life of a cashier Archives - Page 4 of 8 - I Hate Working In Retail

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PART 3: 5 WAYS TO A QUICKER DEATH AT THE CHECKOUT

Category: Life as a Cashier, Retail Stories Tags: , Leave a Comment

JUDGEMENT!

Justin sets aside even more of his valuable time to do something he always loves to do: make even more people feel as badly about themselves as he can

When I first sat down in my manager’s office almost 10 years ago, and explained to her why I should be hired and how I would make a valuable addition to her “team,” I calmly but emphatically explained, on top of being great with people, getting a sense for a person and understanding what they might need, that I was the most patient person I’d ever met, and all of these facts coalesced into me being a tremendous retail associate.

Fast forward all these years, and it’s all still true. I’m the best goddamn retail associate I know. The only difference? I just secretly hate these customers more and more than I used to.

And it is exactly this world weariness I have shared with you time and again, dear reader, the culmination of which you are about to enjoy and embark on a journey for which you will find no lack of gumption, conviction and verisimilitude!

I proudly present the final, triumphant piece to conclude the most epic trilogy of ranting satire every conceived! The pièce de résistance in my finest line of work yet! The Crown Jewel in my development as a comedic writer!

I give you… My masterpiece!

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Ladies and gentleman, I present to you, Public Enemy No. 1! Do not approach or confront this man as he is believed to be distracted, and extremely douchey!

The Crime: 1st Degree Criminal Phone Use

Nothing really says, “you’re just the help and you’re here to act as my personal slave while I treat you with a mild neglect as you ring through my items and bag them, because this call is clearly too important for me to just put on hold while you service me,” quite like someone who’s on the phone the entire time you’re attending to them. It’s about as demeaning as someone can get, short of telling you you’re unimportant, a failure at life, they make more money than you, you aren’t worth their time, and that you were adopted and your parents kept it from you, all while dealing with you in the absolute most minute capacity they possibly can muster.

News Flash, Asshole! This isn’t my only job! I make $40/hr doing commissioned paintings, FOR FUN, while earning a 4-figure a week salary at my primary place of employment!  Do you make that much? No? Then promptly, kindly, and very sincerely, go fuck yourself with that cell phone, you self-important, self-centered, magnanimous piece of shit! You judge me, because I work in retail, then you get The Haymaker. No exceptions!

In talking to those I work with, those who’ve been in similar positions in similar retail ventures, it’s unanimous straight across the board: people hate waiting on someone who’s on the phone. Unless there’s a kidnapper with your child reading you their ransom demands, the President himself, or a surgeon talking you through how to save someone’s life while you do so, then get off phone when you get into my line. Otherwise I’ll cram it down your throat myself.

The Sentence Is: Death by telephone. If there is one thing, one SINGLE thing, that I love in this world,  it is definitely Coca-Cola. However, a fairly close second would probably be “poetic irony.” Just think of it: every time someone comes through your line babbling into their cell phone, they’re automatically brought to a labyrinth rife with deadly traps and perilous dangers, blindfolded, and the only way they can get out is if you guide them, from the other end of the telephone. It’s almost TOO good! Will you talk them into a precipice? Send them into a pack of voracious aardvark? Let them tumble into a hallway of flamethrowers? Oh, siiigh…

Just try not to have too much fun!

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The Crime: Unlawful Use of Welfare

Let me preface this entire section by saying I am in no way, shape, or form trying to inject any sort of political beliefs of my own into this article by remarking on the welfare system. Personally, I do believe drug testing should be mandatory for anyone receiving benefits, but that’s as far as I’ll go. That being said, if you go into a store, chattin’ it up on your brand new iPhone, with a BMW keyring dangling from your keys, then pay for a $10 jar of organic honey with your EBT card and then buy a pack of cigarettes with a $20 bill? Well, I don’t wanna say, “I’d push you off a cliff,” but I most certainly wouldn’t be diving to save your ass if you suddenly lost your footing.

A typical denizen of the retail world. But don't worry! They're putting your tax dollars to good use!

Just like any good thing in this world, the welfare system, which is in place to help those in legitimate and desperate need, is taken advantage of by those who want to take a shortcut or two just to help ease the burden of earning their keep. Ya know, like the rest of us.

Are you kidding me?

