NUMBER 6 IN YOUR BOOK

According to these folks I hold the 6th worst job.
I ain't saying it is the best job in the world.
But I have worked in an office, a copy shop, a pizza place, a liquor store, a furniture store, a health food store, light construction and a bike messenger and it beats the hell out of all of those there and back.

The messenger gig had its perks though.
Mostly the pot, coffee, bitchin tan lines and meeting the wife.

I WANT MY BABY BACK

In the summer I spotted these signs in the affluent Marina neighborhood,
I found them to be a humorous peek into the way the other half reacts when
things are taken from them.

Not all that different I suppose.

There were a few minutes when I thought about calling the number and
telling the individual that I had just spotted a group of inner city teens
riding a gas grill down Van Ness but like most of my best ideas it was
replace by distracting thoughts of sparkly things on the ground and coffee.

Last Monday I was servicing the first customer on a route in this neighborhood
when a man walks up behind me and starts screaming "I WANT MY BARBEQUE BACK! I WANT MY BARBEQUE BACK!" followed by a cold glare.

Could this be the guy? Does he think that I, the omnipresent all knowing garbage man, was the one that stole/threw away his gas grill?! Or is he just venting at the company in general?

What are the chances that he would scream this at possibly the only trash man to have known what he was talking about?

After a few hours of work, both physical and mental (trying like hell not to forget how my day had started, see sparkly things on the ground) I was passing down Chestnut st when I heard a commotion at the Apple store. I glanced over as I drove past to see a man screaming "I WANT MY BARBEQUE BACK! I WANT MY BARBEQUE BACK!" at the genius behind the giant glass door.

And thus I was given my answer.