Just stop it.

A few inane things from the past week or so:
-This morning, a balding man holding his hat in his hands in front of him. It was a beret or a working cap or whatever, and it made him look like he'd come in to tell me he was awful sorry he'd run over my dog.
-A fairly nice customer in every other way but... snorts his phlegm at the counter every morning. So of course after writing that sentence he comes in and gives occasion to observe. He'll do it after saying something to me, like "...and a croissant *SNORT*" So people clear their throats all the time & I don't take a second notice, but if you must expectorate, I'd appreciate if it would occur in the privacy of your own home. Even in the bathroom - there was this guy in Hillsborough who would hock one up every morning, so loud you could hear it through the store - it's just gross.
-Just now, a guy walking down the sidewalk with a bike tire. Strange, though not as strange as the old black dude cruisin' down Markham with some fine shades and a killer smile... on an electric wheelchair. There's a sidewalk, sure, but I suppose it is a motor vehicle. I believe he makes the trip pretty often, and I wonder how well that battery holds out for these sojourns.
-A young couple, the guy hunches a bit at the counter to sign a receipt or whatever & his girlfriend discretely begins humping him from behind. Hilarity.

And the big one, where I won't be using any names, just happened last week.
Customer: Americano.
This is a customer I've seen many times before. He's always gotten an americano but not always in the same size. Often times people come in looking sour - I imagine they're in need of caffeine - but he was working a mean scowl.
Me: A double? ...Large, medium?
Cust: Medium.
Me: Anything else this morning? ...$1.99.
Cust: What are you always fucking smiling about?
Me: Uh... I'm sorry?
Cust: Why are you always fucking smiling?
Me: [Thinking he might be taking the piss] To hide the deep sadness within.
Cust: What?
Me: [A bit more dramatically] To hide the deep sadness within.
Cust: Just make the coffee.
Me: Uh... well I'm sorry you feel that way.
Cust: I can't even come in here anymore because of you.
Me: And why is that?
Cust: You're just so... smarmy.
Me: Alright...
As I finished the drink I thought about the chances I had to turn this around, all the sinister things I could say. After all, it's not often one is openly insulted first thing in the morning... without provocation. I decided quickly that none of that was worth it, and he works nearby anyway. I don't know what he's saying to other people about me, but I certainly don't need to give him ammunition.
Me: [Without sarcasm, if you can believe it] Your americano. Have a good one!
Cust: Just stop it, [my name].

Because seven eight nine!

Customer: A medium Americano.
Me: Okay, anything else?
Cust: That's all.
Me: It'll be one ninety-nine.
Cust: One ninety-eight?
Me: Uh... one ninety-nine.
Cust: Alright.

Maybe this was only funny to me?

The Roar

My first job was at Food Lion when I was the ripe young age of 16. Although too early for diagnosis of many major mental illnesses, but not for early onset misanthrope!

When I first asked for an application, the incredulous cashier asked me how old I was. This was discouraging enough to delay me until my parents made an ultimatum of some sort. I discovered that crippling boredom sets in fairly quickly when all your friends have Summer jobs to complain about. See, ultimatums tend to have the opposite of the desired effect on me... like my jackass within wants to defy someone on the principle that they want me to do something. Anyway, I doubt my parents had much luck enforcing whatever punishment they had devised considering I was home alone all day.

After returning the now months-old application (not like any work experience was going to appear on there during that time), I received what I had thought would be an interview & turned out to be "see where you can put yourself on this schedule." In fact, I immediately got a clock-in number and was set before the break room television with a training video. This thing was so insipid and outdated that it wasn't even funny. A despondent employee recommended I stop the video and read the paper in the span of time it would take to watch (an hour), but all I could find was The Lion's Roar, featuring winners from the Cashier's Olympics. No, that is not shit you can make up. Incidentally, I continued receiving The Lion's Roar by mail for years after my employment there.

