It takes a jerk to know a jerk

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 18/03/2019 (2700 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I’m not sure if this will surprise anyone, but there are a lot of jerks out there.

For the record, I’m not talking about wanton acts of criminality, such as cheering for the Toronto Maple Leafs. No, I’m talking about people who do stupid, thoughtless, annoying things.

I’m talking about jerks.

For instance, I’m talking about all those (bad word) irresponsible dog owners who walk their pets past my yard every weekend, pause to let Spike poop, then pretend they don’t see the gift their mutt has left on my snow-covered lawn, and walk away without bothering to pick it up.

I’m sorry, but those people are jerks. Ditto the people who, when you are attempting to talk to them at a meeting or in the middle of lunch, simply ignore you because they are busy texting someone who isn’t actually sitting in front of them.

I decided to rant about jerks today because of a conversation I had last week with my good buddy Big Daddy Tazz, who is a genuinely peaceful soul along with being one of Canada’s top standup comedians.

Tazz and I were in relatively good moods because we had just filled our bellies with 10 bowls of soup while acting as “expert judges” at the seventh annual Stone Soup fundraiser in support of the Child Nutrition Council of Manitoba.

We were sitting there having coffee in a mall after the event and, because I didn’t get enough sleep, I started grumbling about a group of jerks that really frost my cinnamon buns — the motorists who drive their cars as if they were trying to win the Daytona 500, until they manage to get in front of you, at which point they slow down to the speed of a small jungle creature passing through the intestinal system of a mature boa constrictor.

Which reminded Tazz of two jerks — we will also accept “idiots,” “nincompoops,” “dolts,” “blockheads” and “jackwagons” — he encountered the week before, when he visited his doctor’s office for an appointment.

For starters, when he walked into the waiting room, the floor and walls were vibrating because a young woman parked in one of the chairs was playing music on her cellphone speaker loud enough to rattle windows in Grand Forks, N.D.

“It was some Latin-esque kind of reggae, ska. It wasn’t unpleasant music, it was just the fact it was really, really loud and there was no attempt at having her headphones in,” Tazz grumbled. “She was playing it on her phone and playing a video game on top of that.”

Many people would have simply ignored it, but my buddy Tazz isn’t “many people,” so he attempted to contact the loud young woman via her ears.

“I leaned over and said, ‘I didn’t know this place came with a DJ. So if you wouldn’t mind I’d like to request some Buddy Holly.’ “

Replied the young woman: “WHAT?”

“Do you have Buddy Holly on your playlist there?” Tazz repeated.

“NO!” she snorted, apparently confused.

“I just thought, maybe, because you’re the DJ and the music is playing really loud…” Tazz started to reply. Butted in the impromptu DJ: “Well, this is kind of private music.”

Which made my pal smile a mischievous smile. “Um, no, it’s not. If you want private music, play it through your headphones,” he advised.

You’d think that would be enough for one day, but when he walked into the parking lot outside his doctor’s office, Tazz encountered a guy who, for the purposes of today’s column, we’ll refer to as Jerk No. 2.

“I’m getting in my car and the guy in the car next to me fires out a bag of garbage and a few McDonald’s cups,” Tazz recalled, rolling his eyeballs. “So I scooped it up, knocked on his door with my elbow, and he opened it up and I just dumped it all on his lap and said, ‘Sorry, I don’t know if you know, but you dropped this.’

“He just sort of looked at me and I said: ‘It’s not cool, dude.’ “

Since we had a head of steam, we started listing all the other jerks who get our proverbial goats — including people who smoke in bus shelters; people who park in handicapped spots even though they’re not disabled; and people who park their shopping carts in grocery-store aisles to ensure no one else can wiggle past them.

Which is when, suddenly and without warning, Tazz pointed at the rubbish-strewn table beside us, which had just been vacated by a messy couple.

“Look at that, right there!” Tazz snorted. “That bothers me. They left a mess on the table. Clean up after yourself. Sure, they say, ‘Oh, well, there’s people who get paid to do that.’ Yeah, but they don’t get paid to follow you around with a bucket and a Shop-Vac.”

You might say we were two cranky guys on a roll, so I started droning on and on about another group of inconsiderate buffoons that causes me to foam at the mouth when I’m behind the wheel — drivers who insist on revving their engines at stop lights to prove that, even though they are sitting in a Dodge Neon, they have NASCAR-level driving skills.

“I really hate those guys,” I sniffed, looking to Tazz for moral support.

Which is when I noticed my car-loving buddy looking a touch sheepish. “I have to confess, I love doing that sometimes,” Tazz said, grinning.

Which suddenly made me feel guilty for being so judgmental. “Sorry,” I told my buddy. “I can be a real jerk sometimes.”

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca