Spiritual Warfare and Beer

Sitting at the scales at a major beer brewer in Williamsburg, Virginia. I'm picking up a load to South Carolina, which will get me home.

I got rather annoyed with the inbound guard. He was one of those chronically oppressed types who never seem to grasp that they create their own problems. For instance, when I weighed on the way in, there was no one behind me. By the time he finally asked me for my pickup number there were three trucks each backed up between the two scales. This happened because this fuck was meandering around the guardshack in no particular hurry, fiddling with paperwork and apparently being impressed by himself and his authority. He looked up at the line of trucks at one point and shook his head, saying “This is just getting stupid,” like the truck drivers were the problem.

I assumed he was just impatient to get back to reading his book, Spiritual Warfare. Maybe I should send him Asshole No More (The Asshole Saga, Volume 1). When he was finally prepared to take my pickup number, it caught me by surprise. When I didn't offer it as quickly as he may have liked, he sighed heavily, like I was taxing his patience by keeping him from his important duties.

Man. I just stared at him. The first three or four phrases that came to mind were not things that I could actually say. I mean, it took me thirty minutes just to get through the gate. All in all, it just took me an hour and a half to make a drop and hook. I've been live loaded faster than that.

Actually, it wasn't the wait that annoyed me so much as Dude's attitude. Spiritual Warfare, indeed. You have to wonder which side he's on.