Category: Rants

I Couldn’t Have Said It Better Myself

~ riggledo ~ Leave a comment

I don’t often publish unoriginal material on my blog.  I also, don’t often publish political material on my blog, though it has been known to happen.

I just read this article on DaveRamsey.com and had to share it.  Dave Ramsey is a financial guru with his own radio show and books and stuff.  One of my all time favorite bill boards is one on 5th street, in Oakland.  It’s for Dave’s radio show and features a huge picture of Dave’s mug and the tag line says, “Act your wage!”  I think that’s brilliant.  A few years ago, I read a book by Dave called The Total Money Makeover.  It changed my life.  It would change my life more, but I haven’t done a really good job of following it’s recommendations.

Anyway, Dave has some comments regarding the “Occupy Wall Street” movement and the off shoots that have sprouted up around the country and while I have not said anything about them because I have nothing nice to say, this article from Dave’s website helped to put into polite and friendly words, all the things I’ve been thinking for weeks but couldn’t think of a nice way to say.

Here is a link to the original article.

By Dave Ramsey

“I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” Yeah, that’s great. But what do you want? What are your goals? What are your demands? What result are you looking for?

The beauty of being vague is that anyone who has any emotion can get caught up in the excitement and join your crusade. They’ll just get mad at something and assume that you’re both mad about the same thing. Put a few hundred of these people together, and boom. You’ve got a crowd, a headline and a lot of attention … but no message.

A lot of people on Twitter are saying I totally agree with the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) demands and goals. The only problem is that I have no idea what their demands and goals are. And neither does anyone else. …

Bigger Is Not Necessarily Better

~ riggledo ~ 1 Comment

I had a really shitty day yesterday.  It wasn’t supposed to be.  I took the day off work to take care of some EMT related business and then I was going to have the rest of the day to do with as I pleased.  I went to my doctor to get a physical of sorts.  The state of California requires a Medical Examiners Certificate (which sounds like I ought to be able to perform autopsies after but is actually a Medical professional Examining me and Certifying that I am physically fit to drive a commercial vehicle.  And then once I have this certification of fitness I can get my ambulance driver license.  My appointment was at 10:00 and was supposed to be a fairly quick experience.  Because my health care provider believes in an assembly line method of delivering healthcare I knew I would have to make another stop on the campus to provide a specimen for the Urinalysis that I saw was called for on the form.  I knew the results would not be instantaneous and so I knew this would not be completely resolved in one day, but at least that part would be quick.

I have a like/hate relationship with my doctor.  I really do like him.  He’s a nice man who takes good care of me, and seems genuine in his interest and concern for his patients.  I also dread going to see him because I know there will be a discussion of weight.  The fact is, my healthcare provider, which for those of you who are keeping track at home, is also my employer, requires all of the physicians to have a discussion with every one of their patients about weight, smoking, diet and exercise… in addition to finding out and treating whatever the patient is there for (all of which is supposed to be done in under 15 minutes), so I know my doctor is just doing his job.  But my doctor is about 6’3 and weighs about 160 pounds.  As a rule of thumb, this is a condition people like him come by naturally, so I’m really not sure he can understand what a struggle this is for me.  I knew I had to see him.  I knew I had to get this certification from him, but I kept putting it off, because I knew I had gained back some of the weight I had lost.  I knew I weighed more than the last time I saw him and I was dreading having to discuss it with him.

I went to my appointment.  Went through the usual torture of having the assistant take my temperature and my blood pressure (which is always high at first and lower when he checks it again later) and have me step on the filthy, lying whore of a scale that always adds five pounds to what ever my scale at home says; as if the insult on my own scale weren’t bad enough.  Then she took me into the exam room and asked me what I was there for.  I handed her the paperwork that I needed the doctor to fill out and sign and she told me that she didn’t think he would be able to do it.  “I think you have to take this to the medical secretaries to get this filled out and then he can sign it.”  My healthcare provider uses a computerized medical records system so the medical secretaries will just pull whatever information my doctor put in the system to fill out the form…  The fact that my doctor will be writing it all on paper before it gets into the system and therefore could just as easily write it on the paperwork is, apparently, irrelevant and won’t become a real problem until later.

“That’s fine,” I told her, “I just need to get the exam.”

The doctor came in and discussed the form with me and did the exam which was pretty simple stuff. He asked me about my sleep habits.  “How quickly do you fall asleep?”  Fat people always have sleep apnea, you know.

“Usually really quickly,’ I told him.

