One of my neighbours has a friend who just can’t be bothered to drag his indolent backside out of his car to ring the doorbell. It’s much easier for him to stop at the back gate of the complex and hoot until my neighbour notices and lets the idiot in. Our numerous polite requests to cease this odious practice have fallen on ears of cloth. It’s obviously just too much trouble for him to walk those extra two steps. I know he is capable of self-locomotion, but I expect it’s because he’s put so much time into cultivating the pleasing roundness of his ugly behind, that it’s too precious for him to risk.
The above example is one of the instances where an external reminder of one of my own failings is particularly irritating. Recognising this subtle irony does nothing to change the situation, though. You see, I am also lazy, but it’s a considerate kind of laziness. I place the basic politeness that is necessary for any society to function above my desire to vegetate. To the untrained eye, I may often appear to be hard working, but in reality, I just want to get the job done as quickly as possible so I can kick back and relax.
Like most other human characteristics, there are degrees to slothfulness. On the Laz-O-Meter (where zero is utterly diligent in all things and 10 is as sedentary as granite) I probably score about a 5 or 6. It’s the people who manage to kick the needle into the red zone really grind away at my tolerance threshold.