Question: When bitten by a brown recluse spider, what should you do?
A. Go to the emergency room and hope they can save your limb, or
B. Walk around Hellmart with a festering wound attempting to steal CDs and money.
For one brilliant bastard I encountered this evening, his choice was B.
The level of stupidity some individuals are able to achieve continues to astound me. This particular creature sauntered up to the pharmacy counter fairly late in the evening, and I could tell right away that he was not someone I wanted to interact with. We will henceforth lovingly refer to him as "Spiderfreak". He was portly, with slimy, curly blond hair and a vacant expression. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sides cut open to reveal his heaving gut, and his odor was less than appealing.
"I need help with a spider bite on my leg," Spiderfreak drawled, so the pharmacist and I stepped out to take a look.
Upon first glance, it was quite obvious that this fucker had been bitten by a brown recluse spider, which is serious business. They're brown. They're reclusive. And their venom causes flesh to rot, often leading to massive craters and sometimes even removal of limbs. Spiderfreak's wound was large, deep, and still quite bloody, with puffy, swollen skin starting to cover his entire calf.
"You should probably go the emergency room, like, NOW," I say, incredulous that I even have to propose this idea to him.
"I went to the hospital and I'm on antibiotics," he drawls, making sure to glance at my chest for just a little too long as I stand back up.
BULL SHIT. I guarantee any self-respecting hospital would wrap the wound in gauze and not allow him to walk around letting it fester. But clearly this creature lacks any form of rational common sense - instead of taking our advice to clean the wound with hydrogen peroxide, he leaves without buying anything.
Ten minutes later, we are informed that Spiderfreak actually attempted to steal some merchandise and swindle money from people working at the service desk. This is when it dawns on me: I've interacted with this vermin before!
One afternoon over the summer, I was working at the front desk when the infamous Spiderfreak approached. He heaved his meaty arms up over the counter and said in a dull voice, "Umm, I just put a twenty in the vending machine and it won't give it back. I need a refund."
Now, it's not uncommon for customers to receive a refund for up to $2. However, I, unlike Spiderfreak, am not an idiot.
"There are a couple things wrong with your allegation," I say, "with probably the most important being that no vending machine, except perhaps ones dispensing iPods, will accept a twenty dollar bill."
"Oh. Uhh..." Spiderfreak is silent for a moment. Then he leans in closer. "Look. I need to get to Indianapolis tonight. Can I just have a ten instead?"
I regard him incredulously for a moment, thinking surely he must be joking, but those beady little eyes are serious.
"I can't just reach into my drawer and hand you money," I explain as condescendingly as I can, then whisper, "That kind of defeats the purpose of a retail store."
He glares for a moment before turning stalking out the door.
Spiderfreak attempted this several more times with different employees, each time to no avail. One might think his recent spider bite could give him superhuman thievery skills, or even just above-average intelligence, but the CDs he failed to steal today say otherwise.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Extreme Couponing: A Public Service Announcement
Greetings everyone! It has been far too long, and since I worked a grueling 8-hour shift at the cash registers yesterday, I was reminded of the many ways in which ways people are capable of pissing me off. During my shift yesterday, I fell victim to about three different transactions involving women who refer to themselves as "extreme couponers". In my opinion, this was three too many. This despicable mental disorder has gone out of control, and I feel obligated to share this public service announcement with the world. Only through awareness (and aggressive therapy) can we defeat this terrible disorder.
EXTREME COUPONING. This phenomenon is sweeping the nation and affecting overweight, depressed housewives everywhere who are so dissatisfied with their lives they literally have nothing better to do than repeatedly save 75 cents on a bottle of hand soap. Now, don't get me wrong - I am all for clipping a few coupons out of newspaper ads on a Sunday afternoon and going out for a nice, slightly cheaper shopping trip. However, it is beyond me how this menial task turned into a nationwide hobby.
It all started, as many asinine fads do, with a television show. However, let me explain something to you. The show "Extreme Couponing" is just like "Extreme Hoarders" - it is a documentary TLC produced to showcase a DISORDER. This is not a hot new trend, folks. It doesn't significantly improve one's quality of life, nor does it do anything awesome, like cure cancer. It's a form of ACUTE MENTAL ILLNESS.
My first encounter with an extreme couponer involved a woman who wasted about 20 minutes of my life doing about 35 separate transactions, each involving one bottle of hand soap and a dollar-off coupon. During this waste of life, I was treated to her entire fucking life story about how her sister loves this scent, so she's getting her ten bottles, and her mother loves this scent, and this soap is great for her cuticles, and blah-de-fucking-blah.
My encounter today was particularly nasty. She comes to my lane with a cartload of Nabisco cookies and 90-calorie Skinny Cow chocolate pellets. Seems like a bit of an oxymoron to me, but what do I know? Seriously though, what kind of normal, mentally-stable person buys a cartload of that shit? After piling her loot on my counter, she heaves a bible-sized stack of coupons into my hands. She literally has a coupon for every single item she purchased, and doesn't hesitate to remind me that it's "double coupon week" and everything should be doubled.
To make a long story short, her twenty-eight dollar purchase is brought down to a grand total of $3.17. Sounds like the bargain of the century to me, but of course that's not enough.
"Where's my $3 coupon?" she barks at me.
"Excuse me?" I say dubiously. It doesn't sound like I'm speaking to someone who's mentally sound, and that's because I'm not.
"I bought ten Nabisco products. The ad said if I did that your register would take $3 off." She is starting to literally panic. Sweat is beading on her forehead, and her eyes are darting nervously. "My mom and sister and aunt all did it earlier, and they all got $3 coupons."
"Do you have the ad that advertises this?" I ask her.
"NO," she snaps defensively, "but it worked for them earlier. It's supposed to. That's how it works."
"I mean, if the register doesn't print anything, there's really not anything I can do without documentation," I say firmly.
"I'm not leaving here without my $3 taken off," she says frantically. Oh, is that so? What are you going to do, cut my jugular with your massive stack of coupons? Take $3 in blood?
"Count them," she says frantically. "Count the coupons you scanned, and count how many items I have. I must've been off somewhere. There needs to be a $3 coupon."
After wasting about 25 minutes counting and re-counting everything, the only conclusive evidence I found is that she is batshit fucking insane. Surprise!
I have decided that when I become rich and famous, my blog is syndicated, and I am able to have Lewis Black-esque rants on national television about things that piss me off, I will donate some of my riches to build a rehab center for both extreme couponers and the cashiers they have scarred. Just remember, everyone: together, we can defeat this tragic disorder.
EXTREME COUPONING. This phenomenon is sweeping the nation and affecting overweight, depressed housewives everywhere who are so dissatisfied with their lives they literally have nothing better to do than repeatedly save 75 cents on a bottle of hand soap. Now, don't get me wrong - I am all for clipping a few coupons out of newspaper ads on a Sunday afternoon and going out for a nice, slightly cheaper shopping trip. However, it is beyond me how this menial task turned into a nationwide hobby.
It all started, as many asinine fads do, with a television show. However, let me explain something to you. The show "Extreme Couponing" is just like "Extreme Hoarders" - it is a documentary TLC produced to showcase a DISORDER. This is not a hot new trend, folks. It doesn't significantly improve one's quality of life, nor does it do anything awesome, like cure cancer. It's a form of ACUTE MENTAL ILLNESS.
My first encounter with an extreme couponer involved a woman who wasted about 20 minutes of my life doing about 35 separate transactions, each involving one bottle of hand soap and a dollar-off coupon. During this waste of life, I was treated to her entire fucking life story about how her sister loves this scent, so she's getting her ten bottles, and her mother loves this scent, and this soap is great for her cuticles, and blah-de-fucking-blah.
My encounter today was particularly nasty. She comes to my lane with a cartload of Nabisco cookies and 90-calorie Skinny Cow chocolate pellets. Seems like a bit of an oxymoron to me, but what do I know? Seriously though, what kind of normal, mentally-stable person buys a cartload of that shit? After piling her loot on my counter, she heaves a bible-sized stack of coupons into my hands. She literally has a coupon for every single item she purchased, and doesn't hesitate to remind me that it's "double coupon week" and everything should be doubled.
To make a long story short, her twenty-eight dollar purchase is brought down to a grand total of $3.17. Sounds like the bargain of the century to me, but of course that's not enough.
"Where's my $3 coupon?" she barks at me.
"Excuse me?" I say dubiously. It doesn't sound like I'm speaking to someone who's mentally sound, and that's because I'm not.
"I bought ten Nabisco products. The ad said if I did that your register would take $3 off." She is starting to literally panic. Sweat is beading on her forehead, and her eyes are darting nervously. "My mom and sister and aunt all did it earlier, and they all got $3 coupons."
"Do you have the ad that advertises this?" I ask her.
"NO," she snaps defensively, "but it worked for them earlier. It's supposed to. That's how it works."
"I mean, if the register doesn't print anything, there's really not anything I can do without documentation," I say firmly.
"I'm not leaving here without my $3 taken off," she says frantically. Oh, is that so? What are you going to do, cut my jugular with your massive stack of coupons? Take $3 in blood?
"Count them," she says frantically. "Count the coupons you scanned, and count how many items I have. I must've been off somewhere. There needs to be a $3 coupon."
After wasting about 25 minutes counting and re-counting everything, the only conclusive evidence I found is that she is batshit fucking insane. Surprise!
I have decided that when I become rich and famous, my blog is syndicated, and I am able to have Lewis Black-esque rants on national television about things that piss me off, I will donate some of my riches to build a rehab center for both extreme couponers and the cashiers they have scarred. Just remember, everyone: together, we can defeat this tragic disorder.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
I thought I'd be safe behind the pharmacy glass...
Greetings everyone! Once again, I have neglected my blog, but I have an assload of stories, and since I finished my test early and have a couple hours before my next class, I figured it was high time I updated this thing.
As many of my friends and coworkers know, I have since transferred from the cash registers to the pharmacy. It's fitting, considering I'm pursuing a career in nursing and not retail customer service. Another side benefit of working in the pharmacy is the large glass window that runs the length of the room, successfully blocking me from creepers and minimizing my contact with the general public that I love so dearly. I was anticipating a steep decline in the amount of creepers I would encounter, but as you will see in these two stories I have to share, I was gravely mistaken.
The first creature I will discuss is at the pharmacy on almost a daily basis picking up meds for his ailing mother. A noble act, certainly, but that does not excuse his overall vileness, nor the fact that he is probably living in her basement, mooching off her social security while surviving on Mountain Dew and WOW. He is a portly little man, maybe 40, who is balding yet still somehow insists on wearing a long, scaly ponytail down his back. It's not as epic as Devin Townsend's skullet, but it's close. He comes up to the window with his beady little eyes and stares intently while I gather his prescriptions. WHY do they always have to stare?
When I return to the register, he regards me deeply, then says in an intense, ominous tone, "It's not just you, is it?"
"Excuse me?" I say, giving him my surliest death glare.
"You have a cat hair on your shirt," he replies creepily. "You have a furry friend at home, don't you?"
"You could say that," I reply sarcastically, while he continues to stare.
SERIOUSLY? What the fuck? Somehow, the freak show managed to find me in the pharmacy. I think I'd be a little pissy with Mommy, who clearly failed in teaching him how to socialize in society.
The next freakazoid is (unfortunately) another regular at the pharmacy window. It's nearing the end of the night after a frightfully busy day, and I'm about at my wit's end when an enormous Jamaican woman wearing what looks like Jerry Seinfeld's puffy shirt with track pants appears at the window. She's getting about $500 worth of tramadol, a pain medication, for roughly eighteen bucks. I don't know about you, but that sounds like a hell of a bargain to me.
When I tell her the price, she spazzes out on me. "I don't have a copay!" she snarls. "I don't have to pay anything!"
"That's not what the insurance company says, ma'am," I say, trying my hardest not to reach through the window and smack her obviously fake red wig off her thick head. "Honestly, that's not a bad copay..."
"NO! I don't pay anything! I don't have any money with me and I need my medicine tonight. I'll get sick, and you really don't want that to happen," she roars threateningly. Oh, I see. She's one of those.
I pretend to mess around on the computer, even though there is nothing I can do. "Just give them to me," she says. "I don't have money with me because I never pay anything."
"Ma'am, I can't just give you a narcotic," I say as condescendingly as possible. "And because I'm not the decision-making power of your insurance company, I can't do anything."
At this point she has puffed herself up to literally fill the entire pick-up window. There is a line of people behind her, but there's no way in hell they're getting through the wall of Jamaican fury.
"Can you just loan me thirty bucks?" she asks me quietly. "I need my medicine tonight."
At this point, all I can do is laugh in her face. "Seriously? You know I can't do that. Plus, I work at Hellmart. Do I look like I have money?"
She tried this shit with the pharmacist, who at this point was cowering in the corner trying to make me deal with her. I all but grabbed him by the balls and threw him at her while I busily started filling prescriptions.
When she didn't get her way, shit got ugly. She managed to puff herself up even more, regarded us both with rage, and began cursing in some bizarre language.
Yep, that's right. I just got straight-up voo-doo'd.
