As anyone who has ever driven in a civilized city will tell you, Minnesota drivers suck. I mean, it's not just me saying this. I will agree with those that say their infrastructure does not serve them well, but what really doesn't is their ignorant, arrogant, me-first attitude that leads to the delusions of grandeur that they - the average Minnesotan - are more important than you. (See: Minnesota drivers, tailgating)
But what happens when they come running into your lane, nearly slamming into your car, and you give them a courteous honk? They flip you off. They continue on into your lane, but continue to flip you off. So you go ahead and honk your horn again, to let them know that they are in the wrong, maybe cause an accident, maybe put you into the hospital. So what you do is, you keep honking. I know, "that's rude." But they keep flipping you off. And what happens but, you are next to them at a stoplight, and you are parallel with them and, you roll your window down and, suddenly, the alien-robot hick-yuck Minnesotan dude with the goatee (how 90s of you, Minnesotan, don't you know that Mustaches are back?) looks dead ahead, as you give him a yell, ask him what the problem is, that he might have killed you, but...He. Looks. Dead. Ahead.
And so the passive-aggressive pussy continues staring dead ahead, and the light turns green and you go. He goes. I go. He gets behind me to go. But he then picks up his cellphone and immediately know that he is calling the police on you for the rude behavior you've exhibited in actually calling him out for being such a horrendous driver.
In Chicago, kids are killed by bullets in gang-ridden neighborhoods. In Minnesota, children are murdered by passive-aggressive yokels being aggressive only behind the wheel (until confronted), then do their best to whisper behind your back in the form of a call to the police. Well, asshole, they never got me. But I'm sure they have an APB out on all confrontational Illinoisans who call you out on your shitty driving.
Oh well, all is well in the world of Minnesota Nice, "doncha know?"
Friday, June 17, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Minnesota, the only place where police are passive-aggressive
I am the most pro-police person you will ever meet. I really am. But the police in Minnesota are some of the most passive-aggressive pussies you will ever meet. Truth be told, I have gotten two tickets since I've been here, but in that same truth, let it be known, each and every incident seemed like something out of a movie - like a colored-guy getting pulled over in the Jim Crowe South, circa, well, the Jim Crowe era.
On the first occassion, I was driving through the airport. (Yes, you loyal-Minnesotan shitfucks, I now know that they are tough on everyone). But I was literally dropping someone off, on my second day here. Oh yee Royal-Mounteed Fuckwad pulls me over as I am nearing the terminal. He does not say what I did, only asks to see my license and POI. Suffice it to say, I didn't know what I did wrong until he handed me the ticket. I was speeding. Okay, I was with someone on my second day in the good old Twins-Marry-Each-Other-Cities, and I didn't know any better. Was I speeding? Quite possibly. But the pussy-ass cop with the big bad-ass POLICE just went to his car and wrote up his ticket. No eye-contact. No explanation. Ahh, Minnesota Nice!
On the second occassion, I was driving alongside of 494 in one of the suburbs. In this instance, I know for a fact I wasn't speeding. How? Because in this hick-ridden state, I drive under the speed limit by five or so miles per hour (even though every asshole hick in an extended-cab rides my ass), just to avoid being pulled over. Also in this instance, I never actually passed the cop - I didn't "break his plane." But just as I was about to ride past him, he throws his siren on and pulls me over. Again, same fucking thing. The pussy-ass "crime-fighter" asks for my license. (Wait, he didn't ask me for my insurance??) So of course, he makes no eye contact, goes back to his little police mobile and I wait. He comes back and hands me the ticket. When I ask him what it was for, he says "Mr. BLANK, do you know how fast you were going?" "Um, yes, I do. 30 MPH." "You were going 51 in a 35." When I started asking him how that was possible, he continued to look down. I then hit him with the whole "officer, half of my friends and family back home are cops." He sheepishly interrupted, "so you know." "Yeah, I know. I know what it's like to be someone who actually fights criminals, not fabricate shit like this."
Of course, this slack-jawed yokel had no response, other than to say "best you slow down." And of course, I was livid. But the pussy did nothing. This passive-aggressive MSP suburban cop did nothing. Instead, he walked back to his car, and got into his car. At the stoplight, we were parallel. I stared at him. He would not look up. Fucking pussy.
