New Sitcom Idea: Desperate Security Guards

On Tuesday night, I went to visit a friend of mine at her small suburb in Bayamón. Most of these suburbs have surveillance at the front entrance and a dim-witted-minimum-wage-working security guard who isn’t usually an ass. I once read the requisites for this particular position in the newspaper and you basically need to know how to read, write and not drool when you sleep. Wow, suburbs of the world … be safe for thou art in great hands! The non-drooling specimen shall liberate you from the hands of runaway cars and broken fences with the skill of less than mediocre grammar! Hoo-rah!

Being a security guard is an honorable job, I have nothing against them. It is one specific mind decaying being that I am targeting in this blog. Had I gotten his name, I would have posted it in neon lighting and sketched him out with “Loser” as the main caption. But alas, I am without evidence of his existence so I do what I do best: rant and judge.

When I got to the gate, I identified myself and indicated with clarity the street I was visiting, the person and even added the purpose. He took his time to write down the information and blurted out a “God bless you” through the speaker. At this moment in time I was thinking to myself “That was odd”, but continued driving. Why is that odd?? If you live here in Puerto Rico, you usually don’t say that to anyone unless you are talking to an older person. It’s an idiotic misconception that all older people believe in God and thus enjoy this expression and consider it respectful. I use to get smacked on the head if I didn’t tell my uncles “Dios te bendiga” every time they walked through the door. Did I sound old on the speaker? Did he assume I was overly religious? Was he? But I quickly brushed it off, our relationship was simple and quick: I confirm, you let me pass. It isn’t rocket science or neurology.

So the moment had come for our relationship to come to an abrupt end. I was passing through the gates and an open road waited for me to venture on it. I looked to my left to give a quick signal of gratitude and adieu until the specimen’s eyes widened to a scary length and he vomited pathetic proclamations of love to me through my slightly opened window. He said “Oh wow, I think I just fell in love. Stop right there.. let me talk to you and get your phone number, ma’m.” I looked at him in horror, panic and disbelief. My reaction was to halt my car at the sight of his uniform, it looked official. Then I remembered the requisites I had read in the newspaper that long time ago and thought “They pay this man to not drool.” So I quickly tried to roll up my windows and played the roll of a deaf mute with a retarded right hand that couldn’t roll up a stupid window!

”Damn you 80’s Pontiac!! Why don’t you have electric windows like the rest of
the modern world?! Dammit Jess, this is no time to scream at your car… drive
faster.”

If his spewing of love vomit wasn’t enough, he thought he could out run my car. Nice going moron. My car is old and not very speedy, but I think it could out run your beer belly. How desperate do you have to be to run after a phone number? I think you have to get out of the stone-age mindset, because girls now-a-days don’t like being chased, scared and then clogged on the head with your stupidity.

You idiot. Die.