This is a Repost from December 2, 2013, which originally appeared on LandmanLife.com, written by TheNutShale
Estimated reading time: 3 minutes
Let’s talk about seismic permitting, especially seismic permitting in an urban environment. Probably one of the best jobs on earth, good pay, healthy exercise each day walking the neighborhoods and flexible working hours as you decide how to get those permits in the door. It’s especially awesome because there are so many people to permit, the prospect pool is fresh, but there’s that word, PEOPLE. Aw yes, the people are what truly made the memories for this ex-seismic permit agent. I don’t have any “the gangbangers chased me down an alley and tried to show whitey what’s what” stories. No, they would have gotten shot. What this agent walked away with is the memory of that feeling where you are just not sure who the F was going to open up that door at each individual house.
I mean, people are f’ing nuts, like whitey tighties there’s a gato in my undies man. Literally, it was like a bad joke from Blue Streak in real life, there was this man standing there with a cat poking it’s head out of his whitey tighties. Nothing else on. Or, how do you like the smell of Thai food on your clothes for the rest of eternity just because I opened my door for you? Or my personal favorite “I am never opening the door for you,” but when the mail man comes at 2:00 with my welfare check, me and the rest of this apartment complex will flock to the central mail station like fucking zombies, stumbling forward to go suck some tax money goodness. The postal service truck was like Santa Claus for permitting. Follow it, and you will find your prospects in person.
There was most definitely a dead body in one house, the newspapers all over the floor had to be because a murder just happened. The man wore nothing but a rotten robe and signed his name with an X. He literally left grime handprints all over the permit and the stench was unbearable pouring through the open door. No teeth left. Just simply, wow. I actually thought the house was condemned when I knocked, couldn’t believe somebody opened the door.
You also learn that some people live in abject fear of their HOA’s, “I just don’t know if I can sign that without speaking to Cindy Whiskerdoodle…. She absolutely hated my Christmas decorations last year and I just don’t want to make her upset… I don’t want no trouble….” – “Mam, this is f’ing America. Tell Cindy Whiskerdoodle the place for communes is on the other side of the f’ing pond and dial back the clock about 30 years. So sign this damn thing so we can maybe put a little box in your front yard for a week or two.”
All in all, seismic permitting was basically a walk through the people. Got to meet them all, the good, the bad and the ugly. The uglies stick out, but so do the MILFs, and all the other kind people that opened their doors to the lowly seismic permit agent. Here’s to naps in the Walmart parking lot, Rock on O&G.