So, I have a few questions: why don't they speak to you, instead of at the ground? Is it because they were pulling a fast one and didn't expect to be called-out on it? Kind of seems that way. And that's kind of the way people are here. They try and pull things on you because they don't think you'll call them on it. And what happens when you do? Their passive-aggressive asses curl-up in a ball, then go motherfuck you to someone who also views you as a foreign-invader.
All police in Minnesota can go fuck yourselves. Okay, I'd like to lighten-up on that stance, because I do realize that there are cops out here that aren't cowardly weasels (and I salute you). But all of you other cops up here, you can take a cue from my beloved Chicago Police Department. You don't fight crime, you write bogus tickets. So suckit. Rednecks!
On the first occassion, I was driving through the airport. (Yes, you loyal-Minnesotan shitfucks, I now know that they are tough on everyone). But I was literally dropping someone off, on my second day here. Oh yee Royal-Mounteed Fuckwad pulls me over as I am nearing the terminal. He does not say what I did, only asks to see my license and POI. Suffice it to say, I didn't know what I did wrong until he handed me the ticket. I was speeding. Okay, I was with someone on my second day in the good old Twins-Marry-Each-Other-Cities, and I didn't know any better. Was I speeding? Quite possibly. But the pussy-ass cop with the big bad-ass POLICE just went to his car and wrote up his ticket. No eye-contact. No explanation. Ahh, Minnesota Nice!
On the second occassion, I was driving alongside of 494 in one of the suburbs. In this instance, I know for a fact I wasn't speeding. How? Because in this hick-ridden state, I drive under the speed limit by five or so miles per hour (even though every asshole hick in an extended-cab rides my ass), just to avoid being pulled over. Also in this instance, I never actually passed the cop - I didn't "break his plane." But just as I was about to ride past him, he throws his siren on and pulls me over. Again, same fucking thing. The pussy-ass "crime-fighter" asks for my license. (Wait, he didn't ask me for my insurance??) So of course, he makes no eye contact, goes back to his little police mobile and I wait. He comes back and hands me the ticket. When I ask him what it was for, he says "Mr. BLANK, do you know how fast you were going?" "Um, yes, I do. 30 MPH." "You were going 51 in a 35." When I started asking him how that was possible, he continued to look down. I then hit him with the whole "officer, half of my friends and family back home are cops." He sheepishly interrupted, "so you know." "Yeah, I know. I know what it's like to be someone who actually fights criminals, not fabricate shit like this."
Of course, this slack-jawed yokel had no response, other than to say "best you slow down." And of course, I was livid. But the pussy did nothing. This passive-aggressive MSP suburban cop did nothing. Instead, he walked back to his car, and got into his car. At the stoplight, we were parallel. I stared at him. He would not look up. Fucking pussy.
So, I have a few questions: why don't they speak to you, instead of at the ground? Is it because they were pulling a fast one and didn't expect to be called-out on it? Kind of seems that way. And that's kind of the way people are here. They try and pull things on you because they don't think you'll call them on it. And what happens when you do? Their passive-aggressive asses curl-up in a ball, then go motherfuck you to someone who also views you as a foreign-invader.
All police in Minnesota can go fuck yourselves. Okay, I'd like to lighten-up on that stance, because I do realize that there are cops out here that aren't cowardly weasels (and I salute you). But all of you other cops up here, you can take a cue from my beloved Chicago Police Department. You don't fight crime, you write bogus tickets. So suckit. Rednecks!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The GOP Debate in New Hampshire: the true definition of Minnesota Nice on display
Did you see Pawlenty on Sunday? He was all about lighting up Mitt Romney for Universal Healthcare happening on his watch as the Governor of Mass. Good Old Tim, a former governor himself, even coined the term "Obamney Care." That's very cute. Like, "youbetcha" and "donchaknow?" I mean, he was really getting a kick out of it on Sunday.
But then Monday rolled around. And he was in New Hampshire. Unfortunately for him, so was Mitt Romney. Even more unfortunate for him, so was CNN's John King, who tried to draw him into his seemingly strong stance the day before. So what happened? Pawlenty - the Minnesota Nice Coward he is - crawled back into his hole. Why? Because he is a passive-aggressive waffler, much like most of the people in this godawful state.
I'd like to throw in a shot or two about Michelle Bachman, but her representing the redneckiest district in this backwoods state will suffice. But it begs the question: do she and Timmy Turn-Into-A-Pussy-While-You're-In-My-Presence Pawlenty belong to the same mega-church that spits out goofy right wing idealogues?
