Retail Hell Underground

A Battle With A Crusty: All For A Cafe Chair

I got a humdinger of an entitled dumbass, folks. I can only imagine that this idiot wasn't just dropped on her head, but dribbled down the court on it.

To set the scene, I am still a bit of a Bookstore Slave (my old moniker) because when I get money, my favorite book series of the month gets some attention. I am a slave to the bookstore, and all its wonderful booky goodness.

I made use of a cafe chair while downing a snack and going over the books I had just purchased.

"Are you using that chair?" comes a voice from the mysterious world beyond my cake induced haze of bliss.

As I am sitting in the only chair at my tiny table, I do not respond. Surely the question is directed at someone else's table right? Oh wait, this is RHU. You already know the answer to that.

"Hel-OOOO! I asked you a question!"

I blink and look up at a middle aged woman who is currently glaring down at me.

"Are. You. Using. That. Chair?"

"This chair?" I point to the one under my butt. She nods.

"This chair right here?" She nods again.

"The chair I'm sitting in? Yes! I am using this chair!" I glare back at her and she huffs and gets angry.

"I don't like your tone! You're being very rude!" The bitch starts to growl.

What the fuck is it with crustys who think that "you are being very rude" are magic words for making everything better? "You are very rude!" *poof* The world is magical with unicorns and gumdrops falling from the sky!

"Since I don't work here, and since you are bothering me, I can be as rude as I want to people who ask incredibly stupid questions." I retort.

"How dare you! You have two choices, either you give me that chair, and we say no more about it, or I will report your rudeness to the manager!" She draws herself up to what I can only assume is her perception of a high-class-holier-than-thou posture and looks down her nose at me.

By now, the other cafe patrons are staring at us.

"Look lady, I'm sitting in my chair. It's obvious that I'm using it. Asking me if I'm 'using it' will not make me give it to you. If the cafe is full, you'll just have to wait for one to become available."

"Maybe your attitude will change if I get you fired!" She snarls, and storms off.

"Oh my fucking god it's happening again." I mutter darkly to myself.

She comes back with a ruffled looking manager in tow, her claw-like harpy hands wrapped around his arm in a death grip as she hauls him across the store.

I can almost imagine a cartoon version of the lady leaping on top of the hapless manager, body slamming him to the ground and dragging him by the ankle. He kicks free, lurches to his feet in an attempt to escape and is grabbed by the arm and dragged over. He certainly looks like she's done just that.

In the distance, I can see a slave on the phone, staring across the store at us.

"This bitch has been rude to me! She refused to give me her chair even though I'm a customer!" The hag points a finger at my face.

I resist the urge to bite her and tell her that I have rabies. Instead, I spear another bite of cake and eat it.

"Ma'am, so is she. Let go." The manager pries her hands off his arm. "You've manhandled me, I'm going to have bruises on my arm, and you've harassed a customer. You need to calm down, or leave."

"I'm the customer, and I'm always right!" she screeches!

"Well so am I, and that means I'm always right too, and I say that you need to back the fuck off!" Ugh, I can't believe the phrase 'always right' came out of my mouth, but I was now pissed. Dirtier words have never passed my lips.

"But I'm more important than you. You're a worthless dead-end-job dropout!"

"Actually, I graduated from a career college in the medical program, and have been job hunting for a career to match my degree." This statement was about as effective as telling a wall to move a few inches to the right. I roll my eyes, "If you want the chair so fucking bad, you can have it." I put my books in my bag and rise to take my now empty plate to the cafe.

She gives a shriek of triumph and leaps into the chair that I am vacating, slamming her ass into it with enough force to nearly tip herself over backward. I get shoved hard, but maintain my balance and only stumble a few feet forward. "Now it's mine bitch! You left it! You're not using it anymore!"

The timing was impeccable, as two police officers have entered the store in time to see her pounce.

She was taken away, screeching and struggling, after I gave my side of the story. I swore up and down that I didn't blame the store and was still very happy to shop there. I've got a lovely coupon for my troubles, and a story, which I have now shared with you.

May all your customers be nice,

I Got A Big Ol' Middle Finger Up The Backside

Wellp, that was a short run.

I was hired for a temp job, ultimately the result was getting up at 5 am to stuff and address envelopes. I lasted all of a week. Why?