“And when you wake up do you usually feel well rested?”

“Almost never,” I replied.

“Do you snore?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered, “I’m asleep.”  We established that I live – and sleep – alone.  And if I’m snoring, or stopping breathing, Mischa’s not telling.

My blood pressure was excellent, as usual, and so he ruled out sleep apnea because people with sleep apnea generally have high blood pressure.  I only get about six hours of sleep most nights and so I’m chronically sleep deprived.  I’m sure glad I have insurance and only had to pay $10.00 for him to tell me this thing that I already know.

I need to get more sleep.  I also need there be another six hours in the day.

For the first time in ten years, he asked me my sexual orientation, which I thought was kind of odd and it tripped me up for a second, but I didn’t mind answering honestly, (if “gay” is on my medical record, does that make it official?)  Based on my answer there were some additional things he wanted to discuss with me.  Having established that I sleep alone, I couldn’t help laughing when he asked me how often I used condoms and if I had been vaccinated against Hepatitis A.  Um.  I SLEEP ALONE!!!

In a theoretical world, yes, condoms 100% of the time.  I was vaccinated against one of the Hepatitises (Hepatiti?) last year before starting my EMT training.  It was Hep B.  They strongly encourage the Hep A vaccination for “men who sleep with men.”  Um.  I’m a man who sleeps with NOBODY, but OK, sure.  I only pay $10.00 to come here.  Whatever you want.

That’s another stop on the assembly line.

“When did you get your last tetanus shot?”

“No idea.”  Tetanus booster, with the Pertussis (whooping cough) element is recommended for healthcare workers.  Sure why not.  Make me a pin cushion.  I’m already going to the injection room anyway.

In addition to sleep apnea, fat people always have diabetes.  “When did you eat last?” he asks me.

“Last night.”

“Good.”  Every year he sends me to the lab to have blood drawn to check my blood sugar.  (It’s always in the high normal range.)

“As long as I’m having my blood let, anyway,” I ask him, “can you order an HIV test?  I mean, I don’t really need it, but I’ve never had one and as long as I’m there…  I asked them to do it last time but they said they couldn’t do it unless you ordered it.” (Stupid)

“It’s always a good idea,” he agreed.  (Results were negative, in case I had you worried.)

As an afterthought, I asked him to take a look at a little 3-dimensional spot on my left cheek that didn’t use to be there.  “Welcome to getting older,” he told me.  “Its nothing to worry about.”

After 45 minutes in the doctor’s office, I went across the hall to the “adult injection clinic”.  I’m not kidding.  I check in there and literally take a number.  I’m number 84.  They’re on number 67.  They stay on number 67 for more than 10 minutes.  I waited almost 30 minutes to get into the injection room and then when I did get in I waited another 5 minutes.  Two jabs in the arm, one of which hurts a lot today (I assume it’s the tetanus booster) and I was on my way to the next stop.

Since the Medical Secretaries were moved to the new building across the main street on the other side of the hospital, I choose to go to the lab in that building and so I walk around the perimeter of the hospital to get there.  I haven’t eaten in twelve hours.  My head is starting to hurt (hunger, or something in one of the shots?) and now I need to pee.  I get to the lab take another number and then check in.  I ask the clerk, “If it’s possible for me to do the Urinalysis first, that would be awesome.”  She gives me the plastic cup and I take care of business.

Then I wait another 20 minutes to have my blood drawn.  I never really understood why some people have issues with finding veins.  You can spot mine at twenty paces.  I’m glad I have good veins and for the first time in my life I watch as the Phlebotomist inserts the needle and my blood flows into the ampules…  quickly.

Finally, I go to the Medical Secretaries office.  It is noon.  My head is splitting, my shoulder throbbing, my opposite arm is tender and has a self clinging bandage wrapped around my elbow and they close at 12:30 for lunch.  I arrive at the office to find a crowd of people and yet ANOTHER take a number machine at the door.  I’m number 88.  She (and I do me that as a singular pronoun) she is on number 72 and everyone is arguing with her.  I’m NOT leaving before I’m seen so I’m sorry you’re all alone and going to be late going to lunch.  I listen as one person after another argues with the Medical Secretary about how “so and so told me that I could sign this on behalf of my legal age, mentally competent family member, so why are you telling me that I can’t?” when it’s just her job to know and, duh! why would you think you could sign on behalf of the legal age, mentally competent family member?  I turn to the lady next to me and say, “Why is everyone arguing with her?  It’s her job to know these things.”

