 | "Fainting Goats" is an excerpt from Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man, by Stephen L. Wilson. Available at Smashwords, Amazon and Nook. All rights reserved. © 2013. |
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I have spent enough time in customer service related jobs to
come to believe that the famous humorist, Dave Barry, was correct when he said,
“A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.” In
general, and as a rule, when given any number of alternatives, people again and
again choose to be aggressive in their attack on those they deem as socially
insignificant. There must be some sort of mechanism in some people that makes
them feel important when they rudely attack others in customer service positions.
It appears that two circumstances must exist in order to create this ‘perfect
storm’ of customer rudeness: a customer willing to displace their pent-up
aggression and a customer service policy of “kiss all asses”.
I realize that most people aren’t actually this horrible.
However, the trauma of this segment of society overrides the general good found
in most people. As a result, there is usually a high turnover in the customer
service industry. Those who spend too much time being society’s whipping boy
eventually either find a different career, or have a mental breakdown. Rare is
the individual who is designed to withstand a lifetime of belittlement,
ridicule and the worst of what society has to offer.
It is because of this “retail PTSD” that I have decided that
when I retire, I am going to buy a hill. I am going to buy a hill far away from
society, and a herd of about thirty fainting goats. At the top of this hill will
be enough room for a single folding chair, and a supply of yummy goat food. I
plan on spending my remaining years on this planet sitting on top of my hill,
feeding fainting goats, and then scaring them.
I am not sure how I will do it. Maybe I will just shout,
“Boo!” at the top of my lungs. Maybe I will toss those little popping packets
you get at the fireworks tent at them. Maybe I could rig up an air horn
somehow. Any way I do it, I can only imagine the fuzzy little fainters freezing
up, and then tumbling down the hill.
“Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa!”
Down the hill they will tumble. I will spend my remaining
days inventing new ways to scare my goats. And I will laugh so hard when I see
them tumble down to the bottom of that hill!
In this way I will help to bring the fainting pygmy goat to
a more esteemed station in culture. Instead of being food, the goat is now fun.
Kind of like court jesters back in the days of kingdoms and serfs, or rodeo
clowns today.
Thanks, rude people. Thanks a lot.