Because the forms issued to Custys are different depending on where they come from and the spot that says where they are going to is all fucking over the place in different (and sometimes illegible) fonts or hand writing. I was constantly (and seriously it was several times per handful) talking to a supervisor to get clarification. Sometimes the Going To information was in the Coming From box, and vise versa.

These mix ups were dubbed "errors" that were blamed on me. So, rather than pull me aside and ask me to watch out for this, they called the temp agency that had placed me. So both the agency and the place where they put me have dropped me like a hot potato.

This HAD been the company I was eager and primed to work for because it was the company I really really liked. This middle finger up the backside means I most likely won't ever get a spot in that company ever again. Fuck it all RHU...

On the plus side, Wonderful Lady knew I was job hunting, and I alerted her to my temp job. My volunteering was put on hold for my work. Well, after this miserable week, she's welcoming me back with open arms since I am able to volunteer with her again.

When I told her what happened, she was outraged: ranting that it was crazy to expect someone who never made mistakes.

"I still make mistakes! And will continue to! Well, sometimes you don't know what you have until its gone! They 'let go' one heck of a person! It's their huge loss!" She said. "You are always welcome back. I just understood how important getting a job was for you. There's a better job out there for you! Everyone has missed you too by the way! Thought you'd like to know that! You are so very much appreciated and not just by me!"

Words to melt the ice from any Retail Slave's heart, let me tell you. You never know how long a work week is until a person like this pushed into the distance, even temporarily. If only Thrognar could wave his hands and make my volunteering a real, fulltime job!

May all your customers be nice...

Pamphlet Toting, God's Love Spouting, The Word Spreading, Retail Hell At Hoarders

At our Hoarders, we had a pack of rather persistent religious folks that rather frequently tried to use our store to promote themselves. They were very insistent about leaving pamphlets at key points in our store. They would leave a stack of pamphlets at Music Info, Info, the Cafe, and the Registers. Is that JUST a Jehova's Witness thing?

I don't know... but after reading one of their incredibly hippie messages of love, flowers and unicorns farting rainbows, I was wondering how deeply the weed and Jimi Hendrix had infected their brains. I mean, my GOD! After I learned of the Westboro Baptist Church, years later, I realized that nature had created these people to be WBC's mortal enemies in order to balance it out. Aaand I digress. Please excuse me.

Now the managers, while tolerant of the faiths that came strutting through our store (we'd sell books and Bibles to them all), drew the line in the sand, and backed us up. We had a bulletin board where customers could post advertisements near the bathrooms, and the managers were adamant that we would not post ANYTHING that was not Hoarders related anywhere else in the store.

This did not stop the Hippie pack. They would stalk employees who were not busy with another customer and try to sell the Love Of God the way a used car salesman tries to hawk a crappy jalopy that has been sitting on the lot for six years without budging. We all learned to be very busy, no matter how slow the night, and we were even allowed to be firm in our refusals.

Hippie Preacher: I would like to help you spread the Word Of God, and I have these pamphlets here...

Me: Please don't sir. The managers don't want these cluttering up our workspace with more papers. as you can see... *I gesture to the umpteen stacks of company issued crap that cramps my space --crappy red and gray paper bookmarks that say HOARDERS in big bold letters, pamphlets about our precious member cards that we're supposed to tell everyone about,  notices about upcoming sales and events happening at our store etc--* ...we've already got enough.

Hippie Preacher: Well how about I just leave some, so that other folks can see them for themselves. *spoken as a statement, not asking permission.*

Me: Again sir, please don't. The managers won't let them stay. There is a bulletin board near the bathrooms if you wish to advertise something, but that's the only place we allow these kinds of things to remain.

Hippie Preacher: Ma'am, it is my holy duty to share God's Love.

Me: And you are welcome to talk about it, as long as you're not interfering with our customers or the work that the employees have to do. But we will throw away any pamphlets we find.

Hippie Preacher: You don't need to do that, just leave them at the registers until the end of the day. *he talks like a person in authority telling an employee that, yes indeed, they shall do what he tells them to do*

Me: No, sir--

His back is to me and he's leaving a stack next to every register down the line.

I take a deep breath, let it out, and pick up a garbage can and follow him, throwing every last pile into the garbage.

Hippie Preacher: There now everyone can... *he turns and sees me* What are you doing?!

Me: *I pick up the next pile, look him in the eye and throw it away right in front of him* I told you we don't want these. Now you can either take them to someone who might appreciate them, or you can watch all of your pamphlets get thrown away right here and now.

