My personal consignment shop shit list:
In no particular order…
·People who insist on grabbing whatever’s on the mannequin- no matter how ridiculously small it is or how hugely fat they are…or how boogerridden/torn to fit on mannequin/full of pin holes it is.
·Dumbasses who won’t wear glasses and buy items- then insist that they thought the price was (insert stupidly low $ figure)…Bitch, you are too old & ugly to worry about glasses making you fugly. And don’t try to argue prices when you are a female Mr. Magoo.
·Phlegm filed fuckers who make obscenely nasty throat sounds/snuffling snot noises and don’t take the hint of being offered a tissue. Go back to the barn & spit it up, Flossie.
·Asinine parents who let their darling pudge-spawn try on dresses that are waaaay too small. I’ve seen less rolls at the bakery- and if I hear a seam rip, your wallet is coming out.
·People who think that every sign pertains to OTHER people, not them (i.e. “consignment by appointment only”). Nah, I just put that sign up for shits and giggles.
I’m not an overworked sole employee struggling to balance sales, processing new inventory, phone calls, the fitting room, hellspawn wrecking crews invading my store- and more….No, really; just bring that pathetic excuse for mothballed tackiness on in here without an appointment!
·Crazy old bag-a-thas who think that they can argue their way into me accepting old/ugly/tacky/worn out shit. I wouldn’t wipe up cat puke with that, bitch. Argue more, Hag. I’ll make sure that anything decent you have brought in will be marked at a “she totally pissed me off so the shoppers now get an amazing deal” price.
·Here’s a hint- oh great soap-less wonder- I’m giving you the “nope, we are booked until 2099” spiel because you practically have visible stink waves coming off of you. Deodorant doesn’t cost as much as your mortgage, mothballs are not a cologne, and damn- your cooking is so strong that the whole store now reeks like your garlic abomination. Let’s run you through the car wash in a convertible, and forget making any appointments for your gamy garments.
·See that ½ a sandwich that I’m trying to wolf down between phone calls? It’s not a siren call to come frickin ask me a thousand irritating questions (such as the dried up fossil who was getting her self into a lather about the $1.25 store credit she had- two years ago- and wanted me to find out where it went…it went whistling down the avenue of “I’m getting the fuck away from this cheap crazy old bitch”; just like I wish I could right now.
--From FL Glamazon: