groups.
The warmer weather has brought to the once-idyllic landscape of Staten Island all of the old, familiar events: the first robin of Spring; the budding rose bushes in my yard; the tremendous racket created by mating cats under my bedroom window.
It has also brought out that perennial pest, the over-50, overweight, thoroughly stupid dipshit on a Harley.
They fill parking lots with oversized cruisers with saddle bags and training wheels. They dress in leather jackets, guinea tees and shorts and reek of cheap beer and marijuana. Their "bitches", all emaciated from their prescription pill addictions, old age and innate fugly, looking for all the world like the helmeted stalks of some alien plant life. They then clog the local roads, riding four or five abreast, all doing 20 miles per hour, or less, zig-zagging to maintain balance the entire time as they attempt to carry on multiple conversations over the roar of 800 cc's.
And speaking of those engines, the only allure they probably possess for these idiots is that the "vroom-vroom-VROOM" of a revved-up engine at a stop light (never while in motion) appeals to their inner 4-year-old, the vibration soothes their swollen prostates, and the display of disposable wealth (look at me! I'm so rich I can afford a motor vehicle I can't operate properly!) is something of a thrill for people who have spent a lifetime picking up garbage, driving buses, sweeping subway stations and scraping old chewing gum off park benches. It's sort of their version of "local boy done good", being perhaps only one or two generations removed from their Shanty Irish and Greasy Ginzo forebears, the ability to waste good money (and to look like an asshole while doing it) in your financed-by-the-taxpayer early "retirement" is to momentarily forget that, deep-down, you're still a fucking Prole.
You can give the lower-class (in terms of behavior and intelligence) an expensive house; you can give him all the material trappings of wealth (boats parked in the driveway that never get used is another popular pastime here); you can provide them with the wherewithal to eat lobster three times a day, but he'll still be a lowlife fucktard who only managed a job because he passed a test in which he had to connect the dots and color inside the lines, and whose union bought the politicians who overpaid him.
I have been accused by this sort -- on many occasions -- of "being jealous". Nothing could be further from the truth: The Overlord could buy any dozen of you ten times over with the loose change in his sofas. My problem with you, or I should say MOST of you, is that as a life-long citizen of the city that so graciously supplied you with inflated paychecks and a gold-plated retirement at 50, that the money was certainly wasted, for here I am, living up to my waist in other people's filth (that you were supposed to cart away), dodging rats (that you were supposed to kill), and staying out of half of the city because it's full of dangerous riff-raff addicted to drugs and welfare (that you were supposed to arrest, get off the welfare rolls, educate, and so forth).
My issue is not "jealousy"; it is that the typical "municipal worker" stole from me and then makes me late for a business meeting because he and his doofus friends decide to take a leisurely bike trip to nowhere and clog the roads with their useless fucktard.
Next item: More on Masks...or should I say, "Moron Masks"?
Regardless of what Dr. Fauci and the other overpaid dumbasses at CDC say, the Mask is disappearing by popular consent. People just don't want to wear them, anymore, and will take every opportunity to take them off. In most instances, many weren't even wearing them, in the first place. Like the People O' Color loading up on Twinkies in the supermarket.
A great many dolts in these parts got themselves vaccinated. For a virus that has a 99% recovery rate, unless you're one of those people who are circling the bowl, healthwise, or who live on a steady diet of Food-stamp-financed Cheetos and the aforementioned paint chips. These vaccinated people no longer want to wear a mask because they believe they pose no threat to anyone, or that they are immune to the virus (otherwise, why get the shot?).
There are others, like the Overlord, who have already had a Coronavirus (not, specifically COVID-19) in the past, who continuously have tested negative for the last year-plus, who don't believe the mask is warrented, and will not get the shot because of the unknowns attached to it, added to the distrust of government that comes with it all.
The fights, however, have been interesting, as Karens -- who put masks on their pets and who spend their spare time examining their neighbor's stools under a microscope, when they aren't harassing people who would otherwise punch them in the face -- still take it as their God-given right to harangue all non-conformers in that shrill, menstrual-whiny voice that makes fingernails on a blackboard and a cat being torn at all four limbs seem like a symphony.
So, Karen gets her va-jay-jay in a lather because someone doesn't have a mask on, and the unmasked victim shoves her (it's usually a "her", as Karens do not have the courage and moral fortitude to confront men) "Vaccination Card" in Karen's face.