But then Monday rolled around. And he was in New Hampshire. Unfortunately for him, so was Mitt Romney. Even more unfortunate for him, so was CNN's John King, who tried to draw him into his seemingly strong stance the day before. So what happened? Pawlenty - the Minnesota Nice Coward he is - crawled back into his hole. Why? Because he is a passive-aggressive waffler, much like most of the people in this godawful state.
I'd like to throw in a shot or two about Michelle Bachman, but her representing the redneckiest district in this backwoods state will suffice. But it begs the question: do she and Timmy Turn-Into-A-Pussy-While-You're-In-My-Presence Pawlenty belong to the same mega-church that spits out goofy right wing idealogues?
Monday, June 13, 2011
Minnesota Nice: just not to your face
This place Minnesota reminds me of many things. I've had dreams like it. No, I've had nightmares. Have you ever had that dream where you are screaming, moving your arms, hands and mouth, but nothing is coming out? That's kind of what it's like. You tell somebody something, but they don't listen. You ask them something, but they don't want to answer.
For ten months now, I've heard all about this great Minnesota work ethic, "Minnesotans are hard workers, doncha know."
I don't even know where to begin, but the above statement I have heard from many-a-Minnesotans lips' and in the comments section of countless newspapers and blogs is pure lunacy. It simply doesn't exist. I am sure that you don't believe me, and I have no statistics to substantiate what I am saying, but let me with you a few anecdotes than run the gamut from poor customer service to shit-all laziness, which stems from this thing called Minnesota Nice.
-Say you have a problem where you live. No, say you've had a few problems where you live.
Let's say that other tenants have been loud, at all hours, a complete violation of the rules in the "gosh darn" lease, and you explain your problem to the property manager. Said property manager shows alarm, like "oh gosh, no, Gosh. I'll let them know. You betcha." You are then subjected to the exact same noises, at all hours of the night, with no end in sight. You go back to the property manager. You explain that nothing has changed. You begin to notice a squeamishness in her. (Do note she has a whole lot of Sarah Palin going on, I know, Sarah's from Alaska, but "gosh darn" she sounds like one of these yokels from here - even has horrible glasses!) Anyway, you pointedly ask her if she said anything. Silence. Nothing. And she gives you that look like you're just a confrontational son-of-a-bitch, but in a nice way.
Or, let's say, you have some asshole fucking meth-heads who park right next to you. A zig. A zag. A car pointed forwards, but never in the right direction. And, on several nights, you can't park in the garage because their zooted-methi-ness has contorted their ability to navigate two bright-yellow lines which have just been striped. So, you go to the property manager. And you tell her. And what does she say? She tells you that she has other parking spaces. You explain that you don't want another parking space. This. Is. The. Parking. Space. You. Were. Assigned. This is the parking space you pay for every month, on time, and what would be right about getting what you paid for? So said property manager says that she will take care of it. What happens? Days pass before the car is moved. Like. Three days. And then it happens again and again. And you ask her if she talked to them. She doesn't really respond. Because if she did, she'd be inclined to say "yes," which is a lie. And lying is not nice. Lying is not Minnesota Nice. But Minnesota Nice is the reason every fucking asshole here smiles politely, then does nothing to solve the problem.
-Let us say that you have a problem. You do the reasearch to have said problem resolved, by looking up the appropriate service providers of said problem. You call said problem solvers, and they say that they will get someone out to solve your problem. Except, they don't come to solve your problem when they're supposed to. So you get on the horn and call the problem solvers, and they sound aloof, and maybe that's a common characteristic with the locals (it sure as hell is), but they say they are working on it. Except now, they don't sound confident. You call them back. They waffle. You wait. At the end of your day, they call and say they can't solve your problem. You ask them about tomorrow. Sure. Repeat what happened today. And the day after tomorrow, same thing. And finally they send someone out to figure out what might be your problem. But they can't solve the problem today, it's going to have to be next week. Whatever, I don't care. But why don't you just save me all of the trouble by telling me you're busy and you cannot make it? Would have saved all of us a lot of trouble.
