The Essentia Sphere

I took Krypto to her doctor today. She took her state inspection and passed with flying colors—which is a good thing, considering how much time we spent studying for that test.

But this post isn’t about the horrors she had to endure as she was manhandled and—sob!—turned on. No! This post is about the horrific things I suffered as I waited for her to finish.

First of all, there is no reason under the sun that chewing tobacco should be acceptable anywhere, let alone when I’m trapped in the waiting room with the user. Yes, folks. That’s right. A young man decided that 9:30 in the morning wasn’t too early to start spitting into a Styrofoam cup as he sat next to me. And he wasn’t just spitting . . . well, spit. No, no! He had chewing tobacco in his mouth and was spitting . . . whatever out into the cup. Thus began my descent into hell.

There was, of course, the man with BO. Isn’t there always a man with BO? But what made this man so unique was that he was some sort of man/animal hybrid. From some angles he looked like a turtle. From other views, a mole. But from the back . . . well, let’s just say that some people should understand that tucked shirts are great. Except when the shirts are tucked in the underwear too. Bonus: underwear is pulled up above the waistband of the pants so that everyone can see you bought the cheap brand at Wal-Mart.

Of course, in this type of mini-society, rules of etiquette break down—if they ever apply. Burps go unexcused—even when the burp gets gasped into your face and you can tell from the smell what the burper had for breakfast. Toe nails get clipped. This one’s great because when a toenail flies off and can’t be found, the clipper always shrugs sheepishly and goes right back to clipping her toenails!

And then we have the children. Let me explain. In spite of my rage issues, my hatred of humanity, and my body odor, kids like me. This may be because I look like the gay Teletubby.

The point is that they almost always end up making faces at me or trying to get me to play with them. It’s fine. I don’t care. Kids, for the most part, are OK—but only because they haven’t had time to learn all the stupidity that most adults know so well. Give the little bastards time and they’ll be on my list, don’t you worry.

Anyway, there was a cute little 2 year old girl in the waiting room. Barefoot and dirty. I’m not just talking food around the face dirty. This little girl was full on mud-pit, got-her-own-biology-lab-in-her-diaper dirty. Needless to say, I was trying to not catch this girl’s eye.

But of course I do. So she brought over some slimy toy she was gripping and held it out to me. Quick smile and turn away. Nothing. She was still there. Why, you ask? Didn’t my cold brush-off send the little girl back to her mother?

No, no it didn’t. Because the mother was gone! That’s right. She left the people in the waiting room to watch her kid as she wandered away. This stupid women did not return for 10 minutes. Just in the bathroom! *Giggles*

By this time, my head hurts. My eyes are throbbing. I can only assume it is the impending Rage-a-thon that I am about to unleash. But wait! There’s more!

So, this highly intelligent woman wandered into the men’s room. When she was told of her blunder, she giggled and said, “I didn’t see it!” “It” being the brand new restroom signs next to the bathrooms. They’ve just been invented. In fact, I think every public place with bathrooms should get these signs. One says, “Men’s Room” and the other says “Women’s Room.” They really are neat.

So, of course she sat right next to me. Not only had she bathed in perfume but she apparently can read because she pulled out one of those little things—Blackberry? Blueberry? Mmmm . . . pie—and started to type and read. But those little blue signs—with the little pictures of the man and woman on them—were too much for her.

But even this woman didn’t top my Hate List from the waiting room. No, that was reserved for the flip-flop wearers.

It’s not their ugly feet that bother me—though toes that look like tree roots should probably be hidden from sight. No, what set me off was the pink toe nail polish.

I hate pink. It is the color of hate. It disgusts me. Do you know what’s pink? An asshole.

One woman in particular irritated me. She was in her fifties and dressed in a little pink and white outfit. Fine. Good for her. She had great hair. But she was wearing frosted pink lipstick.

No person over the age of 13 should wear frosted pink lipstick. It is an abomination. It is an unholy union of pink and frost. And it looks gross.

But all was right in the end. Because Krypto was fine. I paid my money and marched past that hell of a waiting room and got into my car. And she smelled nice and she drove well and together, we became a machine/human hybrid of rage and hate.

Which is pretty much how we always are when we’re driving. I love my car—if I’m willing to go through all that for her, I must!