Is there a lowlier type of human being than these ingrates? I work my ass off, earning an honest living, in a retail world and elsewhere by working for my family and myself, and haven’t accepted any sort of state aid for myself even though I’ve desperately needed it in the past, and this asshole is paying for his groceries on my dime while helping himself to cigarettes and other treasures in abundance? A state-of-the-art smart phone? Luxury cars? This asshole needs a good ol’ fashioned dose of electroshock therapy… For starters…

Enjoy that organic honey, asshole. I’m paying for it, afterall.

The Sentence Is: Death by impending starvation. People who stand above others and shit on them while they do don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, and don’t deserve mercy while we’re sentencing them accordingly.

In this instance, everyone who abuses the system will be sentenced to watch those they abused live I opulence. All the everyday working folk who slave away at dead end jobs to feed their families and keep food on the table will be gifted the excess food these douchers would have gotten with their state aid, and they get to enjoy it while these welfare abusers watch in abysmal, emaciated agony.

Dark? Sure. Disturbing? Perhaps. Deserving? Absolutely! Try to remember: these people are living large and comfortably off of YOUR hard work and sacrifice. Some people are just plain assholes and should be treated as such. So, let’s do what we have to, play the part of morally superior, and wipe those assholes!

Did I force that one? Maybe, yeah. What can I say? I can be a hemorrhoid.

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The Crime: Abiding Fictional Ransom Demands

The note looked something like this, I'd wager. Only I'm sure it was something I could take less seriously.

There are moments in life you just have to take a step back and stare in awe. Things you didn’t think could ever happen. Things that, by all rights, should never happen. No matter how hard you work, how hard you try, how wide you smile, it will never be enough for some people. You’ll offer any help you can, try and check their items out in the timeliest fashion possible, but it’s not enough. “This store’s always dirty,” or “There’s never enough registers open here,” or “I can never find what I want here,” or “I always spend way too much money here,” or some other comment that’s meant purely to dig at you. Hey, ya know what? DON’T SHOP HERE THEN, YOU MISERABLE, WASPY BITCH! Like, W-T-Fuck?! Should I donate one of my kidneys to you, just for good measure? See if you finally leave the store satisfied? TOO BAD! It’s MY kidney! I NEED IT! YOU CAN’T HAVE IT!

Seriously. Any time someone cops an attitude like this or throws out a barb like that, I just want to ask, “hey, where do you work? So I can come in there and ruin your day for you, too?” Because that’s ALL it is: they’re unhappy and want to make someone else feel badly, too. That’s it. These types of people weren’t hugged enough as children. Either that, or weren’t beaten hard enough by their parents. More likely a toss up between the two. Even though I’m pulling for the latter. In which case, I’m more than happy to pick up the slack.

Case in point: if you’re going to complain, at least let me take the time to fix it for you, otherwise keep it to yourself, or don’t come in at all, because I don’t care how busy you are, how late you are, how important you think your time is, if you’re just going to bitch for the sake of bitching, I’m going to stab you just for the sake of stabbing you.

Maybe. Try me and we’ll find out.

The Sentence Is: Death by preemptive eugenics. At first, I toyed with the idea of letting them continue on in their miserable existence, scraping by without an ounce of happiness, but I realized that meant they’d continue on making the rest of us miserable, and that’s what I’m here to fix! So, I determined we need to suss out this problem at the source. We need to nix these wasp-y little turds before they can grow into wasp-y shitheads. That’s right! I’m talking about eugenics! When they’re born we’ll put them into the Asshole-O-Meter15000 that I’m currently developing, and if they score anywhere between “Ignorant Douche” and “Hypocritical Twat,” it’s over the cliff they go!

What?! Don’t look at me all judgementally! It worked wonders for the ancient Greeks! And the Nazis!

Um… wow.

Ok, point taken.

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The Crime: Failure to Enter the 21st Century

"Oh, the total? Yes, it's $8.56. And then, I'll just need you to sign it. Your full name, yes, Mr. and Mrs. Antiquated Asshole, thank you.

Really? A check? No one pays by check anymore, you prehistoric twat. Get with the times. All you’re doing is holding up the line with your goddamn check-writing nonsense, Mr. and Mrs. Flintstone. In fact, I’ll help you out with this one by giving you a checklist to get yourself up to speed, ok?

1. __ Go to your bank.

2. __Get a debit card.

3. __ Play in traffic.

If you skipped straight to number three and ignored the first two, I wouldn’t be upset with you.

Honest.