The Hippie Pastor turns an interesting shade and utters a few garbled squawks, among which I hear the word 'manager' so I call one over.

 The Hippie pastor starts complaining about how I'm interfering with his mission from God and disrespecting his beliefs. He picks up the pamphlets at the last register and waves them around for emphases. The manager turns to me.

Manager: Did you tell him about the bulletin board?

Me: Yes.

Manager: Did you tell him that we don't allow pamphlets to remain anywhere else?

Me: Yes.

Manager: And did you tell him that we will make you throw them away if you find them?

Me: *I hold up the garbage can full of pamphlets* Yes, and he started placing them anyway. So I threw them away behind him.

Manager: Then you did everything right. *the Hippie Preacher squawks a protest and the manager turns back toward him* Sir, we cannot allow you to leave your pamphlets all over our store. If we let you do that, then we have to allow EVERY other religious group that walks through out doors to do the same. We are a place of business, and we don't have the time or the space to allow that many pamphlets to clutter our store. Please take your pamphlets with you, because we will not let them stay. We will throw them away now, or we will throw them away the instant you turn your back to leave.

The Hippie Preacher splutters, scowls and then snatches his pamphlets out of the garbage, which I politely hold up for him to reach into. He storms out of the store, leaving us to roll our eyes to each other and go about our business.

May all your customers be nice,

Gloriously Shiny Ray Of Hope In Retail Hell

Folks, never have I witnessed such a sweet beam of light from Retail Heaven, and I could only wish for a chance to bask a little longer in the experience.

Roaming about as a custy in a Big Box Mart, I was close enough to hear the cheery call of, "Welcome to Big Box Mart!"

Standard greeting: friendly, to script, and doesn't yet sound worn down by long, miserable hours saying the same thing over and over again.

I hear a grunt somewhat akin to a bear uttering a death rattle while still trying to growl at the face of its killer, and peek around the sweaters to see a man and a woman enter. The man doesn't acknowledge the greeter any further and storms onward. The woman offers the greeter a smile and a little wave before hurrying on.

"Why'd you waste even a second bothering with that... greeter?" The man demands a little farther on, carelessly picking up a sturdy pair of jeans and inspecting them before dumping them back on the shelf.

"Because he was being friendly, and because it's his job to greet people." She wastes little time re-folding the jeans and puts them back neatly before the man can move on.

"Well that ain't my problem now is it?" he snarls.

"Perhaps not, but your attitude IS your problem. And to be honest your attitude is very telling about YOU. Maybe you want to think about that." I swear I heard the cracking of glacier ice in the woman's tone. She spins on her heel and storms off to store parts unknown, leaving a very surprised jerk in her wake.

A shaft of pure golden light seemed to illuminate the scene and I swear I could hear a chorous of angels crooning "Ahhhhh!" as the beam followed her away.

I wanted to follow her and give her a big hug. I don't know their relationship or the background, but I pray that if she was dating him, that she broke it off immediately and found a better example of humanity to spend her life with.

May all your customers be nice,

The Hobbit Marketing Culture

 

 

 

 

V'Ger Overlord Calling All RHUers!

Greetings denizens of the planet RHU! In case you weren't aware, with the blackmailed-- I mean, benign-- grace of our Crypt Keeper Freddy, I now have access to your submissions. Mwahahaha! *cough*

I wished to touch bases with all of you on a matter that is very personal to all Retail Slaves at this time of year. As November draws to a close, the final month of the year, Dis-Member, draws neigh. Therefore it is our duty as Retail Slaves to support our fellow RHUians with stories and Christmas Song Massacres in these difficult times. So I ask you: please dig into your memory vaults and bring forth your Holiday Hell Stories to share with us. Prepare your most hysterical christmas song parodies so that we may belt them out in order to drown out the 936,837,264,758,273,649th rendition of Jingle Bell Rock.

Share with us your grinchiest Christmas shopper, your lowest, greasiest Discount Rats, your hordes of hellspawn, your miserly N.A.T.'s and your douchiest, bitchiest return whores. Grind out a hilarious rant to the tune of "Night Before Christmas" or sing your dirge of after-hour cleanup to "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear." Dance away to "The 12 Fuck You's Of Christmas" or hum us through "N.A.T Got Run Over By A Reindeer."

Just make sure your story or song is clear and well written. We love giving everyone a voice, and we do our best to grant you that, but we do on occasion receive a story that we cannot decipher well enough to share it with the site. Minor spelling and grammar mistakes are easy fixes, don't worry. Just make sure the sentences are complete and understandable.

