Retail Hell Underground

Stocking Stuffer Balls

From Riferous: That sound? It's Beavis' head exploding. I saw this at Target and had to share.

 

One Girl's Hilarious Request From Santa is Not What You'd Expect

From Let Them Eat Crack:

So RHU it is the season for holiday cheer and parties, this week we had our store Christmas party and we even had a super special guest in a big red suit played by none other than our own Riferous.

As I'm helping him pass out candy to all the little kids after they tell him what they want for Christmas a little girl comes and sits on his lap and decides she's going to play the part of the smartass spawn that she is and asks for a pony.

When questioned about where she would even keep a horse we asked if there was anything else she might like, the following happened:

Me: would you like anything else? A new car, a dirt bike...or maybe a new little sister?

Spawn, without missing a beat: I want a pony, and besides my mom's tubes are tied so no more babies!

Rif and I are speechless and just start laughing. We took this as a sign that Santa needed to head back to the North Pole and he and his little elf needed to head back to the bar.

--Let Them Eat Crack

 

Tis The Season To Be Scammy: Grocery Custy Attempts Return Fraud With EBT Card

A quick tale from the hallowed halls of retail...

A customer came in this afternoon, about 2:40, with two expensive pork loins.  She said that her husband bought them, and they were the wrong things.  A receipt?  Why no, I don't have a receipt!  The first time, the clerk at the desk (fellow RHUer Then Let Them Eat Crack) said nope, sorry, no receipt. 

She left and came back about 50 minutes later, and another clerk was at the desk.  TLTEC (he really needs a shorter handle, but whatever) had informed new clerk and myself about the woman just in case she came back.  Therefore new clerk calls me.

"Yeah my husband bought these and they were the wrong thing."

"Oh yeah?  When did he get them?"

"This morning.  He works third shift and they were in the refrigerator when I got up."

"Ok, let me check something."  I went to get an RF gun.  For those who don't know, the RF gun has a handy little feature that tells you how many of an item has been sold in previous days.  I scanned one of the loins, and lo and behold, there was a big fat zero in today's column.

"Well, we haven't sold any today."

"It might have been late yesterday..."

How many did we sell yesterday?  Again, none. 

"No ma'am, we haven't sold any of these for the past two days."  These items are store brand, and the next closest stores are 30 minutes away, so at this point I'm not doubting that they came from here, but I am certain that they weren't bought here.

"So I'm just stuck with them?"  - points at RF - "That's wrong!", she says, as she exits stage right.  My RF is never wrong... is it?

My confidence in the RF was shaken about a half hour later when desk clerk pages me to say that she came back with a receipt, from about 2:00.  Ok, so, glitch in the system?  If they were bought at 2 am they should have showed up...  But wait!  She didn't say AM.  I called and asked again what time it was.  They were purchased at 2:29 PM.  Ten minutes before she showed up at the desk the first time, claiming her husband bought them in the wee hours.  60 minutes before she handed me the same spiel.  I realized then why she was so confident that they had been purchased - she had just done it!

But wait again! What benefit would it be to her to buy something and return it without a receipt.  Because she bought it with... you guessed it... her EBT card.  The desk clerk surprised her with that tidbit, when she said she would refund it to her EBT card.

"Well, how do you know I used my EBT card?"

"Because it says so on your receipt."

"Can't you put it on a gift card?"

"Nooooope."  (Ok, I added the emphasis, I admit it.)

Nice try, and it might have worked, but for two factors that just happened to work in my favor.  I had the RF to tell me that we hadn't sold any, and, by a stroke of luck that worked out in the end, she had bought them so recently that that system had not updated and therefore did not show the movement.

She told the desk clerk when she came back with her receipt that I owed her an apology, she was not a thief.  Nope, she's not a thief, just a fraudster.  And I hope she comes in to get that apology.

Stay classy, RHU!

--Riferous

 

Enititled Bitch Custy Gets Told By Riferous

Riferous gets a Retail Balls Award for taking out an Entitled Bitch Custy at Target:

Wassup RHU?

I was in the local Target today, returning some headphones that sounded like crap (what did I expect for seven bucks, I guess).  In front of me was one patiently waiting woman and one Entitled Bitch. She didn't appear to be at first, but it didn't take long for the entitlement to reveal itself.

Entitled Bitch was attempting to return, as it turned out, an iPod shuffle.  Without a receipt.  With a lot of things, from what I gathered from the two clerks helping her, it would be no problem to at least give an in store credit, but naturally with an electronic item, there's a problem.  They even have this nifty look up thingy that will let them look up transactions by credit card number, which they offered to do. But no, Entitled Bitch's mother had purchased it with her Target card.  

Return Clerk (RC) said that they could look up the transaction with Enititled Bitch's Mom's card, but alas, EB Mom lives and hour and a half away and that wouldn't work.  RC even said if they even had the number they could type it in.