My job description was one I have not witnessed before or since, "Front End." Most grocery stores, including other Food Lions, separate this into three separate jobs.
1) Cashier: More important than anything is your IPM (items per minute). Let me tell you that my IPM was so distressingly low that management frequently talked about it. Let me also tell you that your manager telling the elderly lady that it was okay to go back home to get more money in the middle of a transaction will tick down your IPM rapidly and keep you from beginning new transactions. I would, however, like to be the one trying to figure out why it took 45 minutes for some kid to ring up Mueslix and adult diapers.
2) Bagger: I will say that many people, upon realizing I'm the only employee in the front of the store, will start to bag their own groceries. Still, a fair percentage will glare at you the entire transaction with a look that says "When is the goddamn bag boy going to show up?" These same people will ask for help getting their groceries to the car as other customers line up. Yes, of course I was later chided by management for not providing this service for them. Sometimes there was a bagger manchild who would offer anyone with a bag or more help to their car, but generally I was unable to spontaneously asexually reproduce so I could help some yuppie asshole squeeze her groceries in next to the bike in her trunk. Always a bike in the trunk.
3) Stocker: Whenever we had a free moment, we were meant to be "blocking." Blocking consisted of arranging items near one's register to be aesthetically pleasing. Whenever I was alone in the front (most of the time), I was not supposed to move more than one register away. Those three aisles of candy were always fucking gorgeous. Whenever some jerkoff kid would toss the shit around I'd be there to put it back. Other times, when there might be another employee around, I'd take a cart with misplaced items around. I'll talk about that more later...

So I have a crush on you... still!

After my last post about crushing on customers, I have bolstered my confidence level. With a little time and encouragement, I am ready to become the bear. Or take on the bear, or successfully evade the bear, I don't remember how it goes exactly. Just keep one thing in mind; have no fear ladies, I am not actually a bear.
BECOMING THE BEAR
I recently watched the movie Grizzly Man, and let me tell you... being a bear is tough! I'm not sure if I'm prepared for the ramifications of defecating in my crush's territory. I'm willing to give it the old college try! If I am accused of anything, it will be of taking the metaphor too far. Or assault. Anyway the point is I have to step it up if I want anything to develop. No more pussyfooting around! No more using words that contain "pussy" either! The ladies only like that if you're talking dirty to 'em, or so I've been told. The closest I've gotten was "I haven't showered in six days," but she didn't go for that. I even told her that bears don't shower. You know she managed to work that into the restraining order! That lawyer was a real bear of a wordsmith.
So if I've learned anything from this (aside from all that cool stuff about bears), it's that ladies like a man of action.
SUBMITTING TO THE BEAR
Any survivalist can tell you that an encounter with a bear is potentially fatal. Most women respond to a bear confrontation in the following ways:
1) Running in fear, obstructing the bear's path with mobile objects and small children (let me tell you this one is pretty irritating).
2) Mace (okay this one is more irritating I guess). Tip: don't fire mace into the wind.
3) Dropping to the floor and pretending to be dead. Most bears will fall for this and leave you alone. As far as I know, there have been no cases of ursine necrophilia.
4) Embracing the bear. This will so confuse the bear he may be unable to act. Or he will kill you instantly with a hug of his namesake. At the very least that would make a kickass obituary.
5) Distracting the bear with bells or bits of string. Bears can be quite playful. They may also mistake you for a woodland trolley, which is of no interest to the bear (except maybe during rush hour).
MOVING ON FROM THE BEAR ANALOGY
There comes a time in every relationship where a man has to stop pretending to be a bear. I forget who it was who said, "Stop that. It went from endearing to creepy like, really fast." Maybe it was that blond girl... I don't remember her name; I haven't seen her in awhile. Here are some signs that the guy who is crushing on you (me) is trying to express interest without anthropomorphisms:
1) I appear to be avoiding looking at your chest. Now I'm not the kind of guy who stares at breasts wantonly, but let's call to mind the "Don't push the button" scenario. When I start finding a girl attractive, a part of my mind tells me not to screw it up by staring at her chest. Now you've done it! Stupid mind. If all else fails, I may pretend to be reading the text on your shirt (which is fucking cruel). Additionally, I frequently worry that transferring change or beverages across the counter will be mistaken for a sly boob-look. Not so!
2) I check your hand for a wedding ring. There's no way I'm gonna ask you about your boyfriend, so if you have one you might as well try to work it into the conversation somehow.
3) The following takes place one or more times:
Me - You live or work around here?
Gal - Oh yeah.
Me - On your way to work?
Gal - Yeah.
Me - Cool, where do you work [again]?
Gal - Oh just up the street.
Me - Cool, cool... uh... have a good one!
Gal - Yeah.
4) In the course of trying to converse with you, I forget to give you your coffee.
5) I put a heart on your latte. Truthfully I do this pretty much every time, but it's cool if you want to take it as a gesture of flattery.
NOT CALLING THE BEAR AWKWARD, BECAUSE HE'S SENSITIVE
There it is, ladies. Call me!