If I end up dying some horrific death, or my organs fall out or something, tell my family and friends I love them dearly, and please make sure the "furry friend" I obviously have at home gets taken care of.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
It's an Amish thing...
Hey everyone. As I sit here at Denny's because my internet is dead at my apartment, I figured I should enlighten everyone with updates about America's favorite little Amish boy.
So, it didn't take long after his first few texts for him to inform me that he had an "exciting job opportunity" for me. Oh shit, the moment I've been waiting for! I had several hunches about what it could be... a missionary, perhaps? A well-paid sex slave? However, he wasn't planning to divulge this information without a fight.
"What kind of work is it?" I asked, legitimately curious.
"Umm...it's hard to explain in a text. It might confuse you. Can we meet up for dinner sometime and I'll just show you?"
Is this kid serious? I mean, I'm sure he's lived a sheltered life, but are you fucking kidding me? There have been three murders and cases of missing persons in Bloomington this week alone. Hell. No.
"Why don't you just tell me?" I ask. "I mean, I have a near-genius IQ. I think I can handle whatever you're trying to explain."
Well, as I'm sure you can imagine, that got me nowhere. I finally got him to divulge a little bit of what he does - he gets paid to recruit people to his "team" and sell things for companies. After telling my tale to a coworker, they approached what is probably the most likely story: he works for Amway.
Amway, which is notorious for scandals and utilizing "cult-like" techniques to recruit and maintain its distributors. Oh hot damn. Flypaper for freaks strikes again.
We actually had a reasonably pleasant conversation, until he would continue bringing up the fact that this cult of his changed his life and that I should join him in his revelries.
At this point, I felt obligated to tell him that I'm about a hundred and fifty percent sure that I'm not his type. I told him, in not quite so many words, that cults aren't my thing, and that I'm a filthy sinner: I have eight piercings, two tattoos, I curse like a sailor, I'm all for premarital sex...
But that's ok, he says. We can still be friends.
Praise the lord.
So, it didn't take long after his first few texts for him to inform me that he had an "exciting job opportunity" for me. Oh shit, the moment I've been waiting for! I had several hunches about what it could be... a missionary, perhaps? A well-paid sex slave? However, he wasn't planning to divulge this information without a fight.
"What kind of work is it?" I asked, legitimately curious.
"Umm...it's hard to explain in a text. It might confuse you. Can we meet up for dinner sometime and I'll just show you?"
Is this kid serious? I mean, I'm sure he's lived a sheltered life, but are you fucking kidding me? There have been three murders and cases of missing persons in Bloomington this week alone. Hell. No.
"Why don't you just tell me?" I ask. "I mean, I have a near-genius IQ. I think I can handle whatever you're trying to explain."
Well, as I'm sure you can imagine, that got me nowhere. I finally got him to divulge a little bit of what he does - he gets paid to recruit people to his "team" and sell things for companies. After telling my tale to a coworker, they approached what is probably the most likely story: he works for Amway.
Amway, which is notorious for scandals and utilizing "cult-like" techniques to recruit and maintain its distributors. Oh hot damn. Flypaper for freaks strikes again.
We actually had a reasonably pleasant conversation, until he would continue bringing up the fact that this cult of his changed his life and that I should join him in his revelries.
At this point, I felt obligated to tell him that I'm about a hundred and fifty percent sure that I'm not his type. I told him, in not quite so many words, that cults aren't my thing, and that I'm a filthy sinner: I have eight piercings, two tattoos, I curse like a sailor, I'm all for premarital sex...
But that's ok, he says. We can still be friends.
Praise the lord.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Take me to your leader...
Tonight, a hot Amish guy asked me for my number so he could "shoot me a text".
Wow. There are so many things that don't fit in that sentence, I don't even know which one to address first.
What fits even less than that sentence is that I actually gave it to him. He was lacking those god-awful mutton chops, which definitely gave him points in my book. I was honestly so shocked that some Amish motherfucker was requesting to "shoot me a text" that how could I not give him my number, at least for the sake of research and entertaining blog stories. Keeping in mind, of course, that the last time one of my coworkers conversed with Mennonites, the men basically asked her to be their sex slave while the women hid merchandise in their skirts.
He's been "shooting" me texts all night, and I haven't quite figured out whether he wants me to become his sex slave or not. He seems pleasant, although I don't know what we'll have to talk about, seeing as I'm an Atheist who's not into the whole "sex slave for God" thing . Only time will tell, and I will definitely warn you all if my blog must be discontinued due to a forced change in occupation.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Pet Peeves of Customer Service: Part 1
Hello again! It's been a long day and I am feeling particularly ranty, so I figured now was an excellent time to begin my list of my biggest customer service pet peeves. I haven't been posting much lately anyway, so it's high time I caught up.
