This store sells rotten chicken

"They put me off at the wrong stop when I was born." (Doug Schaff / BMcC[18-11-46-503])

A parable

I worked with a man who was highly competent in his job, an ethical giant, and also uncouth. He bought some shrink wrapped chicken parts in the supermarket. When he got home and opened the package, the chicken turned out to have gone bad and was obviously not edible. He went back to the store to get a replacement. They ignored him. So he went to the chicken department and started showing his package of chicken parts to other customers, and enlightening them:

"This store sells rotten chicken."

This got somebody's attention. They finally gave him a replacement package of chicken parts and escorted him out the door.

A second parable

I (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) do not frequent "all you can eat" restaurants. They are "beneath" me. But I worked with two uncouth persons, one of whom had bought the rotten chicken per above. The two of them wanted to go out to dinner after work and so the three of us went to an all-you-can-eat restaurant. Rotten Chicken man was grossly obese and was indeed capable of and desirous of eating a lot, so I will call him here: Big Eater.

It was all you can eat prime rib (or maybe it was just roast beef; it was many years ago and I am not 100% sure any longer about this detail). Big Eater finished his first serving. After some waiting the waitress deivered his second serving which was smaller than the first. After an even longer wait the waitress delivered his even smaller third serving. It was like elementary calculus about limits: The size of the refill was approaching zero, while in parallel the length of the wait was approaching infinity.

Big Eater was, as one should expect, becoming increasingly unhappy. We finally paid the bill and were about to leave the place. The decoration was fitting. We had a booth with a kind of curtain framing its entrance; a guess it was suppoesd to look like a 19th century Wild West saloon, but without the ladies of the night. I exited the booth. The third guy exited the booth. Big Eater, as he exited the booth, ripped down the whole curtain thing. We all left.

The moral of these stories should be obvious

Don't promise and not deliver because some customers do not take it well. I (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) am not uncouth like Big Eater, but I am taking every chance I can get to try to pull down the curtain around the so-called "preparatory" school I was subjected to from grades 7 thru 12 and which advertised itself as an "alma mater" ("loving mother", in latin), when, when I went home each night I was stuck with my real life biological mother (latin: "mater") who was an intrusive ambulatory schizophrenic with no boundaries who forbade me to pick my acne pimples because she reserved doing the for herself to do, etc. Since the school's customer service department still refuses to make things right for me, or even to acknowlege that they served me rotten chicken, it is not for not trying that I have not succeeded in bringing the place down (GPS coordinates: [39.426090, -76.672610]).

Had they educated me like I imagine Aristotle educated the young Alexander the Great, or just treatd me like I treat my beloved pet cat ("Meow!"), I would be writing web pages about how great the place was, not about how bad it was, etcetera and so forth. And the same thing goes for how American society in general has treated me in my whole adult life.

My advice for the people who sell rotten chicken or promise all you can eat ("The American Dream", etc.): For any gifted child born into the milieu of normal people, either immediately coopt the kid into the pampered elite, or murder him (her, other) at once, because, either way, then the person will not likely complain about not being treated right. (Obviously, cooptation seems the more prudent option, not just for the helpless child, but also for the powerful society, because it can never have a surfeit of talent to further aggrandize itself, can it? I hope I would not have had any problem recruiting more what Shakespere's Falstaff called: "food for powder", providing I myself was a dinner guest not, as in fact happened, a comestible or roadkill.)

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