I'll schedule as many stories up as possible between now and post New Years (longer if we get an avalanche) while still allowing them face time on the main page. Tip: The earlier you get them in, the easier it is to get them posted.

V'Ger Overlord now permits you to return to your daily grind.

Asshole Entitled Crusty Gets The Look From Truck

One of the most assholic things I ever encountered at Hoarders was in a triangle between me, a very Elderly Gentleman, and a hale and hearty 20-year-old Asshole.

Now you usually get all types of 'old folk' in any store you can think of. There's the cheeful grandparent type, the cranky old biddy/bastard, and then there's the third type. The third kid can barely walk, may be on oxygen and have legs that tremble so much, half the employees converge behind them in order to catch them in case they keel over backward. One look and you know for a fact that they should be sitting in a comfy chair in their jammies enjoying their twilight years, not tottering around in a mall or store that suddenly looks impossibly large if you dared to look through their eyes. You know they're not healthy enough to follow you to the section, even if you walked slowly and offered your arm to hang onto. But for whatever reason, they need something, and so they haul their aching bodies up and go to the store. They either don't have loved ones to pick it up for them, or else they are determined to hang on to that last thread of independance left to them. Whatever the reason, however the method, they somehow make it to the store and request assistance.

Thus far, everything is beautiful. He knew the title and the author, and we had it in stock. Staff was immeditately attentive to his needs and comfort without having to be asked. A staffer appeared out of the cafe with a chair as soon as the elderly gentleman appeared and tottered his way to the info desk. As the grateful Elderly Gentleman sat down, I went on my mission to look for and retrieve the book he wanted.

I have the title, the author and the location written on a piece of scrap paper and I'm heading to the section, when Asshole steps directly into my path, bolidly blocks my progress and asks me where some book is.

"It's in the Psychology section, which is right over there." I gesture to it.

"Aren't you going to help me find it?" Asshole asks, his voice rising just a bit to hint at a whine.

"I'm actually helping another customer at the moment, but I'll be happy to help you as soon as I've finished with him."

I try to walk around him and he sidesteps to block my path again. "Maybe you didn't hear me. I need help finding my book." He voice drops again to a threatening growl.

"Maybe you didn't hear me, sir. I'm helping that gentleman over there." I gesture to the elderly man, who is slightly slumped over his cane in the chair, but still managing to carry on a friendly and animated conversation with Truck. "If, however, you are in a rush, the information desk is about ten feet behind me and you can get some help there."

He looks at the elderly Gentleman, sizes him up, sniffs distainfully and plants himself squarely in front of me. "I'm not interested in walking that far. I'm asking you, and I expect to get the service that I deserve."

In a cartoon, fire would have sprung up behind me, also reflected in my eyes. I would have grown twice his size and I would have told him what a lowlife jerk he was in no uncertain terms until he shrank down to teeny, tiny size and fled like a frightened mouse.

Instead I gave him my most oily, nasty smile, and told him, "Certainly sir. I will give you the service you so richly reserve."

He relaxed with a superior, smug sneer and proclaimed, "That's better."

And with that, I darted around him before he could react and went straight to the section. He stood there with an expression of profound shock on his face. I retrieved the best looking copy of the book I was searching for and carried it back to the Elderly Gentleman.

Yes, that was the right book, and he was very happy to have it. It was at the time of day when there was no line at the registers, so he was run up right away. He politely declined assistance and tottered out the door.

Of course Asshole wouldn't let it go and he chose, of all people, Truck to complain to. Truck flicks me a reasurring glance then turns his "FBI stare" at Asshole.

"While, yes, I agree that it is our job to assist customers, Ilia was currently helping someone. If you really felt that you needed help finding a book, you should have asked someone who was not already busy."

Asshole flinches as the stare but continues to bluster, "Buh, but she was rude to me! She needs to be taught some manners! I demand that you reprimand her right now!"

"I heard her. She was polite the first two times that you rudely demanded assistance. After which, apparently she simply decided to exercise her right to refuse service to you and continue doing her job."

When the man refuses to let go, Truck gives him the look and tells the man in no uncertain terms to stop harassing employees.

I love Truck, and I miss him so bad!

But seriously, it was obvious I was helping someone and that someone obviously needed more help than Asshole. Out of the hwole store, only Asshole was the only one unable to get that?

