When I spend $30 at a seafood buffet in Myrtle Beach, I expect two things: ungodly portions of food and horrifying meat sweats. What I don't expect was the garbage I heard spewing from the booth behind me, where you and your husband sat.
Around plate two, just when I was really hitting my groove and annihilating large colonies of hush puppies and calamari, I noticed that both the manager and your waitress had arrived at your table. The manager was attempting to apologize to you for something, but you continually cut her off.
"That ain't good enough. I tol' her" you snapped. You then brandished a glass filled with a wine, the color of which I can only describe as "muppet blood".
"I tol' her I wanted Sutter Home. This ain't Sutter Home." Your husband mumbled something that sounded either like a vague agreement with you, or some southern friend bastardization of a passage from the Necronomicon. I did get a chance to admire the fact that it was quite obvious that, in addition to saving money by buying hobo wine, your husband option to buy one supertooth to replace his top three front teeth. It was just one big wall of tooth with no gap, which gave him the superpower of gnashing up inhuman quantities of peel and eat shrimp.
I won't go further into the yelling. It's unnecessary, because the bottom line is that you were berating a restaurant staff for not giving you a two buck chuck. Unless they replaced your boxed wine with Mad Dog or Thunderbird, you have no grounds for complaint. They did you a favor, unless the Sutter Home is the only thing pickling your white trash hick body and keeping you looking so fresh from the swamp. The manager looked like she was ready to punch your husband's SooperToof (patent pending) straight out of his face. I made sure to let her know that she did a wonderful job, and that you were a base, unrelenting simpleton for arguing about such a ridiculous thing, and for berating people who have to watch people like you shovel an ocean load of seafood into their drooling, feculent craws every night.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Dear Gender Warriors
I work for a company that has recently came under fire for labeling their toy sections "Boy's" and "Girl's". This is unacceptable to some people because apparently we shouldn't put gender labels on anything, and people should be able to decide what they want based on their own feelings. If we say that a toy is for boys, then there is no way a girl will ever play with it, but if it is just labeled as "toy", the ban has been lifted and children will no longer fear imprisonment or persecution for their choices. That's what I've come to understand, or maybe it's just that people need to complain about something, and always have to push their beliefs on everyone else. The bottom line is, no matter what you label something, as long as people don't just respect other people's decisions, as long as no one is getting hurt, then nothing is going to change for the better.
This week, I was distributing clearance items throughout the departments of the store that I supervise. Needless to say, with school having started, much of the Back to School items have gotten drastically reduced. At the bottom of one pallet, I opened a box only to find what would generally be described as a "girl's bookbag", at least before the gender war began. It looked something like this:
Kid: (very quietly): I don't know.
Woman: (clearly upset but putting on a happy face for her kid): I think this is really nice.
Kid (still almost whispering) Maybe. I don't know.
My coworkers and I deal with things like this often. We step in and try to cheer up kids that are upset, we mess around with friendly kids, and just try to joke with the guests. It makes a shift go by quicker, and honestly makes you feel better. It seemed to me this kid should be looking at a Ninja Turtles backpack, or an Avengers, really anything a little kid would use. For his mom to be showing him something so plain and more grown up, something must have happened there. My guess would be, from his tentative answers, he probably had a Paw Patrol bookbag or something that the kids in his school made fun of him for, and his mom was trying to find something so he wouldn't get picked on. Had I thought my actions through, I might not have done what I did, but I wouldn't be me or have half the stories on this blog if I ever put thought into my actions.
Me: Hey there buddy, are you in luck! You need a new bookbag?
The little kid turned and looked way way up to my face, and slowly nodded. I smiled and grabbed the spangly mess of a bookbag out of it's box, and displayed it proudly to him.
Me: This is the absolute best bookbag we have. I was hiding them in the back, but my bosses found them and told me I had to put them out here so that other people get a chance to own something this cool. If there's still one left, I am buying it when I leave today!