Entitled Bitch is well dressed in the kind of outfit that says she or hubby has good money to spend on bland beige jackets, so I assume that somewhere in her overpriced handbag she has a cell phone and has the option of calling EB Mom.  But no, that would just make sense!  And why should she have to go to all that trouble?

So after seeming so patient, well, at first, anyway, for the five minutes RC has been attempting to help her (and she did go out of her way in my opinion), Enititled Bitch decided that she was not getting what she was entitled to, and engaged Bitch Mode.

"See, this is why - you're returns are just so - I always have problems here.  I don't like shopping here, and I am not going to shop here any more!"  There are two more people who have joined the line behind me, making a total of four people that Entitled Bitch is holding up at this point.  

Consider my buttons pushed.

I cut her off mid-sentence with "BRING A RECEIPT NEXT TIME."  

I know I shocked the shit out of her because she stopped talking and took a full three seconds before she turned around to look at me with That Face.  You know the face, the one where some entitled whore just absolutely can not believe that someone dared to point out that she might be - *gasp* - WRONG.

"It was a gift!"

In about three nanoseconds I put together that this was a gift, from her mother, likely to one of her litter of entitled crotch spawn, who decided that a 2 GB iPod shuffle was NOT what they were entitled to, and Enitled Bitch had decided that Target owed it to her to take it back because she said so.  A gift.  A. Gift.  And she was giving RC hell for doing her job. 

Unfortunately I was only able to come back with "Don't bring it back if you can't follow the rules", but I did manage to completely ignore her as I walked to the register and she left quickly and quietly, probably seething with anger that some rude prick dared to speak to her in that manner in public.  I like to think that she complained loudly to her husband, who pretended to listen to her and calm her down so that he could get the blow job he was entitled to.

RC clerk said "Thanks", and I said "I just want to return this" as I handed her my headphones WITH THE RECEIPT.  Even though I had opened them she processed the transaction without a hitch and I went on my merry way, thinking about how good it felt to be able to say something to someone who truly deserved it.

Until next time, stay classy RHU!

--Riferous

Forget Black Friday, "Ricky Bobby Week" Is the Real Beginning of Holiday Retail Hell

Hi everybody!  It's the holiday season!  (Don't break your screen, it's too early for the Black Friday sales.)

I have decided that I am going to refer to the first week of November as "Ricky Bobby Week".  (For the uninitiated, Ricky Bobby was Will Ferrell's character in "Talladega Nights".  You have to watch it at least once.) 

Anyway, I have christened the week thusly because the first week of November is when all the toothless, clueless, no-soap using, EBT having rednecks do their Thanksgiving shopping so they can sit around, watch NASCAR, and give thanks to the little baby Jesus.  I promise it's worse than a regular first of the month, mostly because the people who are only there once a month and can't find anything are looking for everything they can't find plus the holiday stuff that nobody can find because they only buy it once a year.

(Disclaimer: Not all EBT users are gum-slapping unwashed hillbillies.  But they are out there.  You know they are.)

Compounding the first week of November is the fact that certain commodities do pick up in sales, and merchandising knows enough to advertise them, but not enough to supply them properly.  Three days into the ad, I schlepped product all day because we had a ton of it and it wasn't on the floor, it just naturally wasn't what people wanted.  Brand name canned vegetables?  The whole line is on sale, and while we for some strange reason ordered the four biggest sellers (what were we thinking?) all day it was "Do you have sweet peas?  Do you have mixed vegetables?  Do you have potatos and shredded cabbage patch kids?" 

Well, maybe, probably not, but consider this: you are asking me this by the two skid display that A.) you haven't bothered to look through and 2.) this is NOT the canned vegetable section, this is a display.  Look in the aisle, people!

...Which is where I was, trying desperately not to end people who were standing in front of the slot for the item they want, which is in my hands or next on the cart, so that I can't get to the shelf stock it, when two literally toothless old sisters come up looking for, naturally, what we don't have.

"Do you have mixed vegetables?"

"No, sorry, what you see is what I have."

"Do you have the others or are they part of the sale?  Can I get a raincheck is what I'm asking."

...No, that's not what you're asking, but sure, knock yourselves out.

5 days into the sale they started substituting the store brand.  And ran out in a day.

And completely unrelated, but noteworthy, I was filling in at another store when I saw a 60+ year old man with full beard wearing an outfit that, in individual pieces, could have passed for men's clothing, but put together as an outfit, was all women's.  Blouse, slacks, hat, even down to the knee high boots.  Somehow I managed to nod, mask my surprise, and move on.  To each his, her, or its own, I guess. 

Thankfully, at least, we had our holiday open house on the 5th, and once it was over, they deep sixed the Christmas music.  The tradeoff, I guess, is that they started mixing in country.  But I decided that I will accept that since, for the first time in 13 years, I heard honest to God Jimi Hendrix at work.  

