So once I put down the knife, the Volkswagon dealership set its collective mind on a solution to the problem of stolen blinky lights. My Jetta was not alone in its need for replacement turn signals. A line of irate owners formed behind me. Although Volkswagon stood to profit from its design flaw, it was forced to weigh that revenue stream against the probability of an irate Volkswagon owner with two empty holes in his front side panels going Columbine in their showroom. The dealership acted on the side of caution. They solved the problem.

Orange blinky lights?

That was the solution. The dealership suggested that we replace the white front-side-panel turn-signal lights with orange turn-signal lights. "Do orange lights screw into the car?" No. "How does orange prevent theft? It's just a color." We never replace orange lights - just the whites. Apparently orange blinky lights are kryptonite to sketchy Honda Civic owners.

Everyone knows the Jetta comes with white side-panel turn-signal lights, but my car had orange ones. It was as if I didn't feel secure enough with stock white lights so I retrofitted the car with a "safer" orange. It didn't take long for Mark and Monz to give me a ton of shit. "Hey! Here come's Mister Safety!" (I'm still working on a comeback for that. To date my best effort has been: Fuck you!)

As chance would have it, I almost majored in Occupational Safety and Hygiene Management. That was JR's major. We were pounding beers on a Saturday afternoon and JR was selling me his major. The beer was good so I figured, why not? I'll be a Occupational Something Thingy. That fall, I even took occupational hygiene thingy classes. One afternoon six months after I had made a life altering choice because the beer was good, I was picking my carcass off a asphalt road. I had just attempted to jump a ten speed bike over a 45° ramp with obvious result. The Occupational Safety and Hygiene Management fairy is Ralph Nader's sister. She came to me in my comotose state and said, "Jeff, you're not a safety conscious kind of a guy...." She was right. So I changed majors.

I was really good at math so I became a political science major. My problem with the math department was simple. They wanted the right answer. Now political science on the other hand... So there really was no basis for Mark and Monz giving me shit. My orange blinky lights were sketchy kryptonite. No more, no less. But that mattered little as far as they were concerned. "Monz, don't lean back in your chair!" Why not?? "Because Mister Safety's here!" And so it goes.

Then that nice neighborhood boy, Frank Devon Cherry, stuck me up at gun point. Such a nice boy, too. He used to work with future criminals down at the local Boy's Club. An assessment was in order: my blinkies had been stolen three times, my dog shit had been stolen (I have no idea...), my tire had been slashed and a gun had been stuck in my face. I figured it was time to come to terms with my lack of dark pigmentation and move out to the suburbs. One of my first acts in the land of strip malls and chain restaurants was to buy white blinky lights. Mister Safety was closing shop. (Not that Mark and Monz stopped getting on my shit. They just attacked my many other faults.)

So Mister Safety acquired a position in the Fortune 500 company. In order to cut insurance rates, XYZ Corporation has become safety conscious. This makes sense on a production line where conveyor belts move product at high rates of speed and powerful equipment can sever human limbs. But Mister Safety has spent an incredible amount of time preventing accidents in our cube farms.

For instance, did you know that an accident almost happened in our break room? I didn't either until Mister Safety posted a sign of notice. Yes, an accident almost happened. I feel compelled not to contribute to additional occurances of accidents which almost happened, but Mister Safety didn't bother to leave instructions for almost preventions.

If I were suicidal, I'd kill myself in a corporate meeting. Why kill yourself when you're having fun? I'd wait for the meeting to turn two hours old just as my bladder was about to burst and my aggrevation was at its peak. At that moment, I'd pull a pistol and scatter my brains all over the floors. Sweet bliss. Believe it or not, this would not violate Mister Safety's conference room safety considerations. He has posted rules for using a conference room safely, but blowing your brains on the floor with a .44 was not itemized. You may scatter your brains with a pistol, but goddammit if you don't push in your chair.