I must have picked up the wrong phone

A few things have been troubling me.
First, there's Qweta. Simple misspelling of QWERTY or something far more sinister? You decide.
Saturday night. Begin scene. I'm checking my phone for missed calls again (none!) when I discover a new message. 919 area code, but a number I don't recognize. I've given my number to countless ladies at the clubs, to be sure, but this is on my private number. Somebody is serious about getting a hold of some Vitamin R.
Rec 8:12 - U better tell ya lil friend 2 keep my name out her mouth.
My little friend... Instantly Scarface comes to mind, but having not shot anyone recently I put that out of my head. Still, looking back, that would be a pretty badass way to tell somebody they were going to die. "My little friend here just can't keep your name out of his mouth." Then the kiss of death puns begin and we have one clusterfuck of a mixed metaphor. Movie goodness! Right, so I respond politely:
Sent 8:15 - I bet the person you meant to send this to would feel pretty threatened right now. I however am having a nice laff
Rec 8:37 - If this is samone then i dnt feel stupid. However da chic im referenin 2 is tish. So i figured u a get da mesage across!
[ed NOTE: names and spelling have not been changed. Texting has no innocents.]
Rec 8:49 - Bein dat u pregnant im not tryna stress u cuz dats a beautiful thng.
Sent 8:53 - Turns out I wasn't pregnant. Just gas.
Rec 9:01 - Dats cute! But its so weird how i saw sum pics of u n yo man on myspace? I wud tel u who but u might beat her ass again
Sent 9:20 - I'm on my way there now. sumbody's bout ta get cut!
Rec 9:20 - Who gurl
Sent 9:30 - Tish or that bitch b fuckin wit my boo
[At this point I had assistance with my messages from a room full of people]
Rec 9:36 - What? Who is ur boo?
Rec 9:39 - How did we change da conversation. Do u even knw who dis is?
Sent 9:43 - Whatevs i lost all my numbers dropin da phone in th toilet
Rec 9:47 - Like i said b4 it aint no beef wit u. Its dat bitch tish dat keep runin ha trap. Dis is qweta
Rec 10:34 - Nicole aint got shit 2 do wit dis so when u c her wit me 2nite dnt let up or whoop ha ass again CUZ I SAID SO.
Sent 10:36 - we straight
Rec 10:45 - What? Yo what da fuck dat mean. Im not 4 dat bs jus let ur bitch ass friend tish knw we gon b at da pool hog n efland.

Aaaand I left it at that.

Good Grief!

I've been struggling to come up with a concept for a new post. I have a few more work stories to tell, but it was running a bit dry. Recently, though, I began to ponder a concept which has always plagued me - why do people think Cathy is funny?
Then I went to the site & the new post material was solidified:
In case you're not wearing your monocle right now, let's just cut to the last frame. "Once I was 'large'. Now I am 'Venti'."
As her girth expands in each frame, so do the grammatical errors. Punctuation goes inside the quotation marks, people. Also, is her mirror (frame 4) on top of her desk (frame 2)? Oh I see, her torso is forming out of the floor as in Hellraiser. As the cellulite ripples over the newly formed bone, we hear the distinct sounds of both... "Flip flip click click." Shit, that is funny! Maybe I was wrong about Cathy!