Stay classy, RHU!

--Riferous

 

Retail Hell Pet Peeves: The "Mess" Question

Everybody's got their pet peeves, those things that, however miniscule they may be to most people, drive you up a wall.  One of my biggest is a question that grates more than "Do you work here?" 

It's the dreaded:

Did somebody make a mess?

Today I noticed that 8 pack Gatorade was empty on the shelf, and we had a few on the end.  We also had 3 stacks of single bottles that looked like they would just perfectly fill the end.  So I take the packs from the end to the shelf and move one of the stacks to the end.  Physics takes over, gravity wins out over my desire to finish quickly and efficiently, and SPLOOSH, 3 bottles break.

Now cleaning up a spill is not my favorite thing in the first place.  It's a negative proposition all around: you've damaged product, you've created a slip hazard, and you've eaten up at least 5 minutes of your day that would have been better spent picking your nose and digging out some ear wax. 

I blocked off the area, got the spill powder and a trash can, and knew that somewhere, lurking, waiting for a vulnerable moment, The Question was approaching.

Surprisingly enough, I got through most of the cleanup, about 5 minutes, without springing the trap. 

Then, when I had just begun to scoop up the debris, a fellow employee, of all people, says "Riferous, did you make a mess?" 

Did I make a mess?  Why no, what would make you say that?  Couldn't be the big blue puddle on the otherwise off white floor, could it?  The broom in my hand? Or the huge pile of blue dust on the floor next to the 55 gallon trash can?

And then, as if the flood gates (pun intended) had opened, no less than three customers in a two minute span had to inquire as to the obvious.  "Make a mess?  Somebody spill something?  Oh, somebody made a mess!" 

No shit, collective Sherlocks.

Fellow RHUer Then Let Them Eat Crack then happens by and I vented to him.  At least my people were astute enough to realize that there was something on the floor that could potentially cause a problem.  He was cleaning up two broken bottles of wine in a congested area and had the area blocked off as much as possible when a random custy stops, looks at the mess, and proceeds to walk over it.  He said "Really?  You're just going to walk over this huge spill?" 

"Well I didn't know what it was..." 

Because not knowing what something is apparently negates its existence.

After I finally got everything picked up, I went back for the last stack of Gatorade.  I'm sure you can't guess what happened.  Apparently I haven't learned my lesson yet, because I knocked over one more bottle.  The lid on this one didn't shatter like the others, so only a few drops spilled.  I went to get some paper towels and before the first one even got wet, "Did somebody spill something?"  All I could do was turn my head and keep wiping.

Oh well.  First World Problems, right?

Stay classy, RHU.

--Riferous

An Ode to Retail

 

From Riferous:

 

Most Americans have heard at least part the poem that is enshrined in the Statue of Liberty, "The New Colossus". The one that says "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yadda yadda".

I applied the poem to retail, and I think it's a pretty natural fit. (I took a couple liberties with it - pun intended.)

 

 

Not unlike the Ides of March of Roman fame,

With murdering knives passed from hand to hand;

Here at our squeegee-washed, automatic gates shall stand

A mighty crusty with a complaint, whose charge Card was refused, and her name

Mother of All Bitches. From her shriveled hand

Glows store-wide disdain; her wild voice commands

The air-conditioned foyer that twin vending machines frame.

“Keep, you lazy fuckers, your stupid policy!” cries she

With seething lips.

 

The slaves lament, “Give me your retired, your poor,

Your unwashed masses bearing EBT’s,

The wretched refuse of the competitor’s store.

Send these, the brainless, education-lost to me,

I lift my RF gun beside the automatic door!”

 

 

The original can be found here

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_New_Colossus

 

 

Stay classy, RHU!

 

--Riferous

 

The Tale of a Very Crappy Day

Hello RHU. 

Allow me to tell you the tale of my crappy day.  Literally crappy.

I strolled into the bathroom to drain the lizard, and saw little chunks of something in the urinal.  I thought to myself, "Is that chewing tobacco?  It's an awful lot if itAHFUCK somebody shit in the pisser!" 

I called the office and said "This is one of those once in a lifetime moments when I get to use a truly accurate pun - some asshole took a shit in the urinal." 

Needless to say, we were pissed.  *rimshot*

Later on in the day at home the phone rang.  It was the store.  It's been hot as fuck around here, as I'm sure I don't need to tell most of you, and I thought either Satan was calling because he wanted his weather back or the cold cases were exploding from the heat.  But no, it's fellow RHUer Thenletthemeatcrack (TLTEC), with another shitty story. 

Someone had gotten to the men's room in time, but not to the facilities (not even the urinal this time).  This generous soul donated to us not only their fertilizer but also the briefs off his back.  Well, backside.  And had he made any attempt to clean up the mess?  No, in fact, and left even the now creatively colored garment in the middle of the floor amongst the droppings.  Why break up the set, huh?

