Elevating Elevator Use

I’m trying hard, very hard, not to lose my shit on people who seem to not know that human decency is personified in how one uses a goddamn elevator. How can something that seems so basic, a box on a pulley that ushers plebs up and down to their meaningless jobs and shitty condos, be fraught with so much absurd confusion and a lack of self-awareness?

Look, maybe if I had this thing people keep raving about, “cardio”, I’d be okay with taking the stairs and avoiding the horror that is walking into a box filled with awful scents and worse people. But unfortunately for all involved, I gave up on personal fitness and put all my eggs in the ‘science will soon invent a pill that saves me from ever having to set foot on an elliptical‘ basket. I guess that pill kinda already exists in the form of a methamphetamine, which has been used in the pharmaceutical weight-loss game for decades, but I like my teeth and also, those people have shitty cardio, but can fit into anything made by Gucci. Cocaine would probably also work, in the event you wanted to broaden your horizons. 

So here are some things to keep in mind when stuffing yourself into a crammed elevator, in order to ensure that I don’t push you directly down the shaft.

2221205993_9e8ffd990d_bLet people off first: In a world where common sense is anything but, we still must remind people that it’s harder to get off an elevator, when morons start pilling inside of it. Imagine a glass filled with marbles, and wanting to replace those marbles with other marbles. This would be hard to do, should you add the new marbles before removing the old ones. I’m not sure I can make it any more basic than that. I can’t decide if people who seemingly walk onto an elevator before giving a chance for others to walk off, as though they are some fucking ghost that can walk through people, are either extremely dense or just so invested in their own importance that they’ve forgotten other people exist? The same principle applies to getting on a bus, or any form of transportation really, so wait for others to exit, you stupid idiot.

The mid-stop congestion exit: Whenever I’m in a really packed elevator, I start to estimate the weight of the combined group, and anxiously start to wonder if we overdid it and are about to plunge to a horrible, B.O. filled death. One of our elevators at Society Camp (we have a bunch because escalators are too complicated for our inmates) has a maximum capacity of 22 people. It’s not a huge elevator, and you’d be hard-pressed to fit anywhere close to 12. Which makes me worried that some lazy-ass elevator engineer just made it up, and really, we are pushing the weight envelope without even knowing it. Or maybe those 22 people were what the average person weighed when elevators were first invented in the 1850’s, which I assume was like 90 pounds, because of things like typhus and cholera. Anyway, where were we, oh ya, when packed into an elevator like a disgusting, soulless sardine, and you are at the front and come to a stop at a busy floor, get off the elevator to let people out, and then hop back in. Don’t worry, the odds of getting crushed by the doors are much slimmer than death by judgement for not getting out of the way and making it easy for people to get off.

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Wait to tell your stupid joke: There is always that one asshole on the elevator who thinks this is it, this is my fucking moment to shine. It’s the same asshole who thinks just because he is close to a stage, he can keep yelling dumb shit to a musician, or the same dude that chimes in with his own joke when a comedian tries to riff with the crowd. This guy/gal, usually a guy because women are generally more self-aware/less awful, when on the elevator, brings their voice up a couple hundred decibels and starts telling some awful joke or anecdote, or something wreaking of self-importance “I told Jim, let me handle this, and an hour later it was settled, and that’s why they call me the closer”. People are at work, a place they hate, and the last thing they want to hear first thing in the morning, or anytime of the day really,  is a dose of bravado and Dane Cook level hijinks.

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Don’t hold the elevator to finish said stupid joke: That asshole from above, not only had to let the world know about his current workload and how he just got a promotion, he now reaches his floor, gets off, but not before putting his stupid arm out to stop the door from closing, so he can continue his little convo with his little friend. Are you fucking kidding me? Who in their right fucking mind does this? If your buddy really is so engrossed in your stupid life, he would have gotten off the elevator with you. He probably finds you insufferable and is now embarrassed beyond belief that you have involved him in your ignorance.

Look at the numbers, and avoid eye contact: This one is easy, when on an elevator, don’t try and make eye contact with people, instead look at the numbers as they light up and do your best to avoid everyone. You know who looks at people on elevators, serial killers lining up their next victim, that’s who.

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Don’t fart: It’s only okay to crop dust on your way out of the elevator, and not really okay, but fucking hilarious, because farting will never not be funny.

No fries, ever: Because now everyone wants them. And I didn’t just suffer through a seaweed salad with a raw almond topping so that you could come in with your fries and your joie de vivre and make me regret my life choices immediately, and give them all up for an endless parade of lunch time fries. And not all the methamphetamine in the world could keep me svelte in the face of french fry salads every damn day. And to be clear, there is no salad in a french fry salad, only fries, mayo and a healthy dose of cut up hot dogs.

Sentence: Anyone caught breaking any of the seven deadly elevator sins, will be sent away to Society Camp for half a day. Anyone caught breaking the telling a stupid joke/life story rule, along with holding the door open to finish said stupid joke/life story, will be sentenced to a full day because fuck that guy, that’s why.

Reform Punishment: Picture it, you, a cold steel box, and the asshole of a man who has just finished a road trip along Route 66, where the only stops he could make for eating and/or bowel movements, were at Arby’s. You will spend the entirety of your sentence riding up and down a small, 1920’s style elevator (with those metal prison style gates you need to open) with this man, who is not shy about flatulence. To make matters worse, while he slowly releases the toxic fumes that embody American roast beef innovation,  he will show you a slideshows from his trip, which mostly includes different pictures of roast beef sandwiches with fake cheese (which actually sounds better than 99% of slideshows).

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