May all your customers be nice,

The Holier-Than-Thou's Have Begun

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This is going around Facebook, and it irks me to no end because I've had Crustys give me this rant while holding up a line just to get their point across. So here's my response, and it's still nicer than what I wanted to say at the time:

A holiday is a day fixed by law or custom on which ordinary business is suspended in commemoration of some event or in honor of some person. So, yes, actually, Christmas is a holiday, as is Thanksgiving and Easter. We say "happy holidays" in retail because we don't know which holiday you celebrate and there are several celebrations that take place in the same month. How am I supposed to know whether you are Jewish or Christian? Should I assume that because you're black that you celebrate Kwanzaa, while completely disregarding the fact that you may, in fact have been raised Catholic?

You wouldn't appreciate it if I asked you your religion first, and a lot of people get angry at us if we are mistaken enough to assume that you celebrate Christmas instead of some other holiday. You claim to 'respect' other holidays, yet you are offended because we are trying to open our minds to all holidays by wishing you well, no matter the holiday you celebrate. Please stop sneering at us for that, as we cannot win no matter which holiday we bless you on.

And while yes, corporations need to include more celebrations in their decorating and celebrating another year of corporate greed, retail workers say "happy holidays" because it sounds nicer than "happy what-ever-the-fuck-you-celebrate."

Snarky Facebookers Sneer At Retail Slave Troubles

Dear Snarky Facebookers: Die.

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Let me lay something out on the table. I love and support our troops. That's right, I said it. So don't flip out on me. In no way am I dissing the men and women who put thier lives at risk for our country.

My grandfather on dad's side was a radioman in Word War II. He was declared dead twice after attacks that wiped out two troops he was in. Both times he came back out of the bushes alive.

My dad was a Ship's Cook on a mine sweeper ship in the Vietnam War. His life was constantly at risk under the threat of a mine going *BOOM.*

My cousin has done two tours in Iraq. He's been shot at, and he has had to kill. He used a 50 caliber machine gun to chop a charging jeep in half. They later found an IED (improvised explosive device) inside that would have done terrible damage to him and the people he was stationed with.

Believe me, I get it when people want to snark at Wallmart slaves who are protesting at losing their Thanksgiving dinner when there are troops who are missing out entirely or may never go home except in a box covered by a flag.

HOWEVER...

While our troops are fighting for our rights overseas, the corporations in OUR OWN country are taking them away. Wallmart, Target, Best Buy, Khol’s, Macy’s, Kmart, Sears and Toy-R-Us are all using the threat of job loss, homelessness and starvation to bully employees into pandering to the whims of corporate greed. This is all in order to give a few hours more profit to a corporation who's CEO will never feel the loss of the entire company should it go bankrupt. 

Think about that.

Yes, I KNOW the problems retail workers are facing seem insignificant in comparison to loved ones being shot at, However, not every war is fought with bullets vs Germany, 'Nam, Iraq, or whatever demonized enemy happens to be in season at any particular time. Sometimes the war is fought against corporate incompetence and greed that ensures that the troops won't have a home to come back to. Instead it will be auctioned out from under the families who were making payments, barely, until corporate decided to save costs by 'letting go' of easily replaceable employees. And corporations feel that they can get away with anything because so many people are desperate to keep their jobs.

Let's look at some of the companies that have failed in the last 5 years...

• Blockbuster
• Borders
• Gottschalks
• Hollywood Video
• KB Toys
• Mervyns
• Saturn (cars)
• Shoe Pavilion
• Skybus Airlines
• Wachovia
• Washington Mutual

Let's not forget Hostess, that has crashed and burned (after 80 years) just a week before Thanksgiving, putting 18,500 people out of work. Yes we can argue all day about the factors that led to the destruction of these iconic companies, but the truth of the matter is, some of these companies got their precious 'bail outs' and failed to succeed even then. And when the companies went down, the big boss people who could have saved the companies, got their golden parachutes instead. They made the decisions that crushed the corporation but they don't suffer for it.

And why should they think that they SHOULD suffer? After all, it's not like they have to feel the repercussions of their incompetance. Their actions don't affect THEMSELVES.

Our troops fight for the American Dream, while corporations take that dream away anyway. What was the question again? "Tell me again how working on Thanksgiving ruins your holiday?" I just did. 

Hoarders Manager Tries And Fails To Shame Our V'Ger Overlord

I feel that the grieving period for Hoarders can at least be marked as near its end. Out of respect for those who loved the bookstore, I have waited to share this little bit of 'blarg' toward a Hoarder's Manager.