The Sentence Is: Death by dinosaur. In honor of their inability to emerge from the stone age, I thought it would appropriate to have them contend with a denizen of their own time that I’m sure they’re quite familiar with: Dreadnoughtus schrani! Let’s let these fools try and survive the 85-foot long, 130,000 pound behemoth!

A little piece of plastic doesn’t seem like such a burden now, does it?

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The Storytellers

For me, and in my opinion, which is the best there is, there’s just nothing worse than someone rambling or trailing off when all you asked is a simple question. I’m just here to bag your groceries, not be your therapist.

“Do you have your Reward’s card?”

“No, I left it out in the car with my mother and two brothers and three sisters and my little pomeranian, Rex, because it’s below 64° outside which means if I don’t leave the heat on then my mother’s bowels will–“

Ok! Ok! I got it! All I needed was a simple, “no.” It’s not a complicated thing. “Yes” or “no,” that’s all I needed, and you couldn’t even handle that. Big surprise.

What could I possibly say that a Belcher child hasn't said for me?

And for Zeus’ sake, keep it short and sweet, please. Please! It’s actually really nice to have a quick little chat sometimes, if it’s not insanely busy, about what you’re making for dinner, something interesting that happened to you, the game, the weather, whatever. But I don’t need to hear about how you’re now living with your mother whom you didn’t really know your entire life and how difficult it’s going to be on you because the rest of your family just wanted to put her in a home but you just couldn’t bear to do that even though she left you and your siblings when you were younger and blah-blah-fuckin’-blah, GET OUT OF MY FACE!!! I don’t need to hear your entire life’s story here, Tolkien! I’m not getting paid by the word! Now get your groceries and get the hell out! Now! And if you hold up my line any longer by standing there at the end of the register and continuing to talk to me while I’m trying to wait on the next customer, I’m going to roundhouse your ass. Chuck Norris style: no hesitation and extreme prejudice.

The Sentence Is: Death by firing squad. Yup. That’s it. These douche bags don’t deserve anything elaborate or even funny. Just shoot these motherfuckers and get it other with.

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And there you have it! One of the greatest writing accomplishments of my entire life, 10 years in the making! I hope you guys enjoyed reading it and following along as much as I enjoyed writing it! And if you laughed at it, loathed it or loved it, I’d love to hear about it, so make sure to leave me a comment saying so! And, best of all, make sure to let me know what other crimes I may have missed that should go punished!

Thank you so much

 

Sourced from totally-biased.com

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Jan
1

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5 MORE WAYS TO ENSURE A QUICK DEATH AT THE CHECKOUTS

Category: Just Funny, Life as a Cashier, Retail Stories Tags: , , Leave a Comment

Death at the Checkout, Part III

Justin sets aside more of his valuable time to do something he always loves to do: make even more people feel badly about themselves

I wish I didn’t have to keep doing it.

I wish people would just get the hint.

I wish a lot of things.

Mostly, I just wish death upon all the people around me who aren’t as smart as I am. And there’s a lot of them, as we learned last time around! Bearing that in mind, because there’s so many ingrates that need to be brought down a peg or two, or even just euthanized or aborted, I’ve decided to have another go at this and leave you guys with more literary gold.

Oh, no, dear reader, don’t even think about thanking me! It’s simply my duty to provide you with such wonderment, such amazement, such awe. That’s right, here’s more nonsense for you guys to enjoy! Make sure you let me know what annoys you in the comments and make sure to give this piece a rating.

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The Crime: 2nd Degree Aggravated Stalking

It's my given name.

Look. Let me make something abundantly clear to you. Ok? I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Let’s keep it that way. I’m just here to bag your shit, and I don’t really need any sort of personalized thanks from you. Or a gold star. Kay? Kay.

These assholes that make sure to read my name tag and say, “hey, thanks, Justin!”  after making constant, diligent, awkward-as-shit eye-contact, and taking hold of their bagged cat litter and Diet Coke make me want to punch a baby. No, literally. Like, strike a newborn infant.

What?! I’m just saying! Use my name when you don’t know me, and there’s a chance you’ll be getting something sharp in your jugular. That’s all!

The Sentence Is: Death by name tag. Imagine, if you will, being strapped down to a large, rotating target sign, your body held in place by uncomfortable leather straps, your arms and legs out to increase your surface area. And across from you is world card throwing champion Ricky Smith, Jr., armed with a bandolier of name tags. Except, the edges have all been honed to a razor’s edge. As you spin, you hear a timer counting down, a crowd chanting in unison to the numbers, getting closer to the start of the show!