Okay let's pause to reflect a bit. What is humor? I sound like a right ponce with that question don't I? My answer to that, simply, is the opposite of what is expected, as in irony. Let's examine, for instance, the Alanis Morissette song "Ironic." In the song, several situations are presented as ironic. To wit:
-A black fly in your chardonnay
-Rain on your wedding day
-A free ride when you've already paid
Before you ask, yes I'm doing that from memory. Shut up. Anyway, each situation there is an unfortunate circumstance to be sure (though the last one is lacking any sense whatsoever), but not ironic. Sorry Alanis. I'm not the first person to point this out, I know, but I'm proving a point here. The irony in a song called "Ironic" is that it contains no ironies. That's funny! Let's apply that then to Cathy. The humor in a strip meant to be comic is that it contains no humor. It's all making sense now!
Now we are presented with a puzzle - which line is bigger? Is it
a) the countertop
b) Cathy's mouth
c) They're both the same size, silly!
If you've ever read an optical illusion book, you'll know the answer is c. It's the opposite of what you'd expect! See, the way the lines are drawn, you're meant to assume the counter space is larger. That's a thing we artists (and by "we" I mean the royal "we," or not me) call perspective. If you pull out a ruler you'll see they are actually the same length. No, don't measure your computer screen, silly idiot! Take my word for it. In the next panel, surely Cathy will devour the counter! I think you'll join me in saying, "SHIT dude, that's funny! Cathy, you so ca-ray-zeeee!"


For you monoclely challenged, the final frame reads
Cathy: "We used to 'pig out'. Now we 'bird out'."
Cathy's mom or possibly older friend: "I crave hulled millet!"
SHIT dude, that's fu- HOLD IT! Yes, I know "hulled millet" sounds pretty silly, but let's look at this like the professional humorologists we are. Here's the situation:
1) Cathy takes a common idiomatic phrase and makes it her own.
2) Cathy's older friend (whom they bring along to appear younger and more fertile) interprets the new idiom literally.
Using our basic definition of humor, let's do some interpretating of our own!
Expectation: To have made it to such a ripe old age, Cathy's friend/mom must have an ounce of sense.
Irony: The woman is a blathering idiot!
Everybody now, "SHIT dude, that's funny!"
Artificial zoom!
Cathy: Listen to me tell you about woman things!
[Cathy's friends snap each other's bra straps]
Cathy's friends: Lip Augmentation! Eyelash tattoo! Botox!
This is an excerpt from a much longer comic, but I assure you no context is lost in the summation. It's time to apply life skillz...
Expectation: Cathy has ten portly, possibly gay friends.
Ironic reversal: These women would rather have voluntary surgery than listen to Cathy speak.
Before we jump in with hearty guffaws, this shit is layered!
Expectation: Cathy's call to maintain confident womanhood will be looked upon with admiration by the countless female readers who revere her.
Ironic reversal: Cathy is a pathetic mockery of feminism through its vapid adulation of bourgeois excess. I'm usin' big ol' words!

Okay that's all I got for today. I looked at a picture of the author and felt intense pity. Also, she apparently won the Reuben Award in 1992. The criteria for that seems to be... to have not won it before. Unless you're Gary Larson.

IMAGES USED UNDER FAIR USE, REVIEW. CATHY IS COPYRIGHTED 2008 CATHY GUISEWITE. HELLRAISER IS COPYRIGHTED 1987 NEW WORLD PICTURES.

Winders! Part 3: Gaping Maw

A phenomenon to which I am no stranger - a situation gives instance wherein one must look upwards. As I have mentioned, this is no cause to allow the jaw to hang lackadaisically. No, dear friend, keep the lips pursed as though yearning upwards for a kiss... perhaps from a lover leaning over the La-Z-Boy to bid a good night. Should this lover be greeted with an agape oral cavity, said osculating person's libido shall be summarily withered. Upon entering Sam's Club, a crushing majority are floored by the terrifying beauty of floor to ceiling excess. End-caps are terraced as in rice paddies to maximize the number of impulse buys mountained atop one another. As each scooter rounds the corner, it brings with it a fresh fly-catcher. Without bothering to pluck the struggling bugs from their teeth, they putter down the aisles with eyes heavenward. Children scatter, and the elderly are cut down like so many daisies beneath a tractor. One must make way, as the sublime ignores all precedent and demands appreciation.