Trust me , I have collected an exorbitant amount of these over the years, so I'll break my list down into different segments of 5 peeves per post. They aren't in any particular order - I tried, but attempting to rank these into a list of which ones irritate me the most has proven to be too difficult a challenge. So sit back and enjoy - if you've ever worked customer service, I'm sure you'll commiserate. If you haven't, NEVER act like this, because if you do, I'll probably blog about you, and it probably won't be pretty.
But anyway, without further ado, the first portion of my list:
1. Customers who come up to me on their cell phones, broadcasting to the world about how Bubby got a new tractor, or how Papaw's hemorrhoids are healing. That's fantastic - tell Bubby I said congratulations, and give Papaw my condolences - but seriously, there are few things more rude than this. I will blatantly refuse to speak to anyone who comes up to me on a cell phone - if you can't give me the courtesy of hanging up your phone, I can't give you the courtesy of speaking to you. Bubby and Papaw can wait five minutes until you're done at the register.
2. "Mart Karts" and the destruction they cause. It's not mother-fucking bumper cars, so the point is NOT to crash into as many displays as you can. Also, nine times out ten they're not disabled, they're just fat. Get out of the damn scooter and walk - trust me, you need it.
3. Those people who pull their food stamp card out of their ridiculously huge Prada bag, then proceed to drive away in their even more ridiculously huge Hummer.
4. Those people who stand there and watch me painstakingly bag their entire order of cumbersome, difficult objects, only to say at the end, "Oh, that's okay, I don't need a bag." Well, you know what? You're going to take the bag, and you're going to like it. Also, you know those people who put everything in a plastic bag, which is then put inside their "green" cloth grocery bag, thus defeating the purpose of said "green" bag? Yeah, I don't like them either.
5. Wet money, sock money, bra money, jock strap money... you get the picture. Many perfectly lovely cows have sacrificed their lives to provide leather to make wallets. We sell plenty here in our store at a reasonable price, so there is no reason in the world why one should use their sweaty sock, bra, or crotch as a currency holder. You're at a department store, not a strip club.
That's all for now - I've gotten it out of my system for the moment - but there are plenty more where those came from, so stay tuned. :)
Trust me , I have collected an exorbitant amount of these over the years, so I'll break my list down into different segments of 5 peeves per post. They aren't in any particular order - I tried, but attempting to rank these into a list of which ones irritate me the most has proven to be too difficult a challenge. So sit back and enjoy - if you've ever worked customer service, I'm sure you'll commiserate. If you haven't, NEVER act like this, because if you do, I'll probably blog about you, and it probably won't be pretty.
But anyway, without further ado, the first portion of my list:
1. Customers who come up to me on their cell phones, broadcasting to the world about how Bubby got a new tractor, or how Papaw's hemorrhoids are healing. That's fantastic - tell Bubby I said congratulations, and give Papaw my condolences - but seriously, there are few things more rude than this. I will blatantly refuse to speak to anyone who comes up to me on a cell phone - if you can't give me the courtesy of hanging up your phone, I can't give you the courtesy of speaking to you. Bubby and Papaw can wait five minutes until you're done at the register.
2. "Mart Karts" and the destruction they cause. It's not mother-fucking bumper cars, so the point is NOT to crash into as many displays as you can. Also, nine times out ten they're not disabled, they're just fat. Get out of the damn scooter and walk - trust me, you need it.
3. Those people who pull their food stamp card out of their ridiculously huge Prada bag, then proceed to drive away in their even more ridiculously huge Hummer.
4. Those people who stand there and watch me painstakingly bag their entire order of cumbersome, difficult objects, only to say at the end, "Oh, that's okay, I don't need a bag." Well, you know what? You're going to take the bag, and you're going to like it. Also, you know those people who put everything in a plastic bag, which is then put inside their "green" cloth grocery bag, thus defeating the purpose of said "green" bag? Yeah, I don't like them either.
5. Wet money, sock money, bra money, jock strap money... you get the picture. Many perfectly lovely cows have sacrificed their lives to provide leather to make wallets. We sell plenty here in our store at a reasonable price, so there is no reason in the world why one should use their sweaty sock, bra, or crotch as a currency holder. You're at a department store, not a strip club.