Can you imagine all of that? If you can, then you’ve now you’ve got a general idea of what these assholes deserve…

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The Crime: Failure to Produce Proper Materials

This could have been called, “The Hippy Asshole and the Scummy Bagglers.”

That would almost make for a good band name, wouldn’t it? Maybe a punk rock outfit or something… I mean… uh… where was I? Oh, yeah…

The ongoing and living motto for every one of these bags. No, really. I've heard them chanting it before.

Seriously? You had all of five minutes to  set those big, nasty, scummy, dog-hair-covered pieces of shit up on the belt, but instead you sat there and gawked at the Lardassians on the cover of every magazine talking about them losing 20 pounds but looking the same as they always do.

Let me spell it out for you: your shit’s half-bagged. I’m not rebagging it. Do it yourself, you pompous hippy prick. You had time to make sure I had the bags, and if it was that important, you should’ve been on top of it.

Just like me on being on top of your mom last night. Bitch.

The Sentence Is: Death by stoning. Or is that “bagging?” In either case, you know those huge things that come down in an automatic car wash? They spin and they’ve got those things that slap the car and scrub it? Well, picture the whole tunnel part of it being about half the size, and those spinning things have those heavy-ass canvas bags on them, and they just spin and beat the shit out of these pricks as they’re forced to walk through.

You’d be amazed at how often I hear, “I have my own bags!” in a condescending, wasp-y tone from these crotchety asshats. You’d think they’d learn to get their bags up front for us to do our jobs, but no. They constantly berate us for not using bags that they haven’t given to us. Right.

Let them learn the hard way.

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The Crime: 2nd Degree Identity Theft – Abacus Impersonation

Look. I’m not sure how else to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Ok?

You. Are. Not. A. Human. Adding. Machine.

You. Are. A. Moron.

Oh, you have to put a few things back? Sure, I'd love to do that for you! Right after I stab you in the face.

I swear to God, these people think they’re swimming in money, stockpiling every they can and creating a huge mound up over their carriage of groceries, just to find out they’ve only got a $20 bill and need to take almost everything off the order and put everything back. Really? You couldn’t double-check to make sure you had enough? You couldn’t play it conservative and not go overboard by buying four frozen pizzas, four packages of french fries, eight boxes of hot pockets, and a dozen sodas? Cuz now I have to put all of this back, something I shouldn’t have had to do in the first place. I mean, you needed all that shit? Maybe, since I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that it was your EBT card that doesn’t have enough on it, you shouldn’t be eating like a slob in the first place, and shouldn’t be buying junk food at my expense. Since, ya know, I’m working and paying taxes to afford you these groceries.

Maybe try being a little bit more considerate in your future, Mr. Abacus? The same way I’ll be considerate of you and make sure you don’t suffer for too long once I start clubbing you with something heavy. Like an office chair. Or a Buick.

The Sentence Is: Death by giant abacus. No need to get fancy with this one. Just throw these bastards into something that looks like a giant Foosball table, with rails covered in giant, 5-foot wide balls going across at different heights, and the far side goal being their only way out. The material of the beads is the only thing I’m struggling with. We want to make sure we enjoy this, so something on the softer side will insure they’re jostled around enough for us to get our laughs in. Watching the pieces race back and forth, sending them flying, ass over teakettle, as they so very desperately try to reach that goal… the ringer? The goalie rail. He whizzes back forth so quickly that he’s a blur! Meaning yes, you guessed it, they’re never getting out!

Ahhh, bliss…

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The Crime: The Correlation Between Bags and Teeth

Now, this is an odd one. It’s not something that I feel very many of my cohorts have ever picked up on. I may be wrong, but it’s vague and

$5 if you can guess whether his milk is getting bagged or not. Bonus if you can guess whether or not it's getting doubled, as well!

obscure. I’ve noticed, in my travels and research, that there is a direct relation between the number of bags someone needs and the number of teeth they have. Let me break it down for you: if someone walks up to your register in a skeezy, faded denim jacket, with scraggly-ass hair and enough teeth to barely count on two hands, then you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they need their milk and other handled items, such as detergent, in a bag. It’s a given. It goes without saying. It’s a fact of life. These people have to compensate somehow!