When customers were not completely ignoring me or just asking where things were, they were finding surprising ways to incorrectly answer my question. Perhaps you've been in a place where you've had to utter the same phrase countless times, such as "Paper or plastic?" and "Too boku, no boom boom for soul brother!" Have you then received the same clever retort as many times? Here are the most common responses, in descending order of frequency:
"Do you have any home improvements coming up?"
1. "Huh?"
This may be replaced simply with a blank stare.
2. "Where the tools?"
Try looking over by the mirrors & you might see 'em.
3. "I sure hope not!"
Then I guess you have something to look forward to when you get back from Sam's Club.
4. "How much?"
I have no idea.
5. "Not fer winders!"

That last one requires a bit of explanation. See, there's a window display on the booth, but there are also numerous indicators that Lundberg offers more than just diminutive windows. In addition to the suffix to the name, "Windows and Siding," my booth had signs hanging from the front with all the different offerings. Each sign was printed in a large, red font popular at airport landing strips. What I'm saying here is that failure to recognize that windows were not the sole product could only mean one of two things: 1) Most people don't pay a lick of attention, 2) Sam's Club shoppers are completely illiterate, purchasing only items which they can see through the package or recognize from the logo. I'll let you guess which I'm leaning towards.

Okay, I understand that I'm looking pretty harsh here. Let's take a moment, though, to examine the following construction:
"Not fer winders!"
The closest I can get to deciphering that is... "I'm not in the market, currently, for windows." I suppose it's the preposition that's throwing me off. Much like the phrase "Where my dawgs at?" there is no clear reason to include a preposition... at all. Isn't the purpose of simplifying language to colloquialisms to, you know, shorten stuff? Well I might not have preferred having rednecks yell "NO WINDOWS!" every time I asked a question, but at least it would have made some sense. Now for the real puzzler.
"Not fer gutters!"
As I have said, the window display was the most prominent item on my booth. Clog-free gutters fell third in the list of products, neatly nestled between "ROOFING" and "TRIMMING." How, then, were gutters so frequently picked as whipping boy for my enterprise? Additionally, this negates both the inattention and illiteracy theories I posed earlier, since they must have read the sign in order to come to that conclusion. Allow me to illustrate via Paint:

So... you'll notice there's no vest in that drawing. No vest I tell you. All summer I'd get calls from my "manager" (the one I saw only twice in person) telling me when I'd be working, etc., and giving the weekly vest update. "The vests are coming in Monday." "There was a problem with the vest order, so we should have them by Friday." "Won't things be much better once those vests come in?" But they never did. One of the last conversations I had with the guy was about the vests coming shortly after I'd be returning to Chapel Hill, where I would not be selling windows. Then this:
Frumpy guy: You can just leave the vest in the booth when you leave the last time.
Me: I never got a vest.
FG: You already returned it?
Me: I never got one.
FG: Right, the new ones haven't come in yet.
Me: I never got one of the old ones either.
FG: You're sure?
Me: I'm sure.
See, if I'd had a vest, which was blue (unlike the red Partner vests), I began to figure people wouldn't mistake me for an employee anymore. Then they'd stop asking me where things were! I realize now that was a delusion, but without dreams, what else did I have? And that wasn't the end of the vest saga. My father started getting calls from FG about the vest and even wanted to arrange to pick it up from their house.
Dad: Where's that vest so I can return it to these guys?
Me: I don't have the vest.
Dad: You already returned it?
Me: No I never got one.
Dad: He's telling me he wants to pick it up. You're sure you never got one?
Me: I heard a lot about the vests, but I never had the pleasure of meeting one. You could give him that Food Lion vest. He probably wouldn't notice.
Dad: They want you to pay to replace it if you've lost it.
Me: I will happily give them the cash value of no vest. Which is nothing. No dollars for no vest. You think they'll take a check?
Alright I made that last part up, but they did call him several more times. He also forwarded me a letter about it. I wish I'd had the foresight to keep the letter, but I think I can reproduce it fairly accurately.
[Lundberg letterhead]
Dear XXXXXX,
Please return the vest you were given as a demo representative.
Sincerely,
Frumpy Guy

That's all I have for now. I can feel my life will draining as the mere image assaults my brain. Sexually.