
Yessir, that’s what we all are. The lowest common denominator. At least, that’s the role that is thrust upon us as a result of paranoia, political correctness, fear of litigation, and complete and purely home-grown stupidity. Allow me to elaborate.
First, that is not me in the photograph. I’m not Jimbo, and I don’t have a posse. Although, some days, I wish I did. Jimbo used to write a blog out in Los Alamos, NM, but has since left it to the buzzards, no doubt as totally disgusted with the reality we live in as I have become. To me, Jimbo is one of the few people who actually “get it.” He actually comprehends the psychology of the “lowest common denominator” mentality. And understands that it is being shoved up our collective asses, whether rightfully earned or not. But I digress, forgive me.
I returned from lunch today, just like any other. My offices are being relocated, so I was finishing up my packing, when I was told that security staff were in the building and we were all to be “shook down.” (For those unfamiliar with prison slang, being shook down equates to being searched.) Soon, the crisply dressed captain was standing in the office, politely demanding that I empty my pockets, remove my belt and my shoes, and submit to a search of my person. How desperately he wished me to have had any type of contraband in my possession – you know, like fingernail clippers or a can of soda. But, alas, I was clean. After a brief perusal of the contents of my pockets, which were hastily piled on my desktop, the captain carefully moved on to my shoes.
Foot odor is a malady that runs in my family. Sort of a genetic predisposition to podiatric funk. And those of you who know me personally, are likely to be aware of the fact I wear hiking boots on a daily basis. (What can I say… they’re comfortable, and keep my toes warm and moist.) Suffice it to say, the captain didn’t linger too long on my footwear. He briskly tapped the heel of each shoe on the desktop, quickly peering intently into them to make certain that there were no firearms or cell phones living in harmony with my socks – which he never asked me to remove. Oh, how many SIM cards could’ve been hiding there, I wonder? Hmmm…
After confirming that my pocketed possessions were in order, and that I wasn’t carrying in excess of the $25 allowed in cash, I was instructed to turn away and hold my arms out from my sides. My compliance lead quickly to the captain’s skillful hands rubbing carefully over my body. Across and under each arm. Around my torso, and down my back. From ankle to groin on both legs. I thought this massage might actually come with a “happy ending,” but it seems the captain showed enough constraint to avoid any direct contact with my genital area. Oh, how many SIM cards could’ve been hiding there, I wonder? Hmmm…
I was then instructed to turn and face the captain, arms still extended, which I did. I was then subjected to the pinnacle of state-owned technology – the low bid, hand-held metal detector. As my pockets had been emptied, and shoes removed, this should have been the easy part. Oh, no. Not today. It seems the metal detector indicated that I have had some extensive knee replacement surgery, rendering a very distinct (yet annoying) whining beep, that grew louder and softer as the captain frantically waved it over my left knee.
“Have you had knee surgery?” he asked.
“Why, no. I haven’t.”
“Are you wearing some sort of knee brace?” he asked, as he continuously waved the wand over my knee again and again.
I had to hold my tongue. After all, this genius had just finished searching me and had to realize I wasn’t wearing any type of brace on my leg. While I so wanted to smart off, I decided to simply play along and see where he went with it.
“Why, no. I’m not wearing any kind of brace at all. Why do you think it’s going off like that?”
He didn’t answer. It was as if he was lost in the daze of sound being emitted from the metal detector, as he seemed almost locked into the motion of waving it over the offending appendage. With a look of disdain, he put the metal detector down and roughly ran his hands down my leg again. Feeling nothing – again – he looked away and said,
“If you’ve got something in that knee, you can keep it.”
With that stunning acquiescence, my “shake down” was ended. And, unless I was actually as stupid as we are apparently believed to be, it accomplished nothing more than to disrupt the work day, annoy the staff, and allow the administration to document that we had been “shook down.”
I quietly sat down and put my shoes back on, stuffed my things back into my pockets, and thought about what Jimbo had said so many months ago.
“Here’s to the Lowest Common Denominator, the ones who drag us down, the millstones that hang painfully around the neck of society! May they get what they deserve!”
You see, my agency has decided to implement the philosophy of the lowest common denominator. Manage every employee as if they were the absolute dregs from the bottom of the human resource pool. After all, if they treat us all like the worst among us, soon we can all become as complacent and apathetic as they assume that we are.
Wow, what a wonderful day that will be. I can hardly wait.
For retirement.
If you have time, check out Jimbo’s full final article. It is written from a much broader prospective than the idiocy of one Texas state agency. But, man, is it ever applicable. So, here’s to the lowest common denominator! May they truly get what they deserve! Peace and prayers.
“Their appetites are wide, but their vision is narrow. And their philosophies are spreading. Like noxious weeds, the Lowest Common Denominator continues to spread, choking out the light and nutrients for the flowers. They are the foundation of an emerging desert, of the spreading tide of mediocrity.” – Jimbo
“Say, as long as you’re down there… hit those shoes again for the Senator, will ya?” – Jeff Jeter
“Thank you for your cooperation.” – The Captain
...and the people said