It’s cool, though. I can’t really pass judgement. No, no, trust me. I know. You’re walking home and all the way up to the 3rd floor, so you need that milk in a bag. Even though it’s got a working handle. It’s cool. I get it. No, no, no, don’t even bother telling me! I’m all over it. You need everything doubled. Including these two rolls of paper towels? Of course you do! Silly me. How could I not know?

Maybe they’re just doing renovations on their cardboard home and need the extra materials… Which, I guess, would make ME the asshole…

Nahhh!

The Sentence Is: Death by improvised hammer throw. This may end up being my most inspired sentence ever. Basically, they’re at the start of a long track, and have to try to outrun the bagged gallons of milk and water people are using in a hammer throw event. Hammer throw, as you know, is that Olympic event with the ball on a chain that people spin and toss, right? So, the bags  handles are the chain and the gallon of milk is the hammer.

Hey, I said it was inspired, not that it was elaborate. Try telling me it wouldn’t hurt like a bitch to get walloped in the back o’ the skull with a flying gallon of milk!

Ok then! Thought so!

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The Crime: Improper Use of Simple Machine

The Self Scan Register. The World’s 8th Wonder.

When did the Self Scan suddenly require you to be Robert Langdon from The Da Vinci Code to have any sort of success in using them? I swear, every time someone uses one of these things, it’s like they’ve made first contact with the first sign of intelligent alien life and are struggling to decipher what the pale, almond-eyed being is trying to say to them.

You've almost got it... Almost... Just, try one more time?

“Please place item in the bagging area.” Seven simple, plainly spoken words that tell you everything you need to be doing. You scan an item, then set it down. Fucking rocket science. Or, at least, that’s what 75% of the people who use self scans would have you believe, as they stand idly, completely dumbfounded, holding a can of beans in each hand, shaking their head in disgust as they can’t seem to crack the code, the strange voice uttering the same simple phrase, “please place item in the bagging area,” over and over. They track you down and yell for help, “hey! This thing ain’t workin’! It’s like this every time I come over to these things. I don’t know why I use them!” they mutter in disgust. “You ever think maybe you’re the problem then, douche bag?” is what I always feel like asking as I grab the first item they scanned, calmly set it down into the bagging area, and marvel in complete surprise and amazement as they’re then able to continue! Like it’s a bona-fide miracle! The 2nd coming of Christ!

What would you give to be able to slap these bastards right across the face? Seriously.

This is, of course, not even taking into account the people who are just much too important to wait in line, like everyone else, so they hurry over to an empty self scan, ring in their alcohol, and then are disgusted to find that they have to wait for approval. I’d love to be able to hear their thoughts as they walk up to the register. Probably goes something like this:

“Oh, my god! There’s two people in this lane?! Jesus, I don’t have time for this… My husband is a doctor! I shouldn’t have to wait like everyone else! I’m going over here to these things. They can tell how old I am, right? There’s cameras or something in the scanner? Or maybe it just knows?  My husband is a doctor, after all… Shouldn’t have any problem scanning this alcohol through… Wait, what?! I have to wait?! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! I’M GOING TO HANNAFORD’S NEXT TIME!”

More or less. Guarantee it.

The Sentence Is: Death by automated disassembly line. This is a little bit of a curveball, but I think you’re gonna like it!

You know how assembly lines have something move along a conveyor belt, and huge robotic arms come out and add more to whatever it is they’re building, piece-by-piece, all the way down to the end? Well, think of that, except in reverse! It’s really that simple! These assholes are strapped down to a belt in a big, scary industrial plant of some kind, and as they travel along the line, the huge robots and machines take them apart, piece-by-piece. They can’t handle using a simple automated a machine? We’ll see how they like being handled by a not-so-simple automated machine.

I know, I know. I’m a sick son of a bitch.

