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It's been years since I've worked retail, but after taking a job working at Cumberland Farms, I have quickly remember the "joys" of working with the public. Here's some musings I've come up with over the past month, and thought I would share them.
There seems to be a direct correlation between how 'classy' a cigarette is, and how much of an jackass the person asking for them is. Cigarettes that are particularly noticable for this are Virginia Slims, Capri, and any other cigarette that comes in a pack taller than the IQ of most people.
Why must you ask me if the coffee is fresh? Did you not see me lug that three gallon urn of freshly brewed blood of the coffee bean from the still dripping coffee maker and place it upon it's stand less than five feet from you? If I glue your head under the brewer so that it pours flesh-melting hot coffee directly into your mouth, would that be fresh enough? Would you prefer the Columbian Roast, or the French Roast? Personally, you look like Hazelnut to me.
To the thirty-year-old woman I mistakenly thought was a poorly aged eighty, please, for the love of all the unholy, flesh-eating demons in the deepest, rankest pits of Hell, NEVER flirt with me again. I would say that it looks like someone attacked your face with a flaming cheese grater and a badly rusted combine harvester, but I simply can't be that polite. And offering to "show ya muh killer tits" for a pack of smokes is something that not even Jagermeister will be able to cleanse from my brain. Not even God can make a WonderBra that could help you now. Now please move aside so that I may secretly ogle the cute, Johnny Depp-ish looking lumberjack behind you who smells of sweat, trees, and gasoline.
To the morbidly obese man who proved that micro-gravity wells are a physical possibility, thank you for wearing that five-sizes-too-small t-shirt. You have proven my father right when he said there's nothing that can't be fit in a small enough space with enough Crisco and a hydraulic jack. I will be tormented by that for the rest of my unnatural life.
Yes, lady, I WILL shut off the gas pump until you get off the damn cell phone. Yes, the chances of it causing an explosion were the same odds of Bush getting re-elected in '04. Look what that got us, so turn off the damn phone.
To the thirty-seven year-old Asian woman who looked twelve, dressed like she was twelve, and acted like she was twelve... you look twelve, you're gonna get carded for smokes. Deal with it, and be glad I wasn't feeling vindictive and claim your ID as a fake just to piss you off more.
NEVER dare to equal the greatness of Rammstein, Judas Priest, and Nightwish to the likes of Tim McGraw, Willy Nelson, and Shania Twain. I will be forced to drag you into the cooler to endure the Death Of A Thousand Papercuts using a crisp new twenty-dollar bill.
If you're going to fight with your spouse in the store, please do so in front of the store so I can watch. I'm bored, it's two in the morning, and I deserve the entertainment.
Porno mags? No, we don't carry them. I wish we did, it would make my nights go much... erm, faster...
To the gentleman who came into my store to use the restroom while talking on his cellphone. I don't really understand the importance of being on the cellphone in the early morning hours, especially when you're in the bathroom making sounds like someone is sodomising a bull elephant with a coked-up porcupine. Really, I don't. But please, don't come out of the bathroom with that euphoric look on your face and the cellphone mysteriously absent. At three in the morning, that image does bad things to my sleep-deprived, over-caffienated brain. I'm going to go hide in the freezer now.
No, I will not change the CD I'm listening to. You're lucky I'm in a laid-back mood and listening to Iced Earth, and not something more... invigorating. Why not? It's night shift, I'm the only one working, therefore, I'M GOD.... at least until six a.m.
Only one more month before enlistment, only one more month until enlistment...
There seems to be a direct correlation between how 'classy' a cigarette is, and how much of an jackass the person asking for them is. Cigarettes that are particularly noticable for this are Virginia Slims, Capri, and any other cigarette that comes in a pack taller than the IQ of most people.
Why must you ask me if the coffee is fresh? Did you not see me lug that three gallon urn of freshly brewed blood of the coffee bean from the still dripping coffee maker and place it upon it's stand less than five feet from you? If I glue your head under the brewer so that it pours flesh-melting hot coffee directly into your mouth, would that be fresh enough? Would you prefer the Columbian Roast, or the French Roast? Personally, you look like Hazelnut to me.
To the thirty-year-old woman I mistakenly thought was a poorly aged eighty, please, for the love of all the unholy, flesh-eating demons in the deepest, rankest pits of Hell, NEVER flirt with me again. I would say that it looks like someone attacked your face with a flaming cheese grater and a badly rusted combine harvester, but I simply can't be that polite. And offering to "show ya muh killer tits" for a pack of smokes is something that not even Jagermeister will be able to cleanse from my brain. Not even God can make a WonderBra that could help you now. Now please move aside so that I may secretly ogle the cute, Johnny Depp-ish looking lumberjack behind you who smells of sweat, trees, and gasoline.
To the morbidly obese man who proved that micro-gravity wells are a physical possibility, thank you for wearing that five-sizes-too-small t-shirt. You have proven my father right when he said there's nothing that can't be fit in a small enough space with enough Crisco and a hydraulic jack. I will be tormented by that for the rest of my unnatural life.
Yes, lady, I WILL shut off the gas pump until you get off the damn cell phone. Yes, the chances of it causing an explosion were the same odds of Bush getting re-elected in '04. Look what that got us, so turn off the damn phone.
To the thirty-seven year-old Asian woman who looked twelve, dressed like she was twelve, and acted like she was twelve... you look twelve, you're gonna get carded for smokes. Deal with it, and be glad I wasn't feeling vindictive and claim your ID as a fake just to piss you off more.
NEVER dare to equal the greatness of Rammstein, Judas Priest, and Nightwish to the likes of Tim McGraw, Willy Nelson, and Shania Twain. I will be forced to drag you into the cooler to endure the Death Of A Thousand Papercuts using a crisp new twenty-dollar bill.
If you're going to fight with your spouse in the store, please do so in front of the store so I can watch. I'm bored, it's two in the morning, and I deserve the entertainment.
Porno mags? No, we don't carry them. I wish we did, it would make my nights go much... erm, faster...
To the gentleman who came into my store to use the restroom while talking on his cellphone. I don't really understand the importance of being on the cellphone in the early morning hours, especially when you're in the bathroom making sounds like someone is sodomising a bull elephant with a coked-up porcupine. Really, I don't. But please, don't come out of the bathroom with that euphoric look on your face and the cellphone mysteriously absent. At three in the morning, that image does bad things to my sleep-deprived, over-caffienated brain. I'm going to go hide in the freezer now.
No, I will not change the CD I'm listening to. You're lucky I'm in a laid-back mood and listening to Iced Earth, and not something more... invigorating. Why not? It's night shift, I'm the only one working, therefore, I'M GOD.... at least until six a.m.
Only one more month before enlistment, only one more month until enlistment...
at stories...
. It takes a real man/woman to work at a gas station. I found people to be even more unreasonable at the gas station. Even worse than the restaurants, and I thought people were at their worst when they went out to eat. But I guess jack up gas prices to $3 a gallon and you become everyone's greatest enemy.
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