I hate almost no one. I have disagreed with, temporarily disliked strongly–very strongly–but have never hated any person with any real passionate hatred in my life. There have been people who may have been mean, rude, unjust, or just plain annoying in my half-century of interaction with other people, but none that I didn’t forget and forgive easily any transgressions. Even evil people I’ve read about, I don’t hate.
Except for Inspector #35.
Inspector #35 may be male or female, of indeterminate age, but does not live in the United States. It tells me so on the bottom of my office chair just below the sticker identifying Inspector #35. This person probably doesn’t hate anybody either, may simply have dozed off that day, or is ignorant, careless, or naturally mean-tempered. He/she may even have meant this as a practical joke. But nothing I recall has ever gotten me to hate someone with such intensity as I hate Inspector #35, the person who pronounced my chair as fit for consumer use and up to all standards and which drives me as insane as would the Chinese water torture. My chair, with no set reason nor timing (except for bad), for no apparent cause nor regular schedule, drops approximately one-quarter of an inch at a time until it has lost four full inches in height to its lowest setting. While I have been typing, it has intermittently dropped five times. It has not done this for several days, perhaps a couple weeks. It is driving me mad.
For this reason alone, I will not have lived my life in love of all people. When I die, I will probably be stopped at the gate for this very reason.
I don’t care. I hate Inspector #35.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
You might want to consider a new chair.
Thank you! I started the morning laughing.
Bravo. The image of you dropping inch by inch unexpectedly is impressive. There is now this odd cosmic connection between #35 and you.
I hope you can fix your chair problem, but I had to laugh at that story.
I had that chair once. Got it at a really good price. And hey, come to think about it, I think it was inspected by #35. Yes, I think it is his twisted attempt at vaudevillian humor. Actually, his might be an easy fix–maybe tension on the control lever or latch is all that is needed. I hate the idea of you having whip-lash while blogging. ;0}
I like the previous comment… ‘Maybe its the hoowidget valve. Probably just needs a good lubing!’
I think its just broken. But did you try recalibrating the framinitzer?
Jason }:)
Exotic oils, wrenches, new chairs, and cosmic relationships aside, I believe that it is in reality a nudge from Edgar whenever I’m stuck on a direction to take with writing. It seems to happen as my fingers pause over the keyboard. That, or it’s accepted penance for writing claptrap prose.
Shoot. I just dropped another half-inch.