Good thing I don’t mean any of this

 

Sourced from totally-biased.com

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Jan
1

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5 WAYS TO ENSURE A QUICK DEATH AT THE CHECKOUTS

Category: Just Funny, Life as a Cashier, Retail Stories, Subscriber submissions Tags: , , Leave a Comment

Posted by Ashlei Church via the I Hate Working in Retail Facebook Page

Death at the Checkout, Part II

Justin sets aside some of his valuable time to do something he always loves to do: make other people feel badly about themselves

After taking some time and reading through some of my previous pieces, namely the multiple occasions I’ve mused on customer service, the time I’ve spent belittling the intellectually inferior, and even the portion of my life I’ve spentcatering to my own narcissism, you may think I’m a bit of a jerk, pig-headed, or just a plain old asshole. And you know something? You wouldn’t be entirely wrong…

But what you WOULD be wrong about, is assuming that I don’t like people. Maybe. Because deep down, there’s a sliver of my heart still beating strong. A minute trace of the fuzzy, warm, good-souled human being I used to be. A tiny speck that’s not cold, withered and decayed from working in retail and experiencing the lowest common denominators of the human race. No, I still like to think I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and reserve judgement until I’ve managed to get a better handle on that person as a whole.

Unfortunately, however, I’ve got a world-class bullshit detector and can get a handle on any human being within seconds, so the time someone spends in my vicinity without being judged is usually quite minimal. And in my time working general retail, I’ve been exposed to some of the most vile, heinous, cretinous types of human beings ever assembled. A pack of genetic ingrates so repugnant, repulsive and revolting that they ought to be fed, kicking and screaming, to a pack of rabid wombats. A bunch of mutants so abhorrent, so abominable, so atrocious to look at that even their mothers nicknamed them, “The little abortion that should’ve been.”

So… Naturally, I’m gonna spend some of my valuable time talking about some of them, some of the contemptible crimes they commit, and the swath of punitive penance they must pay in recompense for such putrid proceedings. With the overwhelming response I got from family, friends, co-workers and cohorts, I was determined that this could be so much more than just a quick rant, and after a lot of deliberation, I decided to break this article down into three separate parts! I’ll be releasing one part a week over the next three weeks, so make sure to check back for them if you enjoy this piece! And with that, I leave you to your fate… Journey on if you dare, dear Reader, to get a better understanding of Life in the Retail World!

Let me just take a minute and also make note that these are not numbered and are in no particular order!

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The Crime: 1st Degree Belt Offense

There’s nothing quite like having someone shit all over your common sense. One of the most frequent ways this occurs in the retail world is when customers will wait a few feet back from your scanner, holding their groceries back for dear life while the evil, ravenous belt pulls their items ever closer to a certain death!

Or, ya know, just towards the cashier, who’s waiting on another person but clearly saw the two foot gap between orders and knows when to stop scanning. But, no! They couldn’t have seen it! A huge black hole between items… Nope. It’s invisible!

And don’t even get me started on the assholes who dump their change out on the belt. You hold your hand out, in plain view, but they still manage to miss placing that veritable mountain of change into your palm and lazily spill it all over the belt… Talk about someone in need of a red-hot poker in their ass…

And I’m not going to talk about the assholes who leave their full basket there for you to dig all their groceries out of… ugh…

The Sentence Is: Death by conveyor belt. That’s right! Try and picture a huge, 30 foot long treadmill, going at about 30 mph, with boxes, wooden crates, steel drums, all kinds of obstructions. Maybe even bars going across the walking space, anything to make it more exciting to watch! And what’s at the end of this conveyor belt? Why, the best part of this morbid game: nothing but a typical open lava pit! Could it get any better than watching these assholes struggle to jump over and avoid all the obstacles on the belt, only to tumble ass-over-tea-kettle and fly towards the inevitable end? No. No, dear reader, it could not.

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The Crime: 3rd Degree Superannuation

“Why, I remember when everything was a nickel…”

Oh, really, Grandpa? Back when the Earth was still flat and the Bubonic Plague was still running rampant? Get over it! Nothing’s a nickel anymore! Except for my foot in your ass. In fact, it’s on sale, with free samples. So, bend over and get ready for yours!

We’re in the middle of a goddamned Great Depression, asshole, join the club! Everyone pays a ton of money for their shit these days, and short of you being the Ghost or reincarnation of George Carlin, I’d STILL be charging you exactly what the register is telling me to charge you. Care to venture a guess as to why? BECAUSE I DON’T MAKE THE GODDAMN PRICES!!! But, no, go ahead and complain about it some more, cuz I think it’ll change things, you geriatric old prick. No, really. Go ahead. Keep going. Please. I’d love it if you did.

Just gives me more of an excuse to wrap you in a sheet.

The Sentence Is: Death by spare change. And lots of it. Remember that scene in Full Metal Jacket? Where they put a bar of soap in a towel and proceed to beat the shit out of Pyle? Picture that, except it’ll be nickels and quarters instead of bars of soap, and instead of towels it’ll be pillow-cases. Something like that. Let’s see if that gets through to them, shall we?