Incidentally and anecdotally (of course), people approach me with problems all of the time. I'm like Harvey Keitel as the Wolf (in Pulp Fiction). I solve fucking problems! But you have to ask me. If you don't ask me, I will not solve the problem. And when you go and say to someone else you have a problem that I need to solve, it would probably work a little bit better if you actually fucking asked me instead of whining to a co-worker that I am not solving the problem. But that would be too easy. Instead, you sit on your ass, read your paper, take your little smoke-breaks (like clockwork), and act as though going to work and actually doing your fucking job instead of being a cowardly Minnesotan. Are you starting to catch on that I will not solve your problem if you don't fucking ask? Oh gosh, no, darnit, it's much easier to complain about you behind your back.
Well, I'm spent. Another couple of months in this backwoods hellhole.
For ten months now, I've heard all about this great Minnesota work ethic, "Minnesotans are hard workers, doncha know."
I don't even know where to begin, but the above statement I have heard from many-a-Minnesotans lips' and in the comments section of countless newspapers and blogs is pure lunacy. It simply doesn't exist. I am sure that you don't believe me, and I have no statistics to substantiate what I am saying, but let me with you a few anecdotes than run the gamut from poor customer service to shit-all laziness, which stems from this thing called Minnesota Nice.
-Say you have a problem where you live. No, say you've had a few problems where you live.
Let's say that other tenants have been loud, at all hours, a complete violation of the rules in the "gosh darn" lease, and you explain your problem to the property manager. Said property manager shows alarm, like "oh gosh, no, Gosh. I'll let them know. You betcha." You are then subjected to the exact same noises, at all hours of the night, with no end in sight. You go back to the property manager. You explain that nothing has changed. You begin to notice a squeamishness in her. (Do note she has a whole lot of Sarah Palin going on, I know, Sarah's from Alaska, but "gosh darn" she sounds like one of these yokels from here - even has horrible glasses!) Anyway, you pointedly ask her if she said anything. Silence. Nothing. And she gives you that look like you're just a confrontational son-of-a-bitch, but in a nice way.
Or, let's say, you have some asshole fucking meth-heads who park right next to you. A zig. A zag. A car pointed forwards, but never in the right direction. And, on several nights, you can't park in the garage because their zooted-methi-ness has contorted their ability to navigate two bright-yellow lines which have just been striped. So, you go to the property manager. And you tell her. And what does she say? She tells you that she has other parking spaces. You explain that you don't want another parking space. This. Is. The. Parking. Space. You. Were. Assigned. This is the parking space you pay for every month, on time, and what would be right about getting what you paid for? So said property manager says that she will take care of it. What happens? Days pass before the car is moved. Like. Three days. And then it happens again and again. And you ask her if she talked to them. She doesn't really respond. Because if she did, she'd be inclined to say "yes," which is a lie. And lying is not nice. Lying is not Minnesota Nice. But Minnesota Nice is the reason every fucking asshole here smiles politely, then does nothing to solve the problem.
-Let us say that you have a problem. You do the reasearch to have said problem resolved, by looking up the appropriate service providers of said problem. You call said problem solvers, and they say that they will get someone out to solve your problem. Except, they don't come to solve your problem when they're supposed to. So you get on the horn and call the problem solvers, and they sound aloof, and maybe that's a common characteristic with the locals (it sure as hell is), but they say they are working on it. Except now, they don't sound confident. You call them back. They waffle. You wait. At the end of your day, they call and say they can't solve your problem. You ask them about tomorrow. Sure. Repeat what happened today. And the day after tomorrow, same thing. And finally they send someone out to figure out what might be your problem. But they can't solve the problem today, it's going to have to be next week. Whatever, I don't care. But why don't you just save me all of the trouble by telling me you're busy and you cannot make it? Would have saved all of us a lot of trouble.
Incidentally and anecdotally (of course), people approach me with problems all of the time. I'm like Harvey Keitel as the Wolf (in Pulp Fiction). I solve fucking problems! But you have to ask me. If you don't ask me, I will not solve the problem. And when you go and say to someone else you have a problem that I need to solve, it would probably work a little bit better if you actually fucking asked me instead of whining to a co-worker that I am not solving the problem. But that would be too easy. Instead, you sit on your ass, read your paper, take your little smoke-breaks (like clockwork), and act as though going to work and actually doing your fucking job instead of being a cowardly Minnesotan. Are you starting to catch on that I will not solve your problem if you don't fucking ask? Oh gosh, no, darnit, it's much easier to complain about you behind your back.
Well, I'm spent. Another couple of months in this backwoods hellhole.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)