That's all for now - I've gotten it out of my system for the moment - but there are plenty more where those came from, so stay tuned. :)
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
"Worst Customer Ever": A Retrospective
Hi everyone. As you know, it's drawing closer to memorial day, the time where we remember those who have been important to us. I figure this is as good a time as any to remember my personal "worst customer ever". So far, anyway. While I wouldn't consider her to be important to my life, persay, she certainly helped me become even more disillusioned with the state of our society. Read on.
It's late in the evening on a winter night, sometime this past January. I'm the only cashier (surprise, right?) and I'm standing at my register trying to look busy when this woman approaches me.
"Hi, how are you?" I ask, trying to be friendly. Why I still continue to try is beyond me.
At this point I notice that her purchase consists of three articles of clothing, which she has artfully taken the time to fold into a cube. No, I am not exaggerating - no clue how she did it, but these clothes were artfully folded all together like some sort of demented clothing origami. I can already tell I'm not going to be a fan of her.
In return to my friendly greeting, all she does is bark, "Don't mess it up," and motions to her cube.
"I'll do my best ma'am, but I need to find the tags if you want to buy these," I say as politely as I can muster. I'm met with another stony glare.
Somehow, I manage to painstakingly gain access to the tags without destroying her masterpiece. I think this warrants a thank-you, but all I get is some bitching about the prices.
"That was supposed to be 10-something," she snaps, grabbing my register screen and pulling it toward her.
"It is," I explained, "but it's 11 with the tax."
"No, it's supposed to be 10. I did the math," she argues, as if her obviously superior brainpower makes her some sort of divine being.
"In the state of Indiana," I say, trying my hardest not to raise my voice, "we have a 7% sales tax that applies to most purchases..."
"MA'AM," she interrupts. "MA'AM. NO. Stop talking!"
At this point I'm so angry I'm having trouble keeping my mouth shut. I take her cube and start putting it into a medium-sized bag, which, due to the compact nature of her origami, would fit perfectly.
As I do this, she grabs my arm and snaps, "NO. Don't be stupid. Put it in a big bag."
"Excuse me?" I say, rounding on her. I could say something nasty, but decide that silence and some well-placed destruction would be a much better weapon.
I lay the cube on the counter, tear it apart as much as I can, and throw it sloppily into the biggest bag I can find. She gawks at me, open-mouthed, as if she has just watched me brutally murder a busload of babies, puppies, and grandmothers all in one fell swoop. That's right, bitch. I messed up your cube.
As her receipt and coupons print, she starts tapping her foot impatiently. "Oh my God, HURRY UP!" she screams. I give her a concerned look resembling one might give to someone in a straitjacket, and begin moving as slowly as I can muster.
When her coupons print, there are about 20 of them, and I start slowly tearing them apart and putting them in a neat pile for her.
"GIVE THEM TO ME NOW!" she shrieks, and you can almost see the smoke coming out of her ears.
"Don't you want them torn apart and neat? I'm trying to help you," I say, at the end of my rope.
"I don't want them torn apart, JUST GIVE THEM TO ME!" she roars.
"With pleasure," I say, and throw the massive, unorganized pile of coupons at her face.
I suppose I should be used to people being this rude to me, but this bitch was just appalling. However, this town has been voted one of the rudest cities in America, and for good reason. Perhaps I was a bit out of line, since "the customer is always right", but she should've considered the well-being of her clothing cube before she called me stupid.
It's late in the evening on a winter night, sometime this past January. I'm the only cashier (surprise, right?) and I'm standing at my register trying to look busy when this woman approaches me.
"Hi, how are you?" I ask, trying to be friendly. Why I still continue to try is beyond me.
At this point I notice that her purchase consists of three articles of clothing, which she has artfully taken the time to fold into a cube. No, I am not exaggerating - no clue how she did it, but these clothes were artfully folded all together like some sort of demented clothing origami. I can already tell I'm not going to be a fan of her.
In return to my friendly greeting, all she does is bark, "Don't mess it up," and motions to her cube.
"I'll do my best ma'am, but I need to find the tags if you want to buy these," I say as politely as I can muster. I'm met with another stony glare.
Somehow, I manage to painstakingly gain access to the tags without destroying her masterpiece. I think this warrants a thank-you, but all I get is some bitching about the prices.
"That was supposed to be 10-something," she snaps, grabbing my register screen and pulling it toward her.
"It is," I explained, "but it's 11 with the tax."
"No, it's supposed to be 10. I did the math," she argues, as if her obviously superior brainpower makes her some sort of divine being.