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The Crime: 2nd Degree Grandstanding

Really? Really, you condescending, ignorant douche?! REALLY?! I’m in here, stuck behind this register, and you’re going to go through my line and let me know how nice it is outside?

Fuck. You.

Seriously.

The Sentence Is: Death by exposure. Well then, they’re so happy it’s so nice outside, huh? They’re so ecstatic they get to enjoy the sun and so enthralled with the bright blue sky? That’s great! If they want to see the sun and the bright blue sky, then let’s drop their ass right in the middle of the 3,000-mile wide Sahara. Let’s see how much they want to enjoy the sun and the great outdoors then. What would really add to it and make it appropriate would be to follow them around in an RV, with the sides retrofitted with massive glass windows that encompass all sides of the vehicle, so they can watch me relax and sip ice-cold water in the air-conditioned, dimly lit space…

I mean, fair’s fair here. I’m just talking about justice… Ya know… for them uh… telling me it’s nice outside… Uhh…

Ok, so… I MAY need some therapy… A little. If any.

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The Crime: 2nd Degree Aggressive Presentation

Christ, I’m not even going to get started on how irritating this is. These self-conscious pricks who force their ID down your throat for their Smirnoff Ices and O’Douls Non-Alcoholic Beer.

Dude. Old Man Jenkins. You are old. I do NOT need to see your ID to know you’re over 30, let alone over 52, which your ID says you are. Your shit’s as gray as the summer sky in Seattle. Where it rains perpetually. Not to mention, with those deep crags in your face, I started having PTSD-like flashbacks of riding a donkey on a canyon tour. Next time, don’t waste my time and keep it in your pants.

Sentiments I wish your father had shared.

The Sentence Is: Death by mistaken identity. Since they’re so insistent on cramming their IDs down our throats, I think it’s only fair that they’re forced to take a sabotaged trip out of the country. Perhaps to some hostile Middle Eastern nation that doesn’t take kindly to Americans as it is, but when their passport is flagged as wanted by Interpol for crimes against that Middle Eastern nation? Whew! Not good…

Let’s just say, they probably won’t be seeing the sun again any time soon. If ever. And the time they’ll be spending with the lovely, polite interrogator… Well, it’ll probably involve a rusty knife, some pliers, a car battery, some alligator clips, rusty old wire, and some peeled back fingernails…

Yeesh. Guess they’ll think twice before whipping out that ID next time around, huh? We’ll call this one: “lesson learned.”

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The Crime: 3rd Degree Unlawful Use of Person

I know I’m not the only one who’s experienced it. I’m not the only one who hates it. I’m not the only one who wants to stab someone in the eyes when they do it to me.

Someone walks into the store, and even though you’re clearly doing something like ringing in items on a register, fervently bagging, racing between self scans, or even just scratching your ass, they beeline it straight for you and blurt out a question with such urgency and desperation that you fear they may collapse like Marathon did. But, Lo and behold, what is it you usually get instead?

“Where’s the mayonnaise?!”

You stare in disbelief. If they’d have asked for the toilet paper then you would’ve at least understood. But, seriously? Mayo? They couldn’t take the 15 seconds to walk across a couple of aisles while checking the overhead signs? They had to just ask someone? Is their situation so dire, so dismal without mayo that they had to forego the complexities and complications of READING A HANGING SIGN OVER EVERY AISLE and just ask someone who was already busy?

Almost makes you wish Vlad Tepes III were still around, doesn’t it?

The Sentence Is: Death by labyrinth. Since they can’t be bothered to slow their shit down and make rational, logical decisions (like doing things for themselves, the same things hundreds of other people do throughout the day) then they need to be forced to do so. Put them in a labyrinth, an endless series of corridors, twisting and turning, peppered with unmarked doors throughout. What’s behind those doors? Well, therein lies all the fun! Since they couldn’t be bothered to just look for something when it was simple, now they have to play a deadly game of Russian Roulette! Will it be freedom behind the door? A hungry lion? Complete darkness? Maybe an iron maiden? A bottomless cliff? Freedom? A room full of wasps? Flying javelins? Freedom? Flamethrowers? Who knows?! And that’s what make it so fun!

Right? Right?!

…guys?

Sourced from totally-biased.com and the I Hate Working in Retail Facebook Page

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