I was in the habit of arriving early for my shift; a ritual that maintained my sanity from the troubles with Custies and Crusties alike. Arriving half an hour early with some edibles purchased from a nearby Albertsons, I would partake in glorious munchings and crunchins (grats to any who gets the reference) and read a book to settle my thoughts and put myself in a positive frame of mind. This was my ritual. Every. Day. That I worked. The managers knew this, as did coworkers who saw me as a bit of a staple of the back room at the appointed time.

Then, on time, I would sign in and head out on the floor.  A manager, who knew better, tried to make me go out on the floor early for my shift. It was at the very beginning of the holiday crowds, so nobody was truly swamped, and I knew she would do this again if I gave way this time.

Manager: Hey Ilia, we're getting busy out there. You can clock in early.

Thanks soooo terribly much for the permission to do so, precious.

Me: Oh. Do I get to go home early?

Manager: No, you can sign out at your usual time.

Right, because even though I'm already booked for a solid 8 hours a day all week already, but you won't authorize half an hour overtime, that sounds so delightfully appealing.

Me: Do I get a longer break?

Manager: No, your breaks will happen at the scheduled time.

Me: Oh, then no thank you.

Have you ever experienced that heavy silence? You know, the kind where someone goes quiet and just looks at you because they feel that you said the wrong thing and they think an awkward, heavy silence can guilt or intimidate you into conceeding to their wishes? Yeah, one of those fell in the back room with her staring at me.

Me: [Manager], I am at 40 hours exactly this week. You have already refused us overtime pay, and told us not to work over our limit in last week's meeting. I am eating. (As I say this I pick up an apple and bite into it. I chew leisurely, not hurrying for her sake.) And I will not get to eat for another five hours. This is the first time at all today that I am getting a chance to eat due to school.

The manager lets heavy silence reign for a moment longer and I look her in the eyes.

Me: I'm more than happy to to call corproate and ask them about their Labor Law Compliancy if you'd like.

She finally huffs in defeat.

Manager: Oh fine, just come out when you can.

She storms off. I signed in at exactly my scheduled time and no one tried to bully me into signing in early again.

May all your customers be nice,

V'ger Overlord Babbles In Traumatized Horror

With the need for a job growing steadily stronger, I humbled myself down to puny mortal form and attended an interview for a job today. Not wishing to jinx hmyself, I cannot say how well or poorly I did, other than it went better than the one before it, where no actual questions had been asked and merely an explanation of the business I was applying for was given. So, it went better than that? Meh, at this point the bar is low enough to declare "Good enough."

With the stress of answering questions over and done with, I climbed into my car and set out onto the freeway for the 30 minute drive back home. Stress over, I flicked on the radio.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NO NO NO NO! It cannot be! We've been lucky so far! None of the malls have been playing this shit. None of the stores have begun yet. None of our local slaves have pasted that frozen look of traumatization and pain upon their features yet! It's not possible! There's no snow! There isn't even the standard California winter rains!

Wait! I know! This is a flashback! Of course. Every retail slave has these around this time of year. Right right, you're okay. Just change the radio station! See? It's okay. I'm all right. The sweet tones of Belinda Carlisle soothe my frazzled nerves.

As the standard commercials for the radio station come on I flick my way through the six radio stations I have programmed into my radio. Commercial. Commercial. Radio static interferance. Rot a song I like...

It took all of my power to change the station, where thank heaven, a car commercial was playing that was infinitely better to listen to. As it was, I grabbed my imaginary bartender by the throat and started ordering shots. He broke into a sweat at the look in my eyes and agreed.

The time of year where I just turn the fucking radio station off and shove a CD into the player until the day after Christmas seems to get longer each year...

A Custy On The Phone Shows Proper Respect To His Cashier

We've all had the cell phone jerks who can't shut up long enough to complete a transaction at the registers. However, this true little story still makes me smile.

A young man with a phone to his ear approached the registers with a few books in his grip. He fleshes me a wink and says into his phone, "Okay I'm at the registers, hold on a minute."

He sets the cell phone down on the counter, smiles at me and hands me his purchase. "She won't even notice," he tells me in a conspirational stage whisper.

Although I can't make out the words, I can tell that he is correct and the conversation babble from the phone hasn't impeded in the slightest.

The usual transaction conversation progresses, mostly with me trying not to laugh too laudly to be heard.

