Spreading the Plague of Stupidity

Greetings everyone. I have a particularly unsettling story today, involving a phenomenon that greatly plagues our society: the presence of germs, human filth, and stupidity. Now, I have come to grudgingly accept the fact that despite what they teach you in kindergarden, most people, for reasons unbeknownst to me, absolutely refuse to cover their mouths as they hack up phlegm. Gross, yes, but nothing a little hand sanitizer and some heavy doses of vitamin C won't fix. Today was different, however.

Due to an impending visit from corporate, everyone in the store was bustling around trying to make every department as clean as possible. I, however, found the store to be full of particularly nasty people today, as if they felt the need to come out in hordes to counteract our storewide cleanliness. I had just arrived this morning when a woman and her bratty little offspring came through my line. It was only after the little fucker had thrown his purchase at my face that I noticed he had a raging case of pink eye.

Now, I understand pink eye happens. I myself had it as a child. However, I found myself wondering, since when is it ok to bring your infected offspring to a store that is frequented by hundreds of people every day? When I had pink eye, I stayed home from school and locked away from society, wearing an eye patch and watching Disney films like some invalid pirate. Minus the scurvy, of course. I also understand that pink eye can be caused by particles of feces entering the eye. If Junior wants to finger-paint with his own shit, more power to him! I just don't want any part of it.

After picking up the toy they were buying by its corner with the tips of my fingers and tossing it into a bag, the kid starts molesting EVERYTHING. His infected eye, candy, back to his eye, the counter, back to his eye again, the credit card machine...I shot the mother, as well as her spawn, one of my famous death glares, but it went unnoticed. The mother was too busy giggling with the son, as if giving the diabetic cashier with the compromised immune system and no health insurance until May (a.k.a. ME) pink eye was just some huge fucking joke. Hilarious.
"Now now, I told you not to touch anything, silly!" the mother cooed, while the little fucker laughed and continued rubbing his infection all over my card reader.

After they left, I made a huge spectacle of disinfecting every inch of my register. I proceeded to spend the remainder of my shift trying to figure out whether the sudden itching I felt in my right eye was just my makeup, or the start of pink eye. So far so good, but you can never be too careful, especially around individuals plagued with both disease and stupidity. I'm just grateful every day that stupidity isn't contagious, for it is a dangerous epidemic and I would've fallen victim long ago due to overexposure.

Glad to be of service?

Greetings, all. In honor of the unseasonably hot weather we've been having, I figured today was a prime opportunity to address a phenomenon that occurs quite frequently in my daily life: being hit on by creepy old crusty fuckers.

Due to the weather, I spent the day dutifully enduring a fairly common, run-of-the-mill tactic that your more simple-minded characters will use. Our building's air conditioning system is, to put it nicely, a piece of shit. However, that has nothing to do with why the store was so hot today. No, folks, it's me. Apparently my hotness broke the AC. Ummm, my bad?
I must've really done a number on that damn air conditioner, because I heard about it from quite a few of our fine gentleman customers today. Maybe they should call corporate?

As I said though, that sort of banter is fairly common, so I've actually grown accustomed to it, and even mulled over some witty responses in my head, none of them appropriate for the workplace. However, sometimes there are those extra special customers who break the mold, and I had the pleasure of experiencing one of these delightful creatures a few weeks back.

It's a slow Saturday, early afternoon, when I am approached by a particularly crusty individual. Yes, he resembled a warthog, and yes, his hands were in a perpetual state of filth, but I decided to be kind to the less fortunate and make every attempt to be friendly.
That is, until he started looking me up and down with a large, toothless smile while licking his lips hungrily.
"Mmmm, the good lord sure blessed you!" he drawls, while still clearly attempting to undress me with his squinty little eyes. I shoot him my most scathing death glare, but it makes no difference - unless my eyes are on my tits, he's not going to notice them.
I finish scanning his purchases as he continues to rape me with his eyes, and as he leaves he turned to me and winks.
"Your tits just made my day," he purrs, giving me one last good sweep with his gaze before turning away.
"Glad to be of service!" I call after him sarcastically, but again, it doesn't matter. Unless my tits are talking, he won't hear a word.