"In the state of Indiana," I say, trying my hardest not to raise my voice, "we have a 7% sales tax that applies to most purchases..."
"MA'AM," she interrupts. "MA'AM. NO. Stop talking!"
At this point I'm so angry I'm having trouble keeping my mouth shut. I take her cube and start putting it into a medium-sized bag, which, due to the compact nature of her origami, would fit perfectly.
As I do this, she grabs my arm and snaps, "NO. Don't be stupid. Put it in a big bag."
"Excuse me?" I say, rounding on her. I could say something nasty, but decide that silence and some well-placed destruction would be a much better weapon.
I lay the cube on the counter, tear it apart as much as I can, and throw it sloppily into the biggest bag I can find. She gawks at me, open-mouthed, as if she has just watched me brutally murder a busload of babies, puppies, and grandmothers all in one fell swoop. That's right, bitch. I messed up your cube.
As her receipt and coupons print, she starts tapping her foot impatiently. "Oh my God, HURRY UP!" she screams. I give her a concerned look resembling one might give to someone in a straitjacket, and begin moving as slowly as I can muster.
When her coupons print, there are about 20 of them, and I start slowly tearing them apart and putting them in a neat pile for her.
"GIVE THEM TO ME NOW!" she shrieks, and you can almost see the smoke coming out of her ears.
"Don't you want them torn apart and neat? I'm trying to help you," I say, at the end of my rope.
"I don't want them torn apart, JUST GIVE THEM TO ME!" she roars.
"With pleasure," I say, and throw the massive, unorganized pile of coupons at her face.
I suppose I should be used to people being this rude to me, but this bitch was just appalling. However, this town has been voted one of the rudest cities in America, and for good reason. Perhaps I was a bit out of line, since "the customer is always right", but she should've considered the well-being of her clothing cube before she called me stupid.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Creepy, crawly scumbags
Hi everyone. I apologize for the lack of posting - you can forward any complaints to my professors. However, in light of recent events, it's time to start blogging again, and the most recent, relevant topic in my retail career is the presence of what I lovingly refer to as "creepers".
Creepers. They walk among us, often undetected. However, because I am undeniably flypaper for freaks, I seem to attract an overwhelmingly large number of them. Tonight I'll discuss two of the more frightening creatures I've had the displeasure of encountering.
The first incident happened when I first began working at Hellmart. I was about 16, it was late at night, and I was the only cashier, when I was approached by a man in what looked to be his mid-50s. He was portly, balding, and absolutely repulsive looking, and the tattoos of cheetahs and serpents playing or fucking, or whatever, on his arms definitely didn't do him any justice. He saunters up to me and leans in close across the counter.
"Hey there gorgeous. When do you get off?" he drawls.
"Umm, later?" I reply sarcastically, hoping he'll get the hint. Surprise - he doesn't.
"How'd you like to go out for a drink with me after work?" he tries again, clearly not sensing my disinterest.
"Um, I'm 16," I reply coldly, hoping to set him straight. No such luck.
"Really? Well, you certainly look 21. You got a phone number I can have? I'll call you later."
At this point, I didn't care how rude or ridiculous I sounded - he had to go.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe in phones," I say, pouting a little for dramatic effect.
"Hmm." He scowls for a second, then still won't get the message. "You got an e-mail address or something?"
"Nope, I don't believe in e-mail either."
"Well damn, don't you like to have fun?" he winks at me.
"No, fun sucks. I hate fun," I say with a glare. I'm honestly surprised I was able to keep a straight face.
"Hmm. Well, I'll see you later," he says as he leaves, with an ominous look that, to be quite honest, freaked me the fuck out. It was several days before I would walk to my car alone at night. I saw him in the store a few more times, but he never spoke to me again.
The next incident happened sometime last week. It was a similar situation - late at night, I'm the only cashier. Are we detecting a pattern here? Anyway, I've started wearing polos to work so maybe this kind of shit won't happen to me as much, but apparently even an increased amount of chest-covering fabric isn't enough to keep the creepers out.
I'm at my register, minding my own business, when a scrawny, white-trash crusty bastard approaches me. He's buying three bottles of pop, so I am relieved to notice that our encounter should be relatively short-lived.
As is customary, I offer him one of our store's loyalty cards, because I'll probably be waterboarded by management if I don't enroll a certain number of them. He gets one, probably so he can stare at my tits for five minutes longer, and I learn that his name is Randall. After spending a good few minutes eye-raping me, Randall gets his shit and leaves, and I'm like, 'Great! Good riddance! Buh-bye, Randall."