Me: Did you find everything you needed?

Him: Yep.

Me: Do you have your rewards card with you today?

Him: Certainly. Here you go.

Me: Okie pokie, your total is $XX.XX

He writes out a check.

I verify that everything is on the check as needed.

Me: Did you get your check number and total in your register?

Him: Oh shoot, thank you, I almost forgot that.

After the check info is jotted down, he accepts his bag and thanks me.

Me: Hey... I'm sorry...

I gesture to his still chattering phone.

Him: It's okay, I've perfected the art of letting my sister chatter while still getting stuff done. Even if she gets miffed, I can always truthfully say that I DID tell her that I needed to put the phone down. 

He puts the phone to his ear and without missing a beat, replies: Look, if they won't, then they won't. Find another dentist.

I watch him leave and marvel at the efficient way he handles it all. If only all Custies acted this way.

May all your customers be nice,

Our V'ger Overlord Finds Evidence Of The Newest Species of Custy: Piglets

Greetings fellow slaves! Our local Hellmart did some reorganizing recently, which resulted in everything getting moved to completely new places. After some roaming, I found the trail of a new breed of Hellspawn, and as their discoverer, I have dubbed them 'Piglets." Piglets are Piggy Hellspawn, getting into messes and causing messes whenever their Piggy Parents are not around.

Photographic evidence as follows:

September 13,2012

(Where my finger is pointing is where the level of paint is inside the bottle. About half of it was used in the Piglet Attack.)

However, this is not the end of the discovery. I returned some months later and discovered that the trail had evolved and expanded in subsequent Piglet attacks! Please note this is the exact same spot in the store with no further protection for the merchandise attempted by the slaves or the managers.

 

November 2, 20012

It is with great sorrow that I bring to you news of this nasty little species of Custy, and advise you to be wary if you are in your retail enviornment. Attacks such as these can occur without warning.

D-GAS Scrub Store PTSD flashback

Ugh, I just had a PTSD flashback of when I worked in D-GAS Scrub store.

Crusty: I need to find scrub pants that match the shirt I bought last week.

Me: Okay, do you have the shirt with you?

Crusty: No.

Me: Okay, then there's not a lot I can do.

Crusty: It's got flowers on it!

Me: Ma'am, it's Spring. Half the store has a flower motif.

Crusty: I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU ARE REFUSING TO HELP ME! JUST HELP ME MATCH THE SHIRT!

Me: Ma'am, again, did you bring the shirt with you?

Crusty: I told you no!

Me: I can't color match a shirt that isn't here.

Crusty: It's got the color blue on it.

Me: Without. The Shirt. I can't. Color match.

Crusty: BLUE!

Anyone in the clothing industry will tell you over and over and over again that there are many many many shades of blue. Even spouting off things like "navy blue" will result in hundreds of possible matches, as 'navy blue' simply translates to 'the darker shade of blue.' Reducing your search from 1000 possible matches to 300 possible matches still means that it is imposible to be sure. Unless the Flying Spaghetti Monster smiles upon you, there will be a return within 24 hours and a screaming harridan pissed that the  stupid cashier 'was too stupid to give me the right pair of pants!"

Because of course it's all our fault that the Crusty was too stupid to bring the shirt along to help her match her colors properly. Did she want to hear this? No, she cut me off and interrupted me and told me to stop blithering and to help her find her pants.

Me: Ma'am, tell you what, spend some time walking through our store and see if you can find the pattern of the shirt you bought.

The store isn't large, and anyone with a pair of eyes can spot patterns and colors easily, especially since we put all of the same pattern together, for some inexplicable reason.

This would not do. It was not her job to find things for herself, that was my job as an employee and I needed to find the match to her shirt.

She made this proclamation while wedged between four round hang-tables, surounded by flowery scrubs.

My dedicated co-worker would arrive in an hour to give me my lunch break and until then I was alone. With no manager to hand her over to, or to lord it over me, and no possible way I could get into trouble, I took it upon myself. 

Me: Listen lady, I cannot help you without the shirt. I cannot, and I will not, spend all afternoon going shirt by shirt through this store looking for a pattern that YOU cannot clarify. Bring the shirt, and we can do something for you. Until then, either look for it yourself or go to the [store that's three cities away].

Crusty: This is an outrage! MANAGER! NOW!

Me: No.

Crusty: HOW DARE YOU TELL ME 'NO!' I WANT A MANAGER NOW!