Concerning the elderly...

Good afternoon! I'm off today, so I thought this would be a good time to begin delving into my collection of stories. Today's topic? The elderly.

Before I begin, I would like to add the disclaimer that I'm not being age-ist here. There are plenty of truly delightful elderly characters who come through my line on a daily basis - the little old ladies buying cat food who chat with me about the names, eating habits, and markings of every cat they've ever had. The little old men who give me car advice, and the ancient couples who have been together since the depression and are still miraculously tolerant of each other. These people are great, but it wouldn't be southern Indiana if there weren't a plethora of crazies thrown into the mix.

I discovered pretty quickly that not all old people are the sweet, adorable grandparent-y types. In fact, most of them probably have no business being out in society at all. A majority of them don't say a word to me during the entire transaction, then turn around and complain to my supervisor that I was "rude" and didn't pay them enough attention. Oh, how I loathe hypocrites. Then there are people like the woman who told me I had beautiful hands and had better enjoy them before they are destroyed by arthritis. Or those who are so old they can't talk, or even close their mouth all the way. If I'm ever in this position, I think I'd prefer to be off somewhere meeting my maker instead of spending my time depressing innocent bystanders in Hell Mart. But that's just me.

Then there are the people who just break the mold, by literally shattering it to pieces. I encountered one such couple about a month ago. It's a Sunday night, I'm the only cashier, and the store is empty, when I am approached by an elderly couple. 
"Hello, how are you tonight?" I ask, in a futile attempt to be friendly.
Silence. Why am I not surprised?

This couple was one of the most foreboding sights I had seen in awhile. They were both stick-thin, with shriveled little faces, dressed in all black, and looked as if they had just come from church. The woman's hair looked like a giant bird of prey sitting atop her head, just itching to peck my heathenish heart out of my chest. As they regarded me it was almost as if they could smell the sin wafting off me in waves, and I'm pretty sure the woman made a face as she looked at my name tag, as if having larger-than-average cleavage automatically makes me hell-bound.

Anyway, you get the picture. Which is why I was so shocked to look down and see that their entire purchase consisted of three - count 'em, THREE - boxes of KY Jelly. I was about to tell them, "Hey, we DO have something in common after all!" but decided it would be wisest to hold my tongue, lest the woman's bird-of-prey hair decided to attack me.

They pay me minimum wage, plus stories...

Greetings, all.

After countless friends and coworkers heard my heinous stories about my experiences as a cashier and told me I should be blogging, I decided it's time to start. I need a place to vent about my dealings with the general public, so here it is. 

Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Sam, a pre-nursing college student who has worked in customer service since I was 15. I've worked a variety of jobs, from a pharmacy technician to a seating hostess in a chain restaurant, but by far the most entertaining has been at a national department store that wishes to remain anonymous. On a bad day I might refer to it as "Hell Mart", but overall it's a good place to work. It was my first job, and I recently came back to pay my way through college. My coworkers are awesome, as are my bosses, and being there is enjoyable overall, as far as retail jobs go. The only element that really irks me and often makes me want to punch of a bag of puppies are the customers. Yep, that's right - I work in customer service, and I can't stand most customers. It is what it is. 

Don't get me wrong, there are the occasional customers who are sweet and obliging enough to brighten your entire day and cause you to regain even a shred of faith in humanity. But these individuals are few and far between, at least in my checkout lane. Because working in customer service has taught me three crucial tidbits of information:
1. Despite what they shove down your throat in the plethora of training videos you are subjected to, the customer is NOT always right. In fact, nine times of out ten they are absolutely fucking WRONG.

2. Whoever came up with the saying that there is no such thing as a stupid question CLEARLY never worked in customer service. I lost all faith in that old adage around the hundredth time someone asked me what a zip code is.

3. Finally, people are batshit insane. Some of them hide it well, but it is a universal truth that I am grudgingly coming to accept. 

These three truths will be proven time and time again in the stories I have to share. Trust me, there are plenty. But I'll save those for another day- after all, I have homework to finish so I don't end up working in customer service forever. :)