Pure venting

If you're squeamish about complaining, just move along. Nothing to see here.

After getting hung out to dry by Mrs. Lance Armstrong, my next bell was to the same bar. Same nonsense occurred -- nobody claimed the cab. The car is yellow, the size of Texas, and my hazards were blinking like a Christmas tree. Only a turd drunk calls for a cab and then doesn't show the slightest interest in finding it and getting a ride home. This time around I left to go back on point at the same hotel.

Bell No. 3: to a fairly remote hotel, which will remain unnamed. I was half way there and dispatch called again. "The hotel called to cancel." This particular hotel has a long history of stuffing fares into enemy cabs (not licensed to pick up in my zone), so I stood on the gas and made for the hotel at speeds only Stephen Hawking can describe.

Sure enough, just as I arrived an enemy cab driven by a Middle Easterner rolled out with my fare stuffed in the back seat. I made sure he saw me pick up my cell phone. I didn't dial, but he didn't know that. He was risking a $2400 ticket and /or revocation of his hack license. Instilling in him a healthy fear of Allah felt good, sort of. I wrote down his car number and cab company name. I always get even with my enemies.

A fantastic Saturday night had spiraled into the sewer. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times? Go home. I went 10-21 to go drown my sorrow with a pizza and a recorded NASCAR race.

I'm glad I started this blog. I feel better already.