Screw The Little Guy

I’m mad at you, little guy. I’ve spent a good portion of my life traveling across this screwy country of ours, and I’ve always made it a point to steer clear from big, faceless corporate places when feeding my head, getting a bed, or filling my tank. I figure a huge corporation assaults the entire world, but you, as a privately owned, unfranchised businessperson can only bother your neighbors. Besides, little places have more character and more soul. They represent the dreams of individuals unwilling to accept the demeaning yoke of labor at the hands of another (after all, your pain is their gain). A last bastion of personal strength, a middle finger to the global economy, an alternative to the Disneyish, mass copied corporate hell hole that sucks the life from all of us with its calculated consistency.

But as of my previous month on the road, I’m pissed. Little guy, you’ve gone to shit. My traveling companions and I figured that one or two hotel rooms a week would be an luxury worth paying for (sleeping at a rest area with a steering wheel up your ass gets real old, real quick). Forcing everyone to live by my ideologies, I picked the first hotel. Your hotel To sum it up, the room was 100 degrees and only had one bed. For once in my life, we didn’t do the old “Uh just one person” and sneak 12 people into the room. We paid for everyone, because we respected you, little man. Not that the floor was anything to complain about, but dammit, we paid! Going back to the front desk to complain, you were a complete bastard who said that it was the only room you had left, that you “didn’t like the looks of us,” and that if we were gonna cause problems, you’d call his friend, the sheriff. One bed, busted air conditioner, flea powder on the rug, no refund. Fuck you, little guy.

On another occasion later in the trip, I spent my last 35 bucks on a Motel 6 (I learned my lesson there) a 40 of O.E., and pizza. Stubbornly shirking the mandated mediocrity of Pizza Hut and Little Caesar’s, or the demonic food product of Domino’s (after working at the worst pizza place in the universe, I will never, ever spend a fucking dime on Domino’s Pizza. They have evil politics and treat their workers like shit), I ordered from your shitty little pizza joint. It was more expensive than the other places, but I’m even willing to spend my last bit of money on you, little guy, because I respect you. Your pizza showed up with no sauce. A virtual desert of cold cheese and burnt pepperoni (which I didn’t even ask for). As it was my only meal of the day, I choked down two pieces before I called to complain to you. All I got was “Sorry. That was the driver’s last run.” A few drunken insults later, you hung up on me.

These are just two examples of a long list of grievances I have against you, little guy. I found my gun I bought at your little gunshop for $75 cheaper at a national sporting goods store. After coming back to tell you, you just shrugged me off and told me to leave your store, lest I alert your other customers to your prices. I paid 5 cents more a gallon for gas at your little gas station, and you, Mr. Independent Contractor, charged me an extra 5 bucks for using a credit card and then wouldn’t sell me beer. Instead, I bought a pint of spoiled milk which you insisted was “just fine.” Fuck you Mr. Independent Contractor. Your abuses go on and on.

I have the phone numbers of all you bastards and I can post them for thousands to see, but I don’t want revenge. You will probably fade away without my help, slowly, complaining the entire way down. I’m not completely giving up on you little guy, but as my good acquaintance R. Francis says “Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, shame on me.” Corporate places suck, but at least I know how I’m gonna get ripped off, and there is some sort of recourse when I do get ripped. I respect you, little guy. I’ll pay your higher prices. I’ll deal with your little shortcomings. I just want a little respect back. You shouldn’t have much problem recognizing me. I’m the only one in your store.