Call Nini for a good time.

I was only in the convenience store long enough to buy a pack of M&Ms, but that’s all the time someone needed to put a sticker on the seat of my scooter and the others parked nearby and disappear into the darkness.

Years ago, I was puzzled by these stickers that would magically appear on whole neighborhoods worth of scooters. Usually they consisted of only a phone number. I should have known, but one night, my curiosity got the better of me, and I dialed the phone number. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi. Can I ask, what kind of service is this?
Sultry female voice: Whatever kind of service you want.

Now I’m driven to murderous annoyance by them, as I’m annoyed by all the stickers and flyers that are left on my scooter and stuffed in my mailbox. Park somewhere for a weekend, and my mighty machine turns into a community bulletin board advertising dirty talk, pachinko parlors, real estate opportunities, lunchbox stands, Japanese pornography, cram schools, pirated CDs, and yoga classes.

I have nothing against any of those enterprises (except for maybe the cram schools). I just resent the moral quandary that direct marketing imposes on me: if I take unwanted crap left on my bike, crumple it up, drop it on the ground, and get on with my day, am I guilty of littering? Probably, but with Taipei’s rather strict regulations, it’s not a simple matter of dropping it in the trash; I have to recycle it properly, which doesn’t seem like much until you take into account the sheer volume.

So that’s why I cussed up a blue streak upon discovering the sticker last night. “Everyone has to do a job,” said my friend. True enough, but when the essence of the job is to be unpleasant—as is the case with sportscasters, televangelists, or terrorists—how much patience and understanding are they really entitled to?

Or perhaps I’m wrong. I leave it to you, dear reader.