FINALLY, she calls number 88.  I hand her my forms.  “I was told to come here to have this filled out based on the physical I just had.”

“What is this?” she asks me.

I sort of assumed that she would know, because this is something they do.  “It’s a Medical Examiners Certification for the DMV.” I tell her as I point at the size 72 font DMV logo in the corner of the form.

“Oh.  They changed the form,” she says in a tone that suggests it’s a problem.  “I don’t have an old one to show you.”

I didn’t question you. “I printed it from their website, yesterday.  Obviously, it’s the right form.”

“Well, there’ll be $30.00 fee,” she tells me and I’m certain it was a joke.

After a long pause where I just stare at her, I finally say, loudly, “Excuse me?”  She repeats the absurdity.  “There’s a $30.00 fee for you to fill out a form that the doctor could have filled out WHILE HE WAS DOING THE ACTUAL EXAM?  There’s a $30.00 fee to FILL OUT A FORM???  Give me a pin.  I’ll do it!”

This, in case you’re wondering, was not the bombshell.

“Oh, wait,” she says suddenly.  “We can’t do this anyway.  You have to take this down the hall to Occupational Medicine.”

Seriously?  I’ve waited here for 30 minutes and now you’re telling me I have to go somewhere else, even though both my doctor and his assistant said to come here?

“Sorry,” she says unconvincingly.

I snatch my forms from her and say, “No you’re not,” and stomp off.  I’m not even out of the small office before I hear her call number 89, like everything is fine.

At the other end of the hall, I walk up to the sprawling desk with six stations for clerks in Occupational Medicine.  There is only one person at the desk and as I walk up, she says, “Oh, sir, I’m closed for lunch, and my sign should have been up.”  Mid-speech she reaches for her closed sign and slaps it down in front of me.  “She’ll help you,” she says gesturing to the woman who had been standing there talking to her and is now sauntering to the far end of the counter.  I give the first woman the stink eye as I stomp off.

I hand the form to the woman and tell her what the Medical Secretary told me.  “Well, we can’t do that!” she exclaims and she has the nerve to actually sound put out.

“Excuse me?” I ask, all pretense of cordiality has drained out of my voice.  This is getting ridiculous.

“The doctor’s not going to sign for another doctor,” she says as if this explains everything.

“Riiiight?”

“So they can’t do this.”  Now you get it, right?

“I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” I say.  I’m fairly certain there is steam coming from my ears now.

“If your doctor did the exam, our doctors aren’t going to sign the paperwork.”

Now I get it.  “No one is asking for that.  My doctor is prepared to sign it, but he sent me to the Medical Secretaries to have it filled out and they sent me to you.”

“Well, this is for the DMV, for a commercial driver license,” she says, as if I hadn’t already established that fact, “your doctor can’t do the physical.”

I stare blankly at her.

“Our doctors have to do it.”

More staring.

“It costs $70.00 and it’s not covered by your membership.”

You know that sound that they used to (or maybe still do) use at factories and mills to indicate the start and end of shifts.  The old steam whistle sound?  Yeah, that.  Coming from my ears.  “What. Do. You. Mean. It’s not covered?”  Surprisingly she understood me through my clenched teeth.

“You have to pay for this.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said loudly.  “Not only am I a member of this health care organization, but I’m also an employee.  I pay my premiums every month out of my paycheck.  I have full medical coverage.  I just paid my $10.00 co-pay to see MY DOCTOR who conducted my physical for this form, because the man on the phone WHEN I MADE MY APPOINTMENT said I DID NOT have to come to Occupational Medicine.  I’ve been here for three hours because of this form and because the man on the phone said I DID NOT have to come to Occupational Medicine.  The woman down the hall tells me I have to pay $30.00 TO WRITE ON A PIECE OF PAPER THAT I PROVIDED and now you’re telling me that I have to see A DIFFERENT DOCTOR and pay another $70.00 OUT OF MY POCKET?  You’re telling me that even though I have worked here for ten years and been a member the ENTIRE TIME, and even though I have complete coverage, I HAVE TO PAY $100.00 OUT OF MY POCKET for something I’ve already paid for?  EVEN THOUGH THE APPOINTMENT CENTER GUY SAID I DIDN’T HAVE TO COME HERE?  IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE TELLING ME?”

“I’m sorry.  He was wrong.  And you don’t have to pay to have the form filled out.”  There was nothing apologetic about her tone or demeanor.

