Before I started blogging in April 2005, I'd occasionally write things in a journal. I recently found this essay, which I wrote when I worked at the Organized Living store in Henderson, Nevada. Enjoy. Or tolerate at least.
Every day, every single day of my miserable waiting-for-death (that's how I say "life"), I'm beaten about the face and torso by practitioners of douchebagery and douchebagesque behavior. I see so many douchebags in my daily existence it's as if I died and my eternal punishment is to hover in limbo over the feminine hygiene isle at Wal-Mart. Why? I work retail.
Because I work retail, I see fresh, uncut, as-nature-intended douchebagness in all its hellish glory. The attitude of eighty percent of our customers screams out:
"Okay, here I am. Pay attention to me. I have a sense of entitlement that would hare-lip Prince William. I'm going to aimlessly roam this store for hours. I'll bludgeon the employees with inane questions and outrageous requests. Why aren't you service industry toadies placing rose petals at my feet? Where's my chalice of milk from the breasts of Catherine Zeta-Jones? Do I really have to stand in line and pay for what I want? Comb my hair. Wipe my ass. Fluff my merkin. Be my friend. Listen to my life story. Laugh at my bad jokes. Ignore my casual racism. Pretend I smell acceptable. Act like I'm the only person on earth. Don't stare at my obvious toupee, prison tattoo, square dancing outfit, corn cob pipe, chartreuse sombrero, leaking colostomy bag, deceased conjoined twin, rat fur neck warmer, blood-stained doo-rag, or mistletoe belt buckle. Be nice to me no matter what I say to you. Babysit my ignorant, unwashed, unloved children. Let them run around unattended. Let them open packages and destroy products. Let them scream until they cough up blood. Let them punch you in the leg and/or groins. Let them desecrate nearby landmarks and graves. Pet my mean, growling dog. Wipe tapioca drool off my fleshy neck. Don't tell me to have a nice day; can't you think of something original?"
I need a raise.
Every day, every single day of my miserable waiting-for-death (that's how I say "life"), I'm beaten about the face and torso by practitioners of douchebagery and douchebagesque behavior. I see so many douchebags in my daily existence it's as if I died and my eternal punishment is to hover in limbo over the feminine hygiene isle at Wal-Mart. Why? I work retail.
Because I work retail, I see fresh, uncut, as-nature-intended douchebagness in all its hellish glory. The attitude of eighty percent of our customers screams out:
"Okay, here I am. Pay attention to me. I have a sense of entitlement that would hare-lip Prince William. I'm going to aimlessly roam this store for hours. I'll bludgeon the employees with inane questions and outrageous requests. Why aren't you service industry toadies placing rose petals at my feet? Where's my chalice of milk from the breasts of Catherine Zeta-Jones? Do I really have to stand in line and pay for what I want? Comb my hair. Wipe my ass. Fluff my merkin. Be my friend. Listen to my life story. Laugh at my bad jokes. Ignore my casual racism. Pretend I smell acceptable. Act like I'm the only person on earth. Don't stare at my obvious toupee, prison tattoo, square dancing outfit, corn cob pipe, chartreuse sombrero, leaking colostomy bag, deceased conjoined twin, rat fur neck warmer, blood-stained doo-rag, or mistletoe belt buckle. Be nice to me no matter what I say to you. Babysit my ignorant, unwashed, unloved children. Let them run around unattended. Let them open packages and destroy products. Let them scream until they cough up blood. Let them punch you in the leg and/or groins. Let them desecrate nearby landmarks and graves. Pet my mean, growling dog. Wipe tapioca drool off my fleshy neck. Don't tell me to have a nice day; can't you think of something original?"
I need a raise.
16 Comments:
Were it within my power, I would nominate you for a Pullizer Prize just for that first paragraph, if only for the fact that you, to my admittedly limited knowledge, invented a new noun and a new adjective (douchebagery and douchebagesque).
Pulitzer-- doh-- long, stressful day.
It's funny, cuz it true.
Fluff. My. Merkin.
Groins? You have more than one?
Oh, and be my friend...
NOW, damnit!
Fluff my merkin?
You're killing me Todd. Just killing me.
You know what disappoints me more than anything? In you Britney Spears post, not ONE SINGLE PERSON said "now the carpet matches the drapes."
And really, that's doing a disservice to the public.
Also, I need a mistletoe belt buckle.
Did somebody really wear a chartreuse sombrero? I would totally wait on that guy. He sounds cool.
Rat-fur neck warmer! Ewww.
And oh yeah, "Have a nice day!"
P.s. My sister works retail p/t just to kill the time while her hubby is deployed to Iraq. Her stories sound like yours. I don't know how you 2 can handle it.
you amuse me to no end.
the lust i feel for you deepens with each post i read....
Ohh sometimes reading your blog makes me lose the will to live.
I hate people, and you remind me why.
You just described my last 13 years as a waitress..
You are a literary and comic genius..I bow down to you. :)
You, sir, are a literary genius.
"chartreuse sombrero"
That shit is going to be on my mind all day.
For 22 yrs i've been haunted by the sight of a woman who walked up to the pharmacy counter and there oozing out of her nose was the most grotesque snot wad i have ever seen.
I literally retched in her face and had to excuse myself.
I could only dream of a chartreuse sombrero or fluffed merkin would have been a day at the beach.
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