# The IAG Incident: A Steaming Pile of Bullshit (Revisited)

## The IAG Incident: A Steaming Pile of Bullshit (Revisited)

Just when I thought I'd plumbed the depths of human idiocy, the universe decided to throw me a curveball straight from Satan's ballsack. There I was at the IAG, trying to do a decent thing, show a crumb of gratitude to the chef who took pity on my ornery old hide. But no, the cosmic cocksuckers in charge couldn't let that slide without ramming a huge helping of humiliation down my throat.

Get this: a beaten-down old fuck like me, hanging onto the last tattered shred of dignity like it's a winning lottery ticket, trying to pay for his goddamn grub like any upstanding citizen. But integrity, it seems, is about as welcome as a turd in a swimming pool these days. The lack of a fucking plastic bag, a sad little scrap flimsier than a hooker's excuses, turned into a top-level national security incident.

The manager, this greasy shitstain with a nametag clinging to his shirt like a desperate ex, had the fucking nerve to question my honor. "Did you pay for that?" he hissed, his weasel eyes trying to bore into my skull like a cut-rate brain surgeon. I could see a vein throbbing in his forehead, pulsing in sync with the mind-numbing elevator music bleeding from the speakers. I wanted to ram that bag down his gullet, watch the fucker choke on his own self-righteous bile while I whistled Dixie. But I bit my tongue, because apparently, being old and pissed off isn't a valid reason to re-enact the Boston Strangler's greatest hits.

And the checkout punk? He grunted out a half-assed "payment confirmed," but not before eyeballing me like I was the star of America's Most Wanted: Geriatric Edition. I could practically hear the hamster wheel squeaking in his head, the implied accusation: "Old coot's trying to pull a fast one. Probably stuffs his pockets with stolen prunes and denture cream." I was ready for a cavity search with a jumbo bottle of off-brand ketchup for daring to breathe their precious, recycled air. Christ, I nearly dropped dead of a genuine coronary right there, wondering if anyone would even hear my death rattle over the din of rattling carts and the ceaseless bleating of the bar code scanner.

The joint reeked of cut-rate disinfectant, barely masking the underlying stench of crushed dreams and rancid fry oil. I stumbled out of the IAG feeling like roadkill marinated in regret and self-loathing. As I shuffled into the merciless glare of the midday sun, a thought hit me like a sock full of quarters: if this is what qualifies as civilized conduct, then maybe those mangy curs rooting through the dumpsters have the right fucking idea. At least they don't put on airs, pretending to be something they're not. They steal your shit, piss where they please, and tongue their own assholes in broad daylight - all without a single, solitary fuck given.

But try to get it through the dense skulls of these sanctimonious, bag-fellating shit-gibbons that maybe, just maybe, a man deserves a goddamn modicum of respect, even if he's not waving around an obsidian credit card or sporting a suit that costs more than their annual salary. Fat fucking chance of that happening in this festering hellscape we call modern society.

I lurched out of the IAG, my creaky joints screaming bloody murder, hissing profanities vile enough to make the Devil himself blush. The sun was beating down on me like a psychotic ex-con with a grudge, the heat making the blacktop writhe and shimmer like a two-dollar whore in a back alley. I blinked against the searing light, my eyes leaking bitter tears of rage and frustration, the kind that comes from a lifetime of eating shit sandwiches force-fed by the powers that be.

But then, as I limped down the boulevard of broken dreams, I spotted a kindred spirit: a scraggly, cock-eyed mongrel elbow-deep in a trashcan, scavenging for scraps. Our eyes met, and in that moment, I swear we achieved a level of mutual understanding that transcended the boundaries of species. We were brothers-in-arms, grizzled veterans of life's unending shit-storm, just trying to survive in a world that couldn't care less if we lived or died.

And guess what? That mangy cur didn't give a hunchbacked fuck about social niceties. No demands for a receipt, no third-degree over my alleged "proof of purchase." Just a jaunty wag of his matted tail, a lop-sided doggy grin, and back to the dumpster spelunking. In that fleeting instant, a revelation smacked me upside the head like a sock full of horse manure: maybe, just maybe, there's still a flicker of hope for this benighted world. If a beat-to-shit old fart like yours truly can forge a bond with a one-eyed, garbage-gobbling, flea-bitten cur, then perhaps there's still a sputtering spark of humanity left in this septic tank we call modern life.

So I squared my stooped shoulders, held up my head, and hobbled off into the shimmering horizon, a stiff middle finger raised in defiant salute to the IAG, the manager, and every other black-hearted bastard who gets their jollies by stomping on the tattered remains of the common man's spirit. They may have won this skirmish, but I'll be ass-fucked by a cactus before I let them win the goddamn war. This busted-up old warhorse still has some guts left, and I'll keep flailing away until I'm cold in the ground.

After all, life's too fucking short to waste it boot-licking for the approval of these soulless, receipt-grubbing, bag-humping flesh-drones that call themselves human fucking beings. Sometimes, you've just got to grab the world by the short and curlies, yank it screaming into your sweaty armpit, and let the motherfucking chips fall where they may. And if that means finding a little slice of camaraderie with a flea-bitten, dumpster-diving mutt, then so-fucking-be-it. At least we're keeping shit real - more real than these plastic-wrapped, barcode-bleating, walking-talking shit-puppets could ever hope to understand."