When I called to make the appointment, the man said “I think you have to do this with Occupational Medicine.”  I explained that I was not doing it for my employer and was he sure?  He put me on hold and then came back and said I did not have to go to Occupational Medicine.  So not only was he wrong but the person he went and asked was wrong too?

“Would you like to make an appointment?” she asked me as if I hadn’t just had a tantrum.

I did my best to stare death into her soul.  Apparently I do no wield that much power, despite what the Mormons think.  Dammit.  “I don’t guess I have any choice now do I?”

She turns to her computer.  “Would you like to do it today?”

“I CAN’T DO IT TODAY,” I tell her.

I have $37.00 in the bank until midnight.  I didn’t have the money to pay the $30.00 TO WRITE ON PAPER and pay the quickly mounting parking fee I’m amassing, I sure as hell don’t have the $70.00 to pay for the physical, I’ve already paid for AND already had.

Now I’m going back on Tuesday.  I will be telling this strange doctor I do not know that he can use my blood pressure from Thursday’s physical, BECAUSE IT’S BOUND TO BE ELEVATED ON TUESDAY.  He also damn well better use the results of Thursday’s urinalysis and they better have me in and out of there lightning quick!

The good news is my appointment is at 8:30 in the morning and I am taking the entire day off work again so maybe this day off work will actually be a nice one.

In my office building we frequently have various propaganda banners hanging in the lobby, touting our organization as being “First in service” or “Best Healthcare whatever whatever” or “Ranked number one among, something or other.”  I suppose if I actually read this crap anymore I could be more specific.

Something my company needs to think about:  Being the biggest healthcare provider in the area does not make us “the best”.

Fuddy. Duddy.

~ riggledo ~ Leave a comment

I love a good fireworks display.  I really do.  Always have.  The kinds of displays put on by professional pyrotechnicians have never ceased to thrill me.  I love the power of the concussive force as the cartridges explode in a myriad of colors and patterns in the sky.  When I was a kid I loved the Fourth of July and could not wait for one or the other of my parents to take me to a fireworks display.

These days, my love of professional pyrotechnics is confined to New Year’s Eve, when I’d sooner suck on a salt lick than sit at home alone, missing the celebrations!  Why a salt lick?   I don’t know.  It’s just the first thing that came to mind.  So many of the professional Fourth of July fireworks shows that I once loved have been called off due to expense and the ones that are still in effect are a lot of trouble to get to for a 20 minute display followed by a 90 minute trip home because of the amount of traffic (on a school night, no less.)

As I write this, I’m sitting naked in my non-air conditioned apartment with the doors and windows open, because it’s been too hot to have the place closed up, and I imagine what it might have been like to live in any number of places in “The Gulf” during our many attacks on the “bad guys”, which is to say that on this night, every year, I feel as though I’m living in a war zone.  It starts in the early afternoon and will continue until well after I go to bed; a constant bombardment of explosions and sizzles and bangs.  Noises that, only because of what day it is, are brushed off (mostly) as the sounds of some unwise, amateur pyrofile getting his (or her) jolly’s, but on any other day would prompt me to pause the television and wait for the sounds of the sirens that one would expect to follow gunfire in the neighborhood.

I hate this, immensely.

Maybe it’s because I remember watching my father holding roman candles IN HIS HANDS while they shot off their seven or eight colored orbs into the night sky.  Maybe it’s because I never got over the fear of being burned while holding a thin wire with sparks shooting off of it in my own hands (what sense does that make, I ask you?)

Maybe it’s because I live in what some might consider the Murder Capital of the United States (certainly of California) and the sound of gunshots is neither uncommon, or comforting, and it can be difficult to differentiate between a hand gun and rampart.

Maybe it’s because I live in a place where most of the time, everything is so dry that it will catch fire if you look at it sideways.  Maybe it’s because I watch the news and hear the stories that are inescapable of the various types of injuries and even deaths that take place every year as unqualified and unintelligent people operate fireworks IN MY FRONT YARD (figuratively.  I don’t have a yard, just a driveway and a crowded street.)

Maybe it’s because I’ve learned enough in my EMT training to not be cavalier about the possibilities on a night like this (and fully expect that if ever I get a job as an EMT I’ll never have the Fourth of July off work again).

Maybe it’s because I’m an egalitarian and amateur fireworks within city limits are simply illegal.