The kid looks at me like I was a poorly dancing polar bear, or maybe just a giant man standing in front of him holding a pink kitten backpack.
Kid: That's a girl's bag.
Me: It is?
I look it up and down, pretending to be confused.
Me: I don't think it is. This looks like a boy cat to me. I think his name is Reginald.
Kid: I think it's a bookbag for girls to wear.
Me: Pffft. I don't care. This thing is awesome.
Me: You sure you don't want this?
Me: Alright kid, your loss.
Me: Wow! That one's almost as cool as this one. Are you buying that one?
Kid: (staring at his mom) Maybe.
Me: Aww man, really? Is there another?
Kid: Yeah, it's good!
His mom smiles really wide and mouths "Thank you so much" to me. I nod and hang the cat-astropic bookbags on the wall.
I wave to the kid.
Me: Have a good day, guys!
The kid shouldn't have had to think twice about anything. He should have bought a bookbag he liked, and been happy with it. Idiots have kids, and teach their idiot kids to be ignorant like they are, and everyone is worse off in the end.
This week, I was distributing clearance items throughout the departments of the store that I supervise. Needless to say, with school having started, much of the Back to School items have gotten drastically reduced. At the bottom of one pallet, I opened a box only to find what would generally be described as a "girl's bookbag", at least before the gender war began. It looked something like this:
except it had more sass and sparkles. There were only three left, and I joked with some coworkers that we had found our new gang colors. Still chuckling, I pushed the mostly empty pallet to the back of the store where the meager remnants of the school supplies had gone to die. In front of the backpacks, a woman was sitting on the little three inch high shelf below the bookbag display. She was facing her son, a very small boy who was sitting on the floor, arms around his knees, and head resting on his kneecaps. She was holding a bookbag much more suited to a high schooler, just a plain design of turquoise and black.
Woman: Do you think this one is better?
Kid: (very quietly): I don't know.
Woman: (clearly upset but putting on a happy face for her kid): I think this is really nice.
Kid (still almost whispering) Maybe. I don't know.
My coworkers and I deal with things like this often. We step in and try to cheer up kids that are upset, we mess around with friendly kids, and just try to joke with the guests. It makes a shift go by quicker, and honestly makes you feel better. It seemed to me this kid should be looking at a Ninja Turtles backpack, or an Avengers, really anything a little kid would use. For his mom to be showing him something so plain and more grown up, something must have happened there. My guess would be, from his tentative answers, he probably had a Paw Patrol bookbag or something that the kids in his school made fun of him for, and his mom was trying to find something so he wouldn't get picked on. Had I thought my actions through, I might not have done what I did, but I wouldn't be me or have half the stories on this blog if I ever put thought into my actions.
Me: Hey there buddy, are you in luck! You need a new bookbag?
The little kid turned and looked way way up to my face, and slowly nodded. I smiled and grabbed the spangly mess of a bookbag out of it's box, and displayed it proudly to him.
Me: This is the absolute best bookbag we have. I was hiding them in the back, but my bosses found them and told me I had to put them out here so that other people get a chance to own something this cool. If there's still one left, I am buying it when I leave today!
The kid looks at me like I was a poorly dancing polar bear, or maybe just a giant man standing in front of him holding a pink kitten backpack.
Kid: That's a girl's bag.
Me: It is?
I look it up and down, pretending to be confused.
Me: I don't think it is. This looks like a boy cat to me. I think his name is Reginald.
The kid giggles.
Kid: I think it's a bookbag for girls to wear.
Me: Pffft. I don't care. This thing is awesome.
I put the backpack on and strut a little. He laughs again. I take it off and hold it out.
Me: You sure you don't want this?
Kid: No, thank you.
Me: Alright kid, your loss.
I point over to his mom, and the bookbag she's holding.
Me: Wow! That one's almost as cool as this one. Are you buying that one?
Kid: (staring at his mom) Maybe.