TLTEC really wanted me to say "You're kidding" so he could say "NO SHIT!" 

Now that I think about it, maybe I should have gone to the casino that night.  Might have been my lucky day at craps.

Stay classy, RHU!

--Riferous

 

Things I Love About My Retail Hell

From Riferous:

We all love our jobs, right?  That must be why we keep coming back.  I can't think of any other reason.

I love that people will spill something and do everything they can to clean it up!  That is, as long as cleaning up consists of walking away as quickly as possible so nobody sees them.

I love the grazers who will eat every grape from a stem, except the two or three that they drop on the floor, creating customer-friendly snot-slick death zones.

I love trucks that show up 6 hours late; late enough to make an eight hour shift useless, but early enough to sloppily break down a couple pallets so someone can run them on overtime the next day.

I love people who beg for hours but won't come in to cover a call in.

I love bargain shoppers.  Especially the ones who switch tags so the item rings up wrong and they get it for free!

I love perverts, psychos, and fat old men who dress out of a discarded rag heap.  I mean, who wouldn't, right?

I love that state law requires us to card 91 year olds when they buy alcohol.

I love that the company uses time and resources to create a streamlined communication system that adds yet another layer to communication between the stores and the office, and that (Bonus!) may or may not get a response.

I love that I can be by a silent phone for 5 hours straight and as soon as I get ass deep in the middle of a complicated procedure in the middle of the store I get a phone call.  From a scammer.

I love the unwashed masses.

I love cusomers who go through 3 propane tanks in 3 days, claiming that they only last an hour, then find that the connection leaks, and insist that nothing is wrong with their grill.

I love the N.A.T's who are just skillful enough that we can't be 100% certain that they didn't dump that jumbo box of razors before they paid for their $.97 tube of Chap Stick.

I love people who ask where something is and, when you give them the aisle number right away, appear dumbfounded, as if they didn't really expect an answer, or as if you spoke from the third head that emerged from a nasty zit on the second head that you had previously sprouted.

But most of all I love being paid once a month, because I never run out of money ten days before payday and wonder how I am going to afford to let the oil companies screw me without lube.  (I mean really, they can make their own petroleum jelly, they couldn't swipe a finger through beforehand?)

Stay classy, RHU.

--Riferous

 

Grimy Messworth and Spill Magic Redemption

From Riferous:

Hello again RHU!  It's been a while, but either I'm getting used to the insanity, or people have been behaving.

Quick tale from a couple weeks ago. 

I was facing an endcap when from around the corner I hear a confused expression followed by "You got a big mess over here." 

You know that's trouble, when they don't say "I spilled something" or "somebody made a mess".  "You have a mess" says "there is a mess here, and I have no intention of cleaning it up."

I looked around the corner to see that he had a box of spaghetti in his cart that had come open and about half was on the floor. 

Ok, probably not his fault, it wasn't sealed properly, the edge caught on something else, whatever.  And at least it's not some lethal chemical or humungous spill.

So I take the box from him and kneel down to start picking it up, and he walks off.  Not a sorry, not an offer to help, not even "I'll stand here to block traffic", just walks off and lets me do it all.  Nice.

This was almost countered a few days later when I heard the familiar crash and tinkle of a falling wine bottle.  I said, "Stay there, I'll go get straws", and went to get the Spill Magic and broom.  To my pleasant surprise I returned and he was still there, guarding the area.  I said thanks and I got it.  I was happy that he hadn't wandered away just in time for some random hellspawn to play slip and slide and do a header into the wall.  Then I noticed his footprints and cart tracks leading away.  Hmm.

Somewhere in there was the woman who started with "Do you work here?", then followed with "the wheat crackers".  Yes, what about them?  Are they opening for Motley Crue this summer?  "Do you have any?"  Which ones?  "The ones that are on sale?"  People!  Be specific, please!

And finally a nice tale from last night.  I was cleaning a shelf on an endcap when one of our regulars, an older guy, said something like "Boy, you're always busy with something, aren't you?"  It was nice to actually hear a custy acknowledge that they see me working.  Most of them wonder why you are not reading their mind and doing the impossible thing that they are thinking.

Later gators!

--Riferous

 

Subtle Custy Revenge

From Riferous:

Hi Ho RHU. I have a tale of getting back at the crappy customer today that may help boost your spirits.

Just a few days ago, early in the morning, I saw the principal from the school that my daughter attended last year. My daughter liked him, and we always thought he was a nice guy. He didn't recognize me out of a thousand parents, but I remembered him. I said Hi in the aisle, and he said Hi back, but in that manner of "Your presence annoys me, but I'll be nice and reply."