Whatever the reason, I’ve grown to hate this night, in which I will get no sleep (this raucous will continue until the wee hours of the morning) and I will have to fight hard against my nature to become angry because hundreds of people, who I do not know, have decided to take it upon themselves to take away my choice, my freedom (on Independence Day no less) to have a good nights sleep, free of noise polluted disruption, free of fear at whom might be dying from gunshot wounds (the sound of which might be mistaken for fireworks), free of fear that my house might randomly catch fire from a stray, or misdirected rocket, well into the early morning hours.

This  is not what Francis Scott Key had in mind when he wrote “The rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night…”

 

Hand Knives and Other Nonsense

~ riggledo ~ 2 Comments

Based on the existence and fairly stringent enforcement of child labor laws in this country, I feel fairly confident that I can take it for granted that I work with adult, full-grown people in my company. 

Adult, full-grown people generally possess common sense; granted they use it far less frequently than we might like, but they possess it nonetheless.

Sometime with-in the last few weeks one such adult, full-grown person, upon arriving at a meeting wherein breakfast was provided, (despite the ongoing directive to conserve funds wherever possible, I might add) and noticing the lack of proper cutting implements to divide the unsliced bagels, took it upon herself to bring a large serrated knife from her cubicle into the conference room to cut the bagels.  She then proceeded to place one of said bagels into her lesser hand and begin slicing the bagel in two.  What happened next is very unclear as there were, in reality, very few witnesses to the event, but from what I understand the adult, full-grown person somehow managed to cut through the bagel and fairly deeply into one of her fingers.

Having used her own knife, brought from  her own cubicle and under her own steam sliced into her own finger, she took it upon herself to clean up her mess, wrap up her hand, and driver herself to the emergency room where she received, I’m told, approximately eight stitches.  No one called 911.  Crime Scene Cleaners were not called to clean and dispose of the bio-hazardous fluids that escaped.  No one even bothered to call security and submit an incident report.  Hell, it wasn’t eve filed under Workers Compensation.  The woman is fine.  No lasting effects from her injury.  She has even returned to work.

What with us being a bunch of adult, full-grown people, you might think that was the end of the story.

You would be wrong.

Earlier this week, I was shown a document, created by an unknown entity, and approved and finalized by someone who makes a lot more money than I do, to be posted in all break rooms and conference rooms.  The document was printed in full color and laminated thickly so that it would hold up for a good long time to come.  As is so often the case (particularly with things that originate where this document did) not nearly enough, or the right eyes fell upon this document in advance of calling it complete and only after it had been finalized, printed and posted did I see it (not that I’m calling myself the right eyes.)

I have received a number of comments from people I am friendly with in the building.  People who are not complaining to me in an official capacity or with any expectation that I will, or could, effect a change, but simply because they know me and my level of intellect and know I will understand where they are coming from.  Nonetheless, these people are complaining as they state, rightly, that this document is downright offensive.

The document is titled “Careful Cutting:  Knife Safety Tips”, and just as it sounds it is a list of suggestions how to handle a knife safely…  Because clearly one distracted person who took responsibility for herself is irrefutable proof that the entirety of modern society is too ignorant to manage a knife without some guidance.   The document is laid out as a list of bullet points; brief sentences with suggestions that are entirely valid, though clearly written for kindergarteners.  It is written with some of each point bolded as one would do for a document that has highlights within each point that are most important.  In other words, I make a list of things and I’d like you to read the entire list, but if you won’t, please at least read this part and you’ll get the primary focus of the line item.  The purpose of strategic bolding in a document such as this, is that even if you don’t read anything more than what I have strategically bolded, you will still get the point of the document.

That said, here is what this document says to most people who will read it:

Following these basic guidelines for using knives can help to ensure safety in the work environment.

  1. Be alert and pay attention
  2. Always use a solid surface
  3. Do not hold food
  4. Point away.  [That actually is a sentence on the document.  Just “Point Away.”]
  5. Use your free hand to firmly hold the food
  6. Never use a knife
  7. Hand knives
  8. Do not startle or distract someone
  9. Wash and store knives immediately

Honestly?  Some of those are really good advice; words to live by, even!  However, with the exception of number six, I’m not sure how clearly they actually convey whatever point it is we were trying to convey, which I can only assume is not “We think you’re too stupid to take care of yourself.”  Now don’t get me wrong.  I understand we live in a ridiculously litigious society where we sue fast food restaurants for selling hot coffee that we then burn our vajayjays with when we put the scalding hot cup between our legs and then drive, resulting in the necessity to print “caution, contents may be hot” on every hot-beverage paper cup ever made for the last 17 years.  But I think the actions of the woman in this situation proved that she was not interested in suing her employer for something she so clearly held total responsibility for. 