Me: Aww man, really? Is there another?
I start rooting through the backpacks on the wall.
Me: That's the last one! If you're getting it, you better hold onto it. People are going to be really jealous.
Kid: Yeah, it's good!
His mom smiles really wide and mouths "Thank you so much" to me. I nod and hang the cat-astropic bookbags on the wall.
Me: Alright Reginald, I'll be back at four to get you.
I wave to the kid.
Me: Have a good day, guys!
The kid shouldn't have had to think twice about anything. He should have bought a bookbag he liked, and been happy with it. Idiots have kids, and teach their idiot kids to be ignorant like they are, and everyone is worse off in the end.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Dear Pumpkin Spice People
We get it. You won. Everything is going to become pumpkin spiced soon, as it did last year, and the year before. You've turned fall from a season of harvest and turning leaves to the over-saturation of a lackluster flavor that doesn't even taste like the thing it says it is. How about you do the honorable thing and quit bragging about it then?
I don't need the posts about your pumpkin spiced lattes, your pumpkin pie flavored pancakes, or your spicy pumpkin netty pot add in. When Muhammed Ali won a match, he danced around. He didn't pull down his trunks and pee on his opponent, and then force his vanquished foe to legally change their name to "Shitty Loser". Show some damned class.
I like my pancakes to taste like little pieces of heaven, small pats of butter, and however much maple syrup I choose to guzzle as a chaser. I don't need them to taste like cinnamon, nutmeg, or allspice, just mapley diabetes inducing pleasure.
Do any of you even know what pumpkin tastes like? It tastes like an unappetizing version of butternut squash. That's why canned "pumpkin" that you use to make your pies and the pumpkin pie spice you snort to dull the pain that your ugly cardigan brings to you is made of yams for the former, and spices for the latter. No pumpkins were smashed in the making of your fall fetish.
Somehow, some way, I will make maple, the Rocketeer, or Asylum 880 cigars into a seasonal phenomenon, then you'll have to hear allllllll about it, because turnabout is fair play, bitch.
I don't need the posts about your pumpkin spiced lattes, your pumpkin pie flavored pancakes, or your spicy pumpkin netty pot add in. When Muhammed Ali won a match, he danced around. He didn't pull down his trunks and pee on his opponent, and then force his vanquished foe to legally change their name to "Shitty Loser". Show some damned class.
I like my pancakes to taste like little pieces of heaven, small pats of butter, and however much maple syrup I choose to guzzle as a chaser. I don't need them to taste like cinnamon, nutmeg, or allspice, just mapley diabetes inducing pleasure.
Do any of you even know what pumpkin tastes like? It tastes like an unappetizing version of butternut squash. That's why canned "pumpkin" that you use to make your pies and the pumpkin pie spice you snort to dull the pain that your ugly cardigan brings to you is made of yams for the former, and spices for the latter. No pumpkins were smashed in the making of your fall fetish.
Somehow, some way, I will make maple, the Rocketeer, or Asylum 880 cigars into a seasonal phenomenon, then you'll have to hear allllllll about it, because turnabout is fair play, bitch.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Dear Axe Body Spray
I have many different things that I do in the course of the day at my new job. A big one is building new setups of products on the ends of aisles, making them look good for the guests in the store. Some sections are better to do this in than others. Anything towards the back of the store is quite, and you don't get bothered much. Of course the opposite is true at the front end, so I was already not thrilled to have to build a new one in the shampoo and cosmetics section, located right near the front and on the main walk. People constant stop you and ask questions, and a 30 minute job gets stretched by an hour.