A minute later or so I passed him on the front end, and he was looking back and forth across the registers. In our store only the U Scan is open overnight, and the first register opens at 8 (it was 7:30). Before he said anything, I said, "It's just the U Scan this time of the day". He said, "You mean I gotta scan all of this myself?" I hadn't noticed before, but he did have about 25 items or so.

Still, I thought to myself, "I know who you are, Mr. Douche. Quit being Mr. Douche and go back to Mr. Nice Principal, you little twerp."

The U Scan cashier said that she would open up a regular register for him (standard practice), so he went to the register. That's when I got my chance for revenge.

"You're Mr. Nice Principal, aren't you?"

"Yes?"

"My daughter, Riferette, went to **** School last year."

Ha! I know who you are, ass munch. Quit munching so much ass.

A brief but civil conversation was had, and we moved on. But it felt good to subtly call out a douchey customer for once.

Slave on, fellow slaves!

--Riferous

Returning To Hell After Vacation

Just got back from a week off of work and boy am I glad... that I will someday be dead.

One of the by-products of being on vacation is that you forget things. I'm not talking about passwords or procedures, I'm talking about those things that make you appreciate the forgetting power of your brain. You know, customers!

I am squatted down in front of an endcap, and from behind me I hear, "Excuse me sir". Good start, better than "Hey dickwad". Then I turn to see... The Stare. Uh oh, he turned around, and he's looking at me, now what? I didn't think this through!

Finally she remembers that she just spoke, and theorizes that she is capable of doing it again, so she asks me her question. At about the same time, from at least 25 feet away, I hear "Hey do you know where the mushrooms are bud?" You're not my bud, you freak. I pointed to the mushrooms, which were 3 feet from me, which makes them 22 feet from him, say "There," and go back to The Stare, who at least had the decency to address me before she asked a question.

Later on, I am in the Bakery, and a woman walks up beside me and says, "Can you help me? ... or maybe you just work in this department." This is a variation of a question that I hate almost as much as "Do you work here", in which the person asks, "Are you over this particular item that you just happen to be standing next to as I approached you?" I am a manager. I wear a shirt and tie. There are two male managers. That means that the 100+ other employees in the store wear either the male or female version of the same shirt. Why do I look different? Because I am a manager. And what department do managers work in? FUCKING ALL OF THEM!!! (To spare the comments page, yes, I know some stores have department managers that only work in those departments. We are not one of them.)

Not much later, closer to the commercial bread (Wonder, Sunbeam, etc.), a customer asks me where the store brand Low Sodium bread is. I look, and find the tag, but no bread, and I know we have literally crumbs left in the back room, so I tell her we are out. "Will you be ordering some more in?"

Really?

Why would we not order more in? If I've just told you that something is discontinued, or I know we carry something but there's no tag, sure, I understand if you ask me if we can get more. But this, this(circling area on shelf with oversized gesture) is a regular item. I just showed (points at eyes, then to tag, back to eyes) you the tag. Taaaag-guh. We still carry it (pick up imaginary loaf). It's on fucking sale (contort one hand into dollar sign, make circle with other hand, and insert and remove repeatedly). WHY WOULD WE NOT ORDER MORE???

Someday I'm just going to casually say no, and walk away. Or just stare and say that I don't work this department, I'm just looking for mushrooms.

Later, RHU!

--Riferous

Chart For Bad Restaurant Custys

This came up on cracked.com and I thought it was just perfect.

--Riferous

Riferous: The Tale of Crazy Jerry

Yo RHU!  I've been reading Freeman's book, and two of his "characters" reminded me of one of mine. (By the way, if you haven't read the book, shame on you!  Go get it!)

Freeman has a chapter on the two Virginias. One is an incessant chatterbox who streams from one subject to another. The other is a strange, paranoid concoction who uses a stuffed bear as a handbag.  I have one customer who combines the best of both worlds - Crazy Jerry (name changed to protect the incompetent).

Crazy Jerry is probably somewhere north of 70 years old, but has no teeth, so he could be younger. He has no family that I know of.  Crazy Jerry was once, apparently, sane enough to be in the military, because he always talks about going to the VA. He almost always (remember that for later) wears black shirts and a black jacket with this funky black military style cap, and glasses thick enough to bend the space time continuum.  And he usually pops up right behind you, giving you no chance to escape.

Jerry's objects of conversation are many and varied. He used to shop at the competitor but they're clear across town (and probably kicked him out). He is going to the VA hospital for his latest random ailment. Why did you stop carrying the sauerkraut flavored pizza biscuits? You ain't had my garlic suppositories the last two times I've been in here! The usual random blather. And the not so usual blather.

Like when he talks about his cats.

From what I can gather, "his" cats aren't really his cats. He buys treats and scads of canned cat food. This is apparently to fatten up the neighborhood cats. And can you guess what he does after he fattens them up? Think back to the original Hansel and Gretel folks. The mean old witch was gonna eat those kids. That's right. He doesn't have to buy fresh meat that way. That way nobody touches his meat but him.

