- On my last day as fill-in for another job in our office, the people I was working for this week had this yearly meeting to plan their vision for the fall.I was entrusted with the job of overseeing the set-up of the lounge in which they were having this meeting — making sure they had their flipcharts on easels with markers, a portable CD player should they need it, and enough tables, chairs, food, whatever.
Fine. That went smoothly enough.
At day’s end, I had to go upstairs to retrieve a few things and lay down a tablecloth as a favour to someone else, whose show was having a similar meeting the following day.
I get up there, open the door to the lounge and round the corner.
Good. GOD. WHAT a sty!
There was leftover fruit from an earlier spread, stuck to the table. Coffee rings. Discarded water, juice bottles, pens. I even found an empty Starbucks cup (I’m guessing it was the “grande” size – I dunno, I don’t drink Starbucks or coffee, period) under one of the armchairs! It’s not like there wasn’t a trash can – it was in the middle of the room. And NOT even full!
Believe me, I’m far from being the cleanest person in the world. I know things can get a bit messy at all-day meetings. I even know that yes, in our office building, we have cleaners that come in to tidy up after us.
But just lemme hop up on the old soapbox for a second.
On my favourite TV show, there’s a character – a villain, if you will – who’s had his hand hacked off with an axe, by another character.
In the space of three episodes, he’s somehow managed to:
- wake up from the shock that’s knocked him out
- wrap his stumpy, bleeding arm and leave the woodshed in which he was amputated
- stagger through the woods
- find himself a cooler in which to place – and chill – his severed hand
- lope off with said cooler for medical help, and had to settled for a veterinarian
- threatened aforementioned vet by screwdriver to sew on the hand, without anaesthetic
- did NOT pass out, but vomit after his hand was re-attached
- kill the veterinarian by lethal injection and take his clothes
- dye his hair with peroxide
- take the dead vet’s SUV and is currently driving to Utah
… all with the use of ONE. HAND.
So tell me this: if a fictional criminal can do all that, with all that loss of blood, and LIVE, how is it that, in a room full of grown adults — university-educated professionals — there’s NO ONE that could pick up just a tiny bit after themselves?