Me: We don't HAVE a manager. We haven't had one for three months.

Crusty: *splutter splutter squawk*

She left when it got through her thick skull that she wasn't going to get her way.

Meth Bitch Gets a Rude Wakeup Call From Our V'ger Overlord

My mom has a number of health issues stemming from a car accident over a decade ago, mostly involving her spine. She's had three surgeries: one for a herniated disk, one to remove a bone spur jabbing into her sciatic nerve and one to fuse vertebrae in her neck. As such, the walking required to handle daily chores is not exactly the high point in her life. However, the doctors say she needs to walk to retain mobility and re-build her stamina.

For long shopping trips through the big chain store Windso Foods, we let her have the cart and she uses it like a walker for support. Note: she has progressed past needing a cane for most daily walks, but through big stores, it's just better for her to have something to lean on.

We're trundling along at a slow walk, going down the list of food we need and a Meth Bitch comes flying out of nowhere while my back is turned, cuts RIGHT past Mom, so close she nearly sideswipes her into the shelving, cuts in front of her and stops.

"Excuse YOU!" Snarls Meth Bitch, snatching something off the shelf and shooting off at a reckless speed that should have resulted in a Speeding Ticket-- 55mph in a 3 mph zone. Her Whore Horde trots along after her without even acknowledging our existence.

I clench my fists but choose to take the high road, figuring Meth Bitch is going so fast that she'll be way ahead of us in no time at all. This turns out not to be so.

Meth Bitch's shopping strategy is to circle an aisle at least twice at full speed, then brake abruptly, snatch something, throw it into the cart and continue as though momentum and kinetic energy are theories rather than laws. I wonder how that bunch of bananas liked being slam dunked into the cart... Also, food whiplash something fierce. I know we are mean to devour food, but I do not beat the everloving fuck out of it hours or days before it's eaten. That's just cruel and unusual punishment, even to fruit.

We get to pass Meth Bitch and her Whore Hoard as they natter over whether to get this thing or that thing and pitter pat our way to the fresh fruit. Mom and I debate about getting apples and I go ahead to get a bag: our shopping strategy is to send me ahead to bag stuff so that by the time mom catches up, I can just put it in the cart without her needing to stop and stand in place, waiting.

I free a bag and start to bag the apples and spot Meth Bitch charging me at full speed, her head rotated 180 degrees to face directly behind her at the Whore Hoard. I make a desperate dive out of the way, like a matador evading a charging bull. Meth Bitch plows straight through the place where I had been standing to pulls up with a screech of cart brakes against the cold vegetable display against the wall.

Cursing like a sailor to myself, I bag the fruit and turn to put it in the cart. Mom tells me in a mutter that Meth Bitch had nearly slammed into her. I said I knew and that she needed to watch where she was going.

Our voices where too low to be heard, but Meth Bitch's radar was in hyper drive and she stalks straight over to us and leans into our personal space, blatantly trying to listen in. Her face is so gaunt it's skeletal and she's missing several teeth, displaying a few rotten stumps where some teeth were just left after breaking.

I look her in the eye and said "Hi. You need to watch where you're going. You almost hit Mom and damn near plowed into me."

"I did NOT almost hit you! I didn't even come near you! Your mom got in MY way!" She storms off before I can beat the shit out of her.

We scowl, turn the corner, and move on to fresh veggies. I start snagging and bagging the salad bits for a fresh, green salad, coming back to deposit them in the cart as I go. Here comes Meth Bitch, careening around the corner like she's on the Indy racetrack and aiming right for me.

I've had enough. I lift my right foot to just the right height, brace myself and stiffen my leg. I send a silent prayer of apology to Carty as I prepare to give Meth Bitch a rude awakening. The bottom shelf of the cart, reserved for cases of soda and the like, slams into my braced foot full force, rocking me in place. The bottom of my foot stings and starts to throb lightly, but Meth Bitch got the worst of it.

Since her head was turned 180 degrees behind her again, she did not expect the sudden stop and the hand bar slams into her gut with the force of a car accident. Her breath whooshes out of her lungs and she wheezes as she stares at me in disbelief.

"Watch. Where the fuck. You are going." I tell her, lowering my foot gingerly back to the ground. I twist-tie the bag shut and manage to walk back to mom's cart without limping.

Meth Bitch and the Whore Horde made themselves scarce and we never saw them again that whole shopping trip.

May all your customers be nice,