The Communicable Card

It was quite a shocker to be told this blog has been added as a link on Barbados Free Press. I even went and checked for myself and yup, I'm there. I then dug through the archives of my brain to see how much damage I'd done myself- chuckling at the shit in my pig pen story- the water works dude- all a dat- and I've come to the conclusion that my readers could only want more of my sarcastically cynical yet highly entertaining Bajan intrigues because I certainly haven't been added for my bouts of melancholy reflection. The irony is that the intrigues are often what set off the melancholy- but anyway, on with the show.

If Bajan Bellyaching is what ya'll want - dats wha wunna goin' get. My mission, until I become too disgusted, is to focus on the stuff I try so desperatley to ignore so that I can do my little bit of fame justice and at the same time, satisfy your scary cravings for tales of Kocurkovo.

Tonight's gripe is with GAIA's parking 'system'

I roll up to the card dispensor and I'm thinking about the last episode of Top Inventor with the toilet seat couple who showed a slow motion poo germ explosion of what happens when you flush, even with the toilet seat down. I'm not generally a hypochondriac but the brown mushroom bomb of bacteria has engraved itself on my senses. So as the card shoots out, I'm thinking...how many people have used this card before me and how many have just pissed on the side of the road? I'm willing to bet that the statistics are equally high on both counts. I give the card a once over and check for stains.

I park. I wait. I holler at my son for rolling on the ground, touching up the poles, examining the soles of his feet, sticking his fingers up his nose and then sucking off the experience. He coughs- (the rain, of course)- I give him the card to hold.

I wait some more.

I'm ready to leave and as a well seasoned parking card user, I make my way with luggage and child to the Parking ATM adjacent to where I've skillfully parked the car only to find the money eater has been heavily scotch taped with a note that probably reads OUT OF ORDER but I translate -aloud- I HATE THIS AIRPORT AND THEIR STUPID CARDS!

I trudge back to the human being on the other side of Arrivals, on the other side of my car.

One dollar is paid for my convenience.

I trudge back to the Parking ATM, cross the road, get in the car and drive to the card eater. The card eater is not hungry. He tells me to go back and pay for my parking. I yell at card eater "I've paid for my parking you ass!" I put back in the card but the eater won't budge. I'd forgotten that when talking to machines you must mollycoddle them like men or they seize. I press assistance instead.

The human being asks me how much I've paid. I say "I now left you, I'm the one with the boy." The human being says, "just leave the card on top of the machine" and she graciously buzzes me out of Parking Prison. I place my card on top of a stack of cards and shudder thinking of the chaos that poor human being must have had to endure when the flow of traffic was heavy.

Now I admit, I'm not too bright but I can't figure out what, other than coat my hands with a film of bodily fluids thus making my parking experience in the Kocurkovo airport that much more social, was the purpose of the card. Does anyone know?