Karen, by now thoroughly embarrassed, but undeterred -- because lonely, unlovable cunt -- just can't let it go. The release of being able to scream at someone with a fake sense of moral justification is just a narcotic to her, and the venting also helps her to relieve her sexual frustrations, now has to take it from "concerned citizen" to personal.
Then Karen discovers that her intended shame-session victim is one of those emaciated ugly trolls that rides on the back of a motorcycle with an ignoramus, and that all that meth, crack and date rape may have fucked up her teeth and given her a permanent case of anorexia, but it also provides incredible strength and vicious tenacity when another bitch gets in her face.
It's worse if the skinny Worker's Influenza ID card-carrier is a Soccer Mom.
And then Karen gets to realize that her victimhood mentality was really all a self-fulfilling prophecy through all the blood, the broken nose and seventeen months in therapy to follow. Having never really been a victim (of everything except her own stupidity), but believing herself to have been victimized repeatedly, Karen goes out of her way to ensure that, eventually, someone DOES victimize her.
Good and hard.
I wish I had video of that encounter.
Final observation: The Perils of English Proficiency...or rather, lack of it.
The Overlords will soon be changing residences. We found a lovely little 2-bedroom, 2-full-bath condominium not 10 minutes from our present location that we will be renting for at least the next year (for the Overlord contemplates leaving his beloved Gotham for greener and sunnier pastures in the near future). The owners are Greek immigrants -- he owns his own construction company, she runs (naturally) her own diner.
They are good people. Hard-working, very polite, very accommodating.
Except when it comes to interior decor.
For being Greek, everything in the apartment was hospital white. It's a cultural-bordering-on-genetic thing, I think, that Greeks tend to favor a single motif in their interior design: whatever cannot be painted or doesn't already come white, has to be made white, so that the kitchen is white enough to require steam-cleaning every week to keep it that way, and the floors resemble what one might find inside a diner or a barber shop, because, naturally, one contrasts white with black. White counter tops, white appliances, white walls, black-and-white floor tiles.
It's all very 1980's butcher shop.
This initially pissed Mrs. Overlord off. You see, while the apartment met every last one one of our considerable requirements as far as habitability (Mrs. Overlord being disabled), the fucking color scheme clashed with her furniture. The idea that the Overlords could simply purchase new furniture (for Mr. Overlord does not give a fuck) never entered her pretty little head. She loves her furniture, even if half of it was purchased when Christ worked in the stock room at Ethan Allen.
This led to a short-lived kerfuffle as two vaginas clashed over the monochrome interior design. One was insulted that someone questioned her taste, and the other determined to simply transfer her nest, AS IS, from one locale to another. Eventually, Mr. Overlord talked Mrs. Overlord into not being such a dick about the whole thing, seeing as how difficult it is to find handicapped-accessible housing anywhere in these parts.
The fact that the floor tile was no longer an issue was transmitted to the owners, and a lease was signed.
And then, something happened...
For Greek Husband, not understanding the issue was quashed, went ahead and pulled up all the floor tiles, anyway. He was going to replace them for us and gave Mrs. Overlord her choice of colors. Probably, these sample tiles all came from his building stock and were probably the ones no one else wanted and he wanted to get rid of. However, she picked one that she liked and could live with, and all was supposed to be fine.
He even repainted the house a lovely shade of beige to contrast the tiles.
And then he discovered he didn't have enough floor tiles to replace the ones he ripped out, he could not get the ones Mrs. Overlord picked out and could I get out of bed and meet him at Lowe's to pick out new tiles?
This led to a new set of instructions from Mrs. Overlord: if he can't get what he showed me, then I want something different. She described "different" and off I went.
Except Lowe's had nothing to match her new requirements, which necessitated a trip to another, more-expensive, tile supplier.
And now the Overlord will be spending upwards of an additional $3k on 280 square feet of new floor tiles (the difference between what was initially picked and what was eventually purchased) because "don't touch the floor tiles" was apparently difficult to translate into broken English and because the Overlord stupidly followed the dictum of "Happy Wife, Happy Life".
It could be worse: I could have spent that $3k on a motorcycle or frozen foods and still felt as stupid.