  1. Be alert and pay attention  Well, yes.  Whether you’re driving, or walking, or cutting a bagel or balancing your checkbook (does anyone do that anymore?) being alert and paying attention seems like excellent advice.  It prevents mistakes from being made and erroneous information being disseminated.  Admittedly, it also prevents fingers being severed… usually.
  2. Always use a solid surface   Always?  Isn’t it conceivable that there will be times when a solid surface will not be ideal?  I like my bed to be soft and fluffy.  For sure my pillow needs to have some give. My chair at work could actually stand to have a bit less solid surface that I sit on.  On the other hand, I prefer a solid surface to drive on and a solid surface to write on and a solid surface on which to put my laptop.  Solid surfaces do, indeed, serve many purposes; but “always”?
  3. Do not hold food   Holding food can certainly become messy from time to time.  Crumbs drop everywhere.  Sauces tend to drip off of the food item and run down your hand and arm.  It can make for a real mess.  Hell, even today I ate a couple donuts with a knife and a fork, (In clear violation of rule number 6).  But sometimes you have to hold food.  It’s pretty tough to prepare food without holding it from time to time and some things, like pizza, hamburgers, hot dogs and sandwiches, were just made to be held (actually I eat pizza with a knife and fork too, but clearly I’m a rebel.)
  4. Point away.   Seriously.  That’s an entire sentence.  I have no idea what purpose this advice serves.  I mean, my mother told me pointing was rude.  And after a while your arms get tired.  Clearly more research is needed on this one.  I need better guidelines before I can go around pointing, away.
  5. Use your free hand to firmly hold the food   But?!?  Didn’t you just tell me not to hold the food?
  6. Never use a knife   It would be pretty tough for me to imagine going the rest of my life without ever using a knife again.  Nonetheless, I think we could actually have accomplished exactly what this document is trying to accomplish with these four simple words.  NEVER. USE. A. KNIFE.  I can guarantee you will not cut your own finger off if you never use a knife.  You will also never cut a steak, or toast and shmear a bagel or make a peanut butter and honey (or jelly if you prefer) sandwich, effectively, again, either.
  7. Hand knives   The only thing I can figure is this must be the working title of an Edward Scissorhands Prequel/Sequel (commingsoontoatheaternearyou!)
  8. Do not startle or distract someone   Again, it only seems polite.  I mean, some people really don’t like surprises and some people are easily distracted and need to be able to focus.  Wouldn’t you feel guilty if you startled someone into a heart attack or something?  I know I would!
  9. Wash and store knives immediately   Well, I mean,…  I’m kinda in the middle of something right now.  Can’t it wait till I’m finished?  Also, what knives?  I don’t see any knives.  Does that mean I have to guy buy some knives first?  You’re kind of asking a lot.

I admit it.  I think the whole document is stupid.  I think it’s utterly absurd that something like this has to be made because of one isolated incident with one person who hasn’t even suggested that it’s anyone else’s fault, but if we are going to do something along these lines, at least we could come up with something that is a little better written and laid out!

(By the way, if you’re anything like me, you really want to know what the rest of the document actually really says.  If you’ re not interested, you can stop here and skip to the bottom to leave your comments. Ahem.  Otherwise, here is the rest of the document in its entirety.)

  1. Be alert and pay attention when you have a knife in your hand.  Do not get distracted or engage in conversation when using knives.  Keep your eyes on the blade at all times.
  2. Always use a solid surface  to cut on.
  3. Do not hold food  in the palm of your hand while cutting (i.e. bagels, fruit.)
  4. Point away.  When you are using a knife, always cut downward and with the blade of the knife angled away from you.  Never angle the knife toward you or your fingers.
  5. Use your free hand to firmly hold the food item against the solid surface, making sure fingers are out of the way of any slips that might occur.
  6. Never use a knife  for any purpose other than cutting.  A knife blade is not to be used as bottle/can openers, staple removers, box cutters, etc.
  7. Hand knives  to another person handle first, with the cutting edge pointed away from your palm.
  8. Do not startle or distract someone  who is using a knife.
  9. Wash and store knives immediately  after use.  Hand wash knives with the edge of the blade away from your hands and dry thoroughly.  Never leave knives in a sink.

Actually, I don’t think knowing the full text of the document makes it any less offensive…

Anybody know if they sell “safety knives” next to the “safety scissors” for kindergarteners?