On this day, I was unlucky. I was in the worst of the swarm. Not only was I constantly answering questions, but I was around the cologne, soap, and shampoo. It was a nauseating cloud of fragrance and I worked as hard as I could to get done and move along. I had just gotten all of the shelves cleared, and was ready to restock when I hear a whoosh of aerosol and the prickly awful sound of youths giggling. Before I was able to freeze the urchins with my dead eyed disapproval stare, the unsupervised preteens had set off probably half of a can of Axe Body Spray in the aisle next to where I was working. After they shrieked, dropped the can and ran, I tried to be a hero and clean up the aisle. Well, I was sure, I was soon, and I am always larger than life, and while I was strong, I was not fast, and I was in no uncertain terms fresh from the fight. I had let Bonnie Tyler down. I was no hero. Stuck in an aisle that smelled like the entire population of Secaucus, New Jersey had recently met there to listen to Bon Jovi and wish they lived in New York City, I had no choice but to turn tail and run.
I worked frantically as the fumes seeped into every pore of my being. Tears would have been streaming from my face from the acrid stench, except there were none to be had. How can one cry when they've seen the end times and they know that everything is useless. Customers hurried past, giving me horrified looks like I was the one who decided to pretend he was a 12 year old on the way to a Homecoming Dance. I was almost finished, The end was in sight, and I tore open cardboard, threw products to shelf willy nilly, and slapped up price tags. I was almost free to succumb to the fumes and die in piece, when I heard this behind me.
Teen Girl #1: Wow. That is STRONG!
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
Now I really was reverting back to a 12 year old. The mean teen girls were mocking me to my face. I was about to turn around and give then the dead eyes when they continued.
Teen Girl #1: It. Smells. Soooooo. Goooooooooood.
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
They thought the scent which I can only guess was originally marketed as Floral Nose Sodomy was good. The folks at Axe had done their job. Whatever concoction of plant pubes and donkey pheromones they mixed really did attract young girls. As my nose and eyes started to bleed from prolonged exposure, a worse realization hit me: anyone that was over 18 that wore this demon spunk had to be a pedophile. There was no other way, because they were wearing something that only teen girls could find enchanting. It needed to be locked up with the nicotine gum, and closely monitored for who purchased it. Anyone out of high school that wore it had more than likely recently quoted Wooderson and probably was really into GTL. They needed to be locked up immediately.
I tried to warn everyone, but by then I had lapsed into an Axe induced hysteria. My coworkers tell me they had to restrain me as I had barricaded myself in the Seasonal department with a wall of grills, spraying lighter fluid everywhere and threatening to burn the place down, because fire was the only was to ever get clean.
On this day, I was unlucky. I was in the worst of the swarm. Not only was I constantly answering questions, but I was around the cologne, soap, and shampoo. It was a nauseating cloud of fragrance and I worked as hard as I could to get done and move along. I had just gotten all of the shelves cleared, and was ready to restock when I hear a whoosh of aerosol and the prickly awful sound of youths giggling. Before I was able to freeze the urchins with my dead eyed disapproval stare, the unsupervised preteens had set off probably half of a can of Axe Body Spray in the aisle next to where I was working. After they shrieked, dropped the can and ran, I tried to be a hero and clean up the aisle. Well, I was sure, I was soon, and I am always larger than life, and while I was strong, I was not fast, and I was in no uncertain terms fresh from the fight. I had let Bonnie Tyler down. I was no hero. Stuck in an aisle that smelled like the entire population of Secaucus, New Jersey had recently met there to listen to Bon Jovi and wish they lived in New York City, I had no choice but to turn tail and run.
I worked frantically as the fumes seeped into every pore of my being. Tears would have been streaming from my face from the acrid stench, except there were none to be had. How can one cry when they've seen the end times and they know that everything is useless. Customers hurried past, giving me horrified looks like I was the one who decided to pretend he was a 12 year old on the way to a Homecoming Dance. I was almost finished, The end was in sight, and I tore open cardboard, threw products to shelf willy nilly, and slapped up price tags. I was almost free to succumb to the fumes and die in piece, when I heard this behind me.
Teen Girl #1: Wow. That is STRONG!
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
Now I really was reverting back to a 12 year old. The mean teen girls were mocking me to my face. I was about to turn around and give then the dead eyes when they continued.
