Elevator trolls 2, Uncle Freddy 1

Someone suggested I blog about how hard it is to be funny all the time.
Since I couldn't come up with a way to make that funny, I didn't do it. But I do feel like if you are going to take the time to come here, you should be amused. Or disturbed. Or entertained.
If you are bored, I have failed miserably.
So I apologize to the 26 people who were bored by last week's posts. Boring people are one of my pet peeves.
So, too, are elevators.
We won't recount all of the weird freaks I have attracted on elevators. But thankfully, they make life entertaining.
My favorites are the ETs. (Elevator trolls).
This morning, I finally fought back.
An elevator troll is a person who is in such a huge hurry to get on the elevator, they jump on before the person on the elevator can get off.
You know them. You hate them.
This morning, Ethel joined the list of ETs.
Ethel is an elderly woman who wears too much stinky perfume. She looks like she has been smoking for 71 years. Her skin has more wrinkles than The Usual Suspects. She has enough makeup to make the Joker blush. (Or is it enough blush to look like the joker?)
She works at one of the other businesses at our beautiful building. I'm not sure which one, but she has left her smell hanging in the elevator for months.
This morning, Ethel and a co-worker were getting on the elevator as I was trying to get off.
I have a five second rule. If you are not off the elevator in five seconds, and I am in a hurry, then I can troll you.
Ethel clearly has a less than a second rule.
I was stepping for the door as it was opening.
Ethel immediately shoved her way past me, along with her equally elderly friend. They never said excuse me, never even noticed I was trying to get off the elevator. Even though it was the first floor.
I was unable to get around them and to the door before it closed.
Ethel and whomever did not even notice me. (I know her name is Ethel because it is embroidered on her purse. Don't ask).
I was in a bit of a hurry. Was hoping to get a kolache between morning updates, which means I have little margin for error. An extra three minutes on the elevator counts as an error.
So I politely asked if they had seen me when they forced their way on. (At 6-3, 230, I am a little hard to miss.)
She grunted something inaudible that sounded like "move faster next time. Some of us work for a living."
The man looked at his shoes and didn't say anything.
Trying to be nice, I said calmly, "it's usually courteous to let people OFF the elevator before you get on."
She grunted again and mumbled something else that sounded like, "don't lecture me, kid. If I am late for work, I don't get paid."
"Well," I replied sweetly, "we wouldn't want that," as my elbow "accidentally" hit the stop elevator button, and it lurched to a halt.
"Whoops," I said politely. Then fumbled for a few seconds before pushing the button again and restarting the elevator. "Sorry Ethel. Don't want you to be late. I mean, if you couldn't afford perfume, or Marlboros with no filters, or skin care products, whatever you would do?"
I then -- politely of course -- added.."Oh, you must have been late last week and missed out on the skin products. Sorry."
The man forced a giggle. Ethel growled. We made it to her floor.
I didn't get my kolache, but I got a blog entry.

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