He calls the the treats pussy candy. He told one of our cashiers once that he bet her pussy liked candy too. She told him that he was no longer welcome in her line.

He told another cashier that he needed to hurry up and get home before the police found out he had ammunition in his car. His goal was to get 1000 rounds saved up before 2012, 'cuz that's when civilization is gonna end. He'll probably only live about a month, because he only gets his meds a month at a time from the VA, but he ain't gonna let nobody take him out.

And the topper of all the toppers - remember when I said he almost always dresses in black?  This old, toothless, ex-military nutjob of a cat-eater is a cross-dresser. 

He came shopping on Halloween in a dress. He said if it was up to him he'd dress like that every day. Hey, if that's your thing, more power to you, but holy crap! This guy wasn't messed up enough already?

I hadn't seen him for a couple weeks around Christmas. Is it bad that I wondered if he was laying on the floor of his trailer, his bones being picked clean by stray cats? 

But alas, his meds hadn't run out and the zombies hadn't gotten to him. He's back. And he's still nutty as a marked down fruitcake.

See ya!

--Riferous

 

Riferous: New Rules For Christmas

From Riferous:

Some new rules that ought to put in place immediately:

1. Don't be a Visa customer.  You know the type.  No matter where you go or how desperately you need to go there, they are everywhere you want to be.

2. If we don't have it, then we don't have it, and don't waste your time or mine by demanding to know why.  Whether we didn't order it, the warehouse was out, or Osama bin Laden personally hijacked the deliver truck, we don't have it, and you're not fucking getting it.

3. Yes, we close early on Christmas Eve.  Yes, we are closed all day on Christmas.  We understand that you only had 365 days to plan for it since this is not a leap year, but we are closing, so deal with it.

4. DO NOT ask us if we are ready for Christmas.  If we are still able to hold our tongues, we will tell you that we are ready for Christmas to be DONE.

5. (For muzak programmers) Just because 42 artists recorded the same song does not mean that it is a different song.  I heard "Jingle Bells" 30 minutes ago.  I don't want to hear it sung by somebody else now, an hour from now, or for the rest of the day for that matter.

5a. "This Christmas" is a horrible song.  It sucks. There are literally 150 listing for it on itunes. I checked. Quit fucking playing it.

 Have a Merry AFTER Christmas, fellow Retail Slaves!

 --Riferous

 

Riferous: Fuck The Halls With Christmas Music

This rant is not exactly a Christmas Song Massacre but I have a feeling if Riferous had a shotgun, he'd blow a hole through every speaker in his store!

I remember carrying a huge role of wrapping paper at The Big Fancy one year, and when my most hated, nails-down- a-chalkboard song came on - "Marshmallow World" by Johnny Mathis, I held it up, aimed it at the speakers over my head, and pretended it was a canon and I was bombing the shit out of them - complete with explosion sound effects. Of course it did nothing and Johnny kept wailing about it being a Marshmallow World in the winter, but my mind enjoyed the destruction fantasy.

Riferous goes a little wild with this rant RHUers, and it's meant to be SATIRE, so if dark South Park-like humor is not your thing, best scroll on down.

For the rest of you, tell us what xmas song makes your ears bleed?

From Riferous:

This may be pushing the envelope for RHU, but hell, after Burger Bitch's rants, maybe anything goes.  Anyway...

An open letter to the people who choose Christmas music for retail outlets:

Fuck you. No, seriously, fuck you. 

Fuck your mother, fuck your father, fuck every one of your siblings.  Fuck your cousins, the ones you see at holidays and the ones you haven't seen for years.  Dig up your dead relatives and fuck them too. 

Fuck all of your teachers.  Fuck the drivers on your block who missed a million opportunities to bludgeon you with their cars.  Fuck any and all doctors who have saved your life. 

Fuck your trash man, fuck your mail man, fuck your dogs and your cats.  Don't bother to hide yo wives, yo husbands, or yo children, cause we fuckin' errbody up in here.

Fuck 'em with a stick.  

Fuck 'em with a pointy metal stick. 

Fuck 'em with a hot, pointy, sharp, spiky metal stick, wrapped in barbed wire and dipped in rotten bacon grease.  Wait, no grease, that would make it better. 

Fuck 'em with the New Orleans Saints and the entirety of the Jehovah's Witnesses. 

Fuck 'em for twelve minutes on one side, flip 'em over and fuck 'em for an additional ten minutes or until golden brown. 

Fuck 'em with fuck-covered fuck filled with fuck flavored filling. 

Fuck 'em with a Christmas tree, fully decorated, with a nativity scene and exposed wires. 

Fuck 'em with a one horse open sleigh.

And the reindeer you rode in on.

--Riferous

Riferous: King of Dumbass Hill

Couple of quick shots for the week.