Teen Girl #1: It. Smells. Soooooo. Goooooooooood.
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
They thought the scent which I can only guess was originally marketed as Floral Nose Sodomy was good. The folks at Axe had done their job. Whatever concoction of plant pubes and donkey pheromones they mixed really did attract young girls. As my nose and eyes started to bleed from prolonged exposure, a worse realization hit me: anyone that was over 18 that wore this demon spunk had to be a pedophile. There was no other way, because they were wearing something that only teen girls could find enchanting. It needed to be locked up with the nicotine gum, and closely monitored for who purchased it. Anyone out of high school that wore it had more than likely recently quoted Wooderson and probably was really into GTL. They needed to be locked up immediately.
I tried to warn everyone, but by then I had lapsed into an Axe induced hysteria. My coworkers tell me they had to restrain me as I had barricaded myself in the Seasonal department with a wall of grills, spraying lighter fluid everywhere and threatening to burn the place down, because fire was the only was to ever get clean.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Dear Letter Y
You are not useful. Really, what are you good for at all? Lazy people use you to ask "Why?", which pisses me off to no end. Do you think you are more important than W and H, you pretentious jerk? If it wasn't for you, we'd have a nice 25 letter alphabet, and if something at my store cost $0.25, I could ask for an alphabet coin. The customer would slide me a quarter, and we would be so freaking awesome. You ruin this.
I can cite two reasons why you are the most worthless and disposable. First, listen to any child sing the ABC song. Everything is good and normal until they hit you, and suddenly it is "W,X, Y and Z". You have to be tied to Z just so people remember you. Without Z you would be Pete Best, Chad Channing, and Brian Jones all wrapped up in a suck ass bundle.
The other reason would be your whole vowel nonsense. "And sometimes Y". Really? When has it ever been Y? They gave this one to you, just like they give a participation trophy to the kid on the little league team they stick in right field for one inning. All he does is twirl in circles and chew on his glove the whole time, but he gets a trophy. That's you.
I can cite two reasons why you are the most worthless and disposable. First, listen to any child sing the ABC song. Everything is good and normal until they hit you, and suddenly it is "W,X, Y and Z". You have to be tied to Z just so people remember you. Without Z you would be Pete Best, Chad Channing, and Brian Jones all wrapped up in a suck ass bundle.
The other reason would be your whole vowel nonsense. "And sometimes Y". Really? When has it ever been Y? They gave this one to you, just like they give a participation trophy to the kid on the little league team they stick in right field for one inning. All he does is twirl in circles and chew on his glove the whole time, but he gets a trophy. That's you.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Dear Online Comment Posters
Sometimes old adages are around still because they are true. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth", "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure", and "Don't feed the bears" all still are relevant today. The one that stands out above all others is "Those that talk the most have the least to say". Nowhere is this more evident than on the internet.
If I ever want to feel terrified with the world around me, I'll click on any random news story and scroll down to the comments section. After the three or four idiots are done fighting on who posted "First" first, and then question each others heterosexuality, the real show starts. It really doesn't matter what the article was about, because the comments will never be about anything remotely close to it. The politics of the day or just plain rampant racism, homophobia, sexism, misogynist banter, and plain old name calling will fill pages and pages of the saddest story known to man. If someone can make it until the third page until the Hitler card is pulled, then humanity gets to go on another day.
To say that the people that feel the need to make their horrible opinions known to the world have nothing better to do would be needless. If I'm reading an article about how the Phillies should eat money to get Papelbon traded, the comments section should contain Bible verses, a discussion that if Papelbon was black, they would get less for a trade, a rundown of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, or any number of links to porn or pyramid schemes. I want people to discuss teams to trade him to, or the prospects we should get. Comments on news articles about any crime always devolve into a rampaging screamfest about the death penalty.
