Working in a high security building, I know it can't be helped that people have to take the elevator one level up or down, because the stairs are locked in case Russian snipers with high-powered rifles decide to infiltrate the exterior stairways in order to pick-off fat, jolly tourists from Minnesota taking photos of potted plants and the Lacoste Store display window. But does this stop me from generating blistering ulcers inside my stomach by holding in the rage that arises every time it happens? Fuck no. I want to fucking scream when someone gets in on 3 and goes to 4. Literally, I am screaming in my head when people do this. I bet you're standing there wondering why it looks like I am pumping every drop of blood in body directly to my face, right? Well it's because I want to break a storm window over your stupid fucking head. I would rather be followed into my office and slaughtered with a carving knife by psychotic hot dog vendor than have to deal with thirty seven abrupt stops between my entrance into the elevator, and my exit. Drastic? No, no, no, I call it liberation from such a minor, albeit agonizingly awful inconvenience.
It is against the concept of time and space and Earth and the moon and gravity and air and science and karate for me to get on an elevator and not stop twenty-fucking-times before I reach my destination. By the time I'm at floor 6, I've stopped thirteen times. How, you ask? I don't know, maybe a little something called BLACK MAGIC? Sometimes I think people just ride the elevators all day long, 5 to 4, 4 to 5, 5 to 4, in order to shave hours off my bumbling life. I'm positive that these people were placed on the elevator by Christof to make my daily life more frustrating, thus making it more entertaining to the millions of people watching my show on cable - I SEE YOU FOLLOWING ME AROUND, ADMIT IT!
Even worse is when someone interrupts my ride and hits the wrong floor, and then has to hit their floor, and then acts all embarrassed even though they don't give a shit if, after they get out, the elevator free-falls and I perish all because they made me stay on for a few extra seconds because the elevator's cable support snapped. A law should be passed that when someone does this, I am allowed to throw fresh tomatoes at their fucking faces from less than five feet away. How dare you not know exactly where you want to go at all times. And I know you messed up because you were dicking around on your new Blackberry Storm, which makes you a double-fucking asshole...
Now tell me how this tomato feels when it explodes on your fucking eyeball!
But the kings of all fuckers are the people who ride the elevator one or two floors in an apartment building. Offices, as I said, murder-inducing, yet impossible to control. But apartments are different. This is a whole different animal. A whole different breed of shithead. My thought process is as follows:
Hey, I know you, you live on the second floor. You are dating the guy that wears the scarf when it's 75 degrees out, what a fucking dork. Wait, you're getting on the elevator? You better be going up to the roof so you can jump off and not taking this to your...holy fucking shit, did you just press 2? You just fucking pressed 2. Do you see how many people are on this elevator? You couldn't fit a fucking Bicycle playing card in between bodies, it's so fucking full, and you're going to ride this thing nine feet and crush us even more with your bag of organic celery from Whole Foods? You just walked nineteen blocks for organic celery and you can't walk motherfucking nine steps to your floor? I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!
And this happens all the time. For some reason, the people who live on the 2nd floor of my building are the laziest pieces-of-shit in America. Someone should follow them around and beat them with a bamboo reed every time they try and do something so fucking ridiculous.
One time, there was a guy in the lobby of my building dressed in workout clothes. He wore an armband, which showed me he was serious about his fitness, and not a intolerable nerd who probably goes to the gym to pretend to workout so he can watch free ESPN because he doesn't have cable and spends all his money trying to fuck hoochies on West 27th Street by buying $500 bottles of Smirnoff and giving free drinks to any sixteen-year-old that passes by wearing a halter top. So while we were in the lobby, this hotshot was huffing and puffing because the elevators were taking a long time to arrive. He was being very dramatic, stretching out his hamstrings by leaning against the wall and grunting, running in place, stretching his back out, all the while making a fucking scene about how impatient he was. Let me also add he had pointy, vomit-inducing C-cups jiggling behind his veil of Under Armour. When the elevator finally arrived, he got in, and pressed 3. Floor 3, where the gym is located. Two fucking flights of motherfucking fucking stairs between his dramatic charade and the fucking gym. I almost shit in my pants. Literally, I had to stop myself from shitting in my pants, because it was the only reaction that could have even begun to suggest just how disgusted and shocked I was with this guy. I wanted to follow him into the gym, lock him in the bathroom, and release a fucking Black Mamba into it with him.
What these people don't realize is, as Walter Sobchak so delicately put it: "Life does not start and stop at your convenience, you miserable piece of shit." We need to revolt against the one-floor-elevator riding-shitheads. So, as I said before, go grab some fucking vine ripe tomatoes, and start working on your aim.
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Art thou mad bromeo?
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