I was bent down in half with my big butt up in the air, stocking something, when I gradually become aware of a woman speaking to me, behind me and apparently starting out about 20 feet back. 

"...baking nuts?  I've been looking for an hour." 

Really? You've been looking for baking nuts for an hour? 

Maybe it's because you've been talking to people's asses.

*    *    *    *

Then I get Boomhauer. 

Remember Boomhauer from "King of the Hill"? The quietly badass neighbor with a propensity for turning mumbling into an art form?  The conversation went something like this:

"Dang ol' see you here a lot mumblemblmblfart mother's card blblblblblbl dang 'ol get 31 dollars figibupledip..." 

The upshot was, some female relative of his had lost her benefits card of indeterminate origin but he had the numbers, and would we be so kind as to retreive the $31 balance for him? 

Now how did I get that from "dang ol frippinatthezimzam", you ask? 

Because he had tried it on another manager earlier in the week, and was basically told then, as Boomhauer said at my prodding, to "dang ol cram it up my ass".

He told you no. End of story. 

Go back to your alley and drink your Alamo.

*    *    *    *    

And, on a sad note, I am writing this on Friday, November 12. 

There are six weeks and one day until Christmas. 

So naturally, what are we listening to today? That's right, Christmas music.  It's not every other song yet, thank the deity of your choice, but I have been wondering all day what the hell is so special about November 12.

"They know that Santa Claus is gay... His elves are really tiny versions of Mr. Slave..."

Peace out, and try not to deck the halls with bowels of custies.

--Riferous

 

The Tale of The Female Turkey Penis

I know the Crapsmas stuff has been up at various stores since, well, June, but I thought this would be a nice official kickoff to the Holiday Season. (You know, you have to capitalize it, like Hell, World War, or Holocaust.)

A couple of Holiday Seasons ago and friend of a friend was doing her management training at a store in one of those hoity-toity areas. We're not talking Beverly Hills, but we are talking a smattering of million dollar houses and a bunch of celebrities in the area.

She walked into work one morning and was quickly paged to the meat shop. 

There she found a well to do, seemingly very put together looking woman of around 40 years of experience in the earthly realm seething with the madness of The Entitled (must also be capitalized). 

She says, simply, but forcefully, "I bought a hen turkey! WHAT IS THIS?"

She reaches into her purse, pulls out a long, skinny, fleshy thing in a plastic bag, and shakes it a bit. I like to imagine that it looked like the kind of thing she used to do for five dollars in the back seat before she married into money. 

The young trainee calmly says, "Ma'am, that's a turkey neck."

Entitled Seether gets "that look" on her face, turns many pretty shades, places her fleshy prize back into her purse, and walks out indignantly.

Trainee Gal then walks into the meat shop to find the meat cutter literally ROFLing. 

He had tried to tell her but she wouldn't believe him. 

He said, "The part that really got her was when I told her 'Ma'am, you're giving that turkey way too much credit'".

Every year I wish for just one of these crustys. It would make the whole season worth it. Sorry, Season.

Happy fucking holidays, RHUer's!

--Riferous

 

Phone-Scamming NAT Gets Told

Riferous gets a Retail Balls Award for facing off with a phone NAT who wouldn't give up:

There is a special pit in Hell for some people. 

And I'd like to be in charge of this particular pit someday.

I got a call today that I have gotten so many times in the past. Always, the caller or, more likely, his son/wife/relative got something bad at your store and they want a refund. Except they never have the receipt or the product, and it was always three weeks ago, and who keeps their receipts anyway? 

It's been undercooked chickens, bad Polaroid film (that Polaroid had him send to them, and they told him to come back for a refund - how convenient!), and this time and the last time moldy dog food - the expensive kind. In large bags.

The caller starts out by asking if you are the one in charge today. Since I am the assistant manager, they want to know the name of the store manager, when they will be back, and the wants to know how to get a hold of the district manager, because they need to know what kind of stuff is going on in your store. Immediate red flag, game over for you, my scammy friend.

So, being expected to offer the best customer service and try to solve the problem yourself, lowly AM asks the expected question of what exactly is the problem, kindly cowardly sir? 

Well, about three weeks ago (why three weeks, I wonder, as most scammers know that we can look up movement for the last 28 days, and are surprised when it is actually 35 days hahafuckingha) and he/she/it (the son this time) was housesitting and bought two bags of the large bag of ex-fucking-pensive dog food, and they were both moldy.

This is more believable than the last time, which was three bags, because while I know people will spend $100 for cigarettes in a plaque-congested heartbeat, ain't nobody gonna spend that on dog food from a grocery store. 

Surprise surprise, both bags were moldy!

The next step is that he called the store, and there was no manager in the store (there never is, despite my 50 hour per week schedule, and two others with the same.  Hmmm...) Anyway, the person that his accomplice, er, son talked to, said there was no way he could bring that food back because it was contaminated!  What, an employee was rude?  Wow, yeah, because they totally have the authority to turn down a return and be rude about it! 

