By Kelly Crigger

Paul just wanted to get laid. But he made the mistake of sharing his Uber with a drunk, opinionated old bastard and I can say with the utmost certainty that I cockblocked Paul pretty harshly. Not on purpose, and in my mind I did the kid a favor. I doubt he sees it that way, but he’s young. He’ll get over it. Wait…what am I saying? He’s part of Generation Whine…he’s fucked!

So there I was, 2am in downtown DC after a birthday party. My friends had all gone home so I called an Uber and apparently they now have a ride share program where people going to roughly the same area can share the ride and split the fare. Genius.

So I get into the front seat and in the back is Paul and some chick who I quickly find out he just met. This broad wasn’t bad looking and Paul clearly wanted to get her to his red room to get fifty shades of freaky so I wasn’t going to say anything to stop the kid. But then she opened her mouth.

“I’m a special needs teacher, I’m pentalingual, and I get shit for appreciation from these motherfucking parents.”

So this chick speaks five languages, has the privilege of teaching children with disabilities, and is really pissed off about how little recognition she gets for it. And now she feels the need to complain like Paris Hilton at a Motel 6 about it…in my Uber…in the wee hours of the morning…when I’m drunk.

Don’t say anything, I thought. Just keep it in. Keep it in.

“You know what I got this year for teacher appreciation day? A motherfucking gift card.”

Must…not…fly into rage!



“I spend more time with these little motherfuckers than their fucking parents and I don’t get shit for it!’

By the power of Grayskull, it’s on!

“So let me get this straight,” I said, turning to face her. “You chose this profession. You chose to teach kids with disabilities. You get to shape the youth of our country and work with children who really need it. You chose to learn five languages, four of which you’ll never use. And you want…what? More thanks? More attagirls? More gift cards? A bottle of expensive French wine and a spa day for doing what you signed up to do?”

“I should get more,” she said.

“Okay. Let’s say you deserve more. Then what does a policeman deserve for risking his life patrolling shitty ghettos everyday? What does a fireman get for running into a building and saving a life? An EMT? An ER nurse?”

“But…”

“What do I get for going to Afghanistan?”

The car turned colder than a nun’s cunt at midnight mass. Out of nowhere, shit got real and Paul’s mortified libido looked for an escape route from the crazy old curmudgeon who was about to undo all the money he spent on teeth whitening and Paul Mitchell products.

“Seriously,” I continued. “If you get all those things for doing what you chose to do then what do those of us who went into harm’s way get? What about the ones who lost limbs or the families of the real heroes who didn’t come back?”

No response. Paul shifted in his seat, sweat building on his head and Drakkar rolling down his cheeks. He fumbled with the door locks and prayed to all that is holy I would just shut the fuck up.

“Look, lady. I don’t want jack shit from you or anyone else. All I ever wanted to be was a soldier. I got to live my dream for 24 years and want nothing from anyone in return. I don’t want adoration, gratitude, or fucking gift cards. I volunteered for the life I love and would do it again in a second. You get the privilege of working with kids who don’t have what most kids do. Be thankful for that and make the most of it.”

I could have gone much farther, but out of respect for Paul’s terrified penis, I decided to stop and hope the kid would discover on his own that he picked up a spoiled, gold digging wench who thought way too highly of herself. But who was I kidding? It was 2am and he was two miles from getting the just rewards of rehearsed pick up lines, Calvin Klein shirts, and a bar tab that he couldn’t afford. He put on his best smile, tried to laugh, and gave the driver the final directions, opting not to engage the bitter pill in the front seat, which also pissed me off. She may have been an over-entitled princess, but he was spineless. “You can do better Paul,” I said as we pulled up to his townhouse and the pair got out. The driver smirked. Clearly I made his night.

Paul’s chances of doing the forbidden grind that night were likely very low because of me and my attitude, but just before the car door closed they plummeted to less than zero when the chick said, “I thought you said you have a house. This is a townhouse!”

Good luck to you Paul. I’ll send you a really nice Ranger Up gift card someday.

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