At random, I brought up an article on comedian Lisa Lamponelli losing over 100 pounds. It was a nice article, congratulating her for a healthy life choice. This was the third comment:
Next, I looked at an article about a 17 year old boy in New Jersey that was killed when a granite slab fell on him and killed him. This was a featured comment:
Classy. As you can see, this man is a top commenter. He does this all the time. On top of that, two people liked the comment. This isn't a discussion on jokes being PC or not. It's about a time and a place for jokes. Clearly, we've lost the right to post our comments, because we can't handle the freedom.
Anyone, learn from me. No one even cares what you have to say until you get a blog. Then, your opinion is gospel. People eat it up like a nice lobster bisque, no matter how much you make fun of children.
If I ever want to feel terrified with the world around me, I'll click on any random news story and scroll down to the comments section. After the three or four idiots are done fighting on who posted "First" first, and then question each others heterosexuality, the real show starts. It really doesn't matter what the article was about, because the comments will never be about anything remotely close to it. The politics of the day or just plain rampant racism, homophobia, sexism, misogynist banter, and plain old name calling will fill pages and pages of the saddest story known to man. If someone can make it until the third page until the Hitler card is pulled, then humanity gets to go on another day.
To say that the people that feel the need to make their horrible opinions known to the world have nothing better to do would be needless. If I'm reading an article about how the Phillies should eat money to get Papelbon traded, the comments section should contain Bible verses, a discussion that if Papelbon was black, they would get less for a trade, a rundown of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, or any number of links to porn or pyramid schemes. I want people to discuss teams to trade him to, or the prospects we should get. Comments on news articles about any crime always devolve into a rampaging screamfest about the death penalty.
At random, I brought up an article on comedian Lisa Lamponelli losing over 100 pounds. It was a nice article, congratulating her for a healthy life choice. This was the third comment:
"jcextraSat May 11 2013 Reply 1 8 I guess she will certainly be able to raise her legs now for the endless pieces of Black **** she wants to take on a weekly basis, lol and SHE STILL HAS THE JAY LENO CHIN. That will never DISSOLVE. Maybe thats why her mouth is so FILTHY or could it be from sucking GIGANTIC DICKS, lol"That person clearly needs helped, but damned if I'm going to be the one to do it.
Next, I looked at an article about a 17 year old boy in New Jersey that was killed when a granite slab fell on him and killed him. This was a featured comment:
Steven Wolff · Top Commenter
Well, they can just carve his birth date and the day he died on it and give it to his relatives.
Classy. As you can see, this man is a top commenter. He does this all the time. On top of that, two people liked the comment. This isn't a discussion on jokes being PC or not. It's about a time and a place for jokes. Clearly, we've lost the right to post our comments, because we can't handle the freedom.
Anyone, learn from me. No one even cares what you have to say until you get a blog. Then, your opinion is gospel. People eat it up like a nice lobster bisque, no matter how much you make fun of children.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Dear St. Mary's College Alumni Reunion 2015 Survey
This afternoon, I returned home from my 10 year college
reunion. It was a weekend I desperately needed. After losing my job
a few weeks ago and living in the turmoil of not knowing what comes next, the
antidote seemed to be getting together with several of my best friends and
returning to the place where we all met. It was a place where I honed my
sense of humor, where I broke out of the uncomfortable shell I lived in through
high school, and a place I hold dear in my struggling, meat clogged heart.
Getting home, I had an email already awaiting me, with a survey to let them know what I thought. Since I have no secrets with me readers, I chose to post it here.
Getting home, I had an email already awaiting me, with a survey to let them know what I thought. Since I have no secrets with me readers, I chose to post it here.
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*What is your graduation year?
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*Why did you decide to attend
Alumni Weekend this year?
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*How did you hear about Alumni
Weekend?
Check all that apply. SMCMail Mailed brochure Friend/Word of mouth St. Mary's website SMCM Email Other: |
*When were you last at St. Mary's?
3-5 years
3-5 years
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