The following morning, I leisurely get out of bed and check my Facebook. There's a new friend request, and I think, "Hey! Maybe it's someone cool!" Nope - it's Randall.
Randall and I have no mutual friends. His profile picture is dark, grainy, and taken upwards, like he has a camera on his you-know-whats. He's included a personal message with his request: ";P"
How eloquent of you, Randall. What a way with words.
Whatever. Denied.
I don't get it. Yes, Randall, I enrolled you in our loyalty program last night. Fantastic. Congratulations. However, if you read the fine print, you will find that membership in this fine program does not entitle you to stalk me.
And I assume you're asking yourselves how he got my last name? Easy. He searched for all the Sams in my town and looked until he found my profile picture. This is no easy task, as there are over ten thousand of us in this town alone. But trust me, they do that. It has happened to me before.
So consider this my best attempt at a public service announcement. Creepers are everywhere and can strike at any time, even when you're wearing a polo.
Creepers. They walk among us, often undetected. However, because I am undeniably flypaper for freaks, I seem to attract an overwhelmingly large number of them. Tonight I'll discuss two of the more frightening creatures I've had the displeasure of encountering.
The first incident happened when I first began working at Hellmart. I was about 16, it was late at night, and I was the only cashier, when I was approached by a man in what looked to be his mid-50s. He was portly, balding, and absolutely repulsive looking, and the tattoos of cheetahs and serpents playing or fucking, or whatever, on his arms definitely didn't do him any justice. He saunters up to me and leans in close across the counter.
"Hey there gorgeous. When do you get off?" he drawls.
"Umm, later?" I reply sarcastically, hoping he'll get the hint. Surprise - he doesn't.
"How'd you like to go out for a drink with me after work?" he tries again, clearly not sensing my disinterest.
"Um, I'm 16," I reply coldly, hoping to set him straight. No such luck.
"Really? Well, you certainly look 21. You got a phone number I can have? I'll call you later."
At this point, I didn't care how rude or ridiculous I sounded - he had to go.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe in phones," I say, pouting a little for dramatic effect.
"Hmm." He scowls for a second, then still won't get the message. "You got an e-mail address or something?"
"Nope, I don't believe in e-mail either."
"Well damn, don't you like to have fun?" he winks at me.
"No, fun sucks. I hate fun," I say with a glare. I'm honestly surprised I was able to keep a straight face.
"Hmm. Well, I'll see you later," he says as he leaves, with an ominous look that, to be quite honest, freaked me the fuck out. It was several days before I would walk to my car alone at night. I saw him in the store a few more times, but he never spoke to me again.
The next incident happened sometime last week. It was a similar situation - late at night, I'm the only cashier. Are we detecting a pattern here? Anyway, I've started wearing polos to work so maybe this kind of shit won't happen to me as much, but apparently even an increased amount of chest-covering fabric isn't enough to keep the creepers out.
I'm at my register, minding my own business, when a scrawny, white-trash crusty bastard approaches me. He's buying three bottles of pop, so I am relieved to notice that our encounter should be relatively short-lived.
As is customary, I offer him one of our store's loyalty cards, because I'll probably be waterboarded by management if I don't enroll a certain number of them. He gets one, probably so he can stare at my tits for five minutes longer, and I learn that his name is Randall. After spending a good few minutes eye-raping me, Randall gets his shit and leaves, and I'm like, 'Great! Good riddance! Buh-bye, Randall."
The following morning, I leisurely get out of bed and check my Facebook. There's a new friend request, and I think, "Hey! Maybe it's someone cool!" Nope - it's Randall.
Randall and I have no mutual friends. His profile picture is dark, grainy, and taken upwards, like he has a camera on his you-know-whats. He's included a personal message with his request: ";P"
How eloquent of you, Randall. What a way with words.
Whatever. Denied.
I don't get it. Yes, Randall, I enrolled you in our loyalty program last night. Fantastic. Congratulations. However, if you read the fine print, you will find that membership in this fine program does not entitle you to stalk me.
And I assume you're asking yourselves how he got my last name? Easy. He searched for all the Sams in my town and looked until he found my profile picture. This is no easy task, as there are over ten thousand of us in this town alone. But trust me, they do that. It has happened to me before.
So consider this my best attempt at a public service announcement. Creepers are everywhere and can strike at any time, even when you're wearing a polo.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, April 11, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Concerning 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.
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. :)
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