Seriously, if nothing else, they will tell a person that they will have to come back or call back for a manager, never will they say something like that. Which doesn't matter anyway, because no such call existed in the first place!

So what the (variable expletive) are we going to do for him? 

Note that, by this time, he has abandoned all mention of the DM. I guess every script has a flaw. Well, the inexperienced will usually either roll over or defer to the store manager. If they roll over, then he will ask how long you will be there (a less than clever ploy to find out when you will be gone, to make his ruse that much easier), and he will send in his son/wife/Russian mail order bride/pig breeder to get the refund. Preferably in cash.

If the uninitiated tries to put it off for the store manager, well, that is a most grievous sin, mister. Superscammer will then resort to various degrees of berating until they get what they want in an attempt to coerce the poor soul into giving in. 

If that doesn't work, well then you might as well turn in your keys, mister, because your ass is grass when he gets a hold of corporate! You better believe!

The last time before today he introduced a twist. After I stated that no product and no receipt equals no refund (I had no problem saying that because hey, I've heard it before) he said that he would hold while I called my DM because she probably wouldn't like me making that kind of decision for her. 

Oh yes, I believe she would, as that is kinda MY JOB.  

I finally said that I wasn't going to do that. He said, get this, "I think your a pussy boy!"

Really, because I stood up to your threatening bullshit and wouldn't roll over for a known scam, I'M a pussy boy? 

I said, "You know how many times I've heard this story?" 

"I don't care how many times you've heard blah blah rabble rabble.."

Click. 

Pussy boy that, mother fucker.

Besides, he was the one who wanted to send his wife in for the refund. 

Who's the pussy boy?

So this time I listened long enough to confirm about five points of the script, and cut in and said "Let me ask you this, where is the dog food now?" 

Last time it was buried, I expected to hear the same, but I think I surprised him. 

"I don't know, he might still have it." 

Damn. Well, I had enough evidence anyway. "Well, I'll tell you what, I've heard this story so many times before I'm gonna save us both some time. Bye."

Click. 

Go eat some moldy dog food mother fucker.

No immediate call back, so I guess that petty much confirms the scam. 

Short, sweet, and we won't hear from him for another six months. 

What a wonderful life.

Anybody else get these calls? 

I just wonder if this is a few guys who know each other or if they're pulling a script off of doucheyscamfucker.com.

--Riferous

 

Riferous: Great Day In The Morning

Great ways to start your morning: Rolling into the parking lot at 7 am, there are 4 cop cars surrounding a car and a man in plain clothes, apparently the focus of their interest. 

I wasn't real close to them, so I didn't get a good look at just how plain this guy's clothes were.

I see that one of the cops is a detective who works security part time in our store, so I go to see what it is all about. 

He said "This is not how I wanted to start my day!"

It seems that our guest this morning was serving up breakfast - sausage and eggs served with a side of hair pie. 

He had walked into the store wearing a t-shirt, flip flops, a small women's thong, and short short booty shorts. 

With his package unwrapped.

The cop said that he used a phrase that he never thought he'd have to use in his career in law enforcement: "Dude, your junk's hanging out." 

This guy runs about 6' 2" and 280 lbs.

The young lady who donated the garments was, according to the brave young soul, "probably under 100 lbs". 

The shorty shorts ripped when he put them on.  Yeah.

Our generous provider of morning hilarity had been drinking with his friends until 5 am.

At some point in the wee hours somebody made a bet of some sort, the stakes being that the loser would have to give the early morning denizens of Groceryville a show in garments not belonging to them. 

He lost. 

Oh, did he lose.

And so Mr. Miss was toted away to the drunk tank and charged with public intoxication, incarcerated with other like-minded individuals who, I am sure, had alternate ideas for his breakfast buffet. 

Actually, I shouldn't call it a buffet, more of a value meal - I heard it was a bit on the small side.

And I have no desire to try the juice.

The pharmacist said it was like looking for a button in a forest. 

A couple cashiers said "All I could see was a big ball of fluff!" 

Eventually I realized that he had to be on tape at some point, so I went upstairs to "roll that beautiful bean footage". 

The best I could get was the attached picture.  Not that I really wanted to see it anyway.

After a while I realized that he was going to be locked up until he got sober, and they probably wouldn't give him a pair of pants. I guess he could have called his friends to bring some, but you know what? They were smart enough to book it out of the lot when the cops showed up, and I really doubt they would have walked into the station in the same condition he was in.  Maybe they tracked down a spare blanket for him.

The cop did say that they were lenient and didn't charge him with indecent exposure, saying there was a difference between some dirty old perv and a dumb drunk kid. 

An obviously lucky dumb drunk kid.

Until next time, enjoy your meal!

--Riferous