...and the panic begns

Thanksgiving is a great time of year.

It s a great time to be together with family.  It is the perfect time to be grateful for all that we have.  It lets us reflect on everything around us.  We gather together.  We enjoy a wonderful meal.  We share laughs and stories.  We remember all those who have gone before us.  We look forward to the Christmas season and we prepare for holiday shopping in hopes of bringing joy to each other.  In short, it brings out the best in all of us. Yes, Thanksgiving is a great time of year.

But the couple days before it...oy!

You see, those couple days before the great holiday bring out all the panic stricken people who are preparing a great Thanksgiving feast but have left all the details until the last possible minute.  These people come stumbling into my store hoping, praying, that I will be able to solve all of their problems with a simple wave of my hand.  And the questions they have are fantastic.  Now, admittedly,  it is often men who come in at the last moment for purchases, but, to be fair, they are often sent in by their wives.  Some of the best questions come from husbands who don't know a roasting rack from a hat rack, and quite frankly, wouldn't know what to do with either.

Him:  "Can you help me, I need a tablecloth."

Me:  "Okay, what size?"

Him: (Blankly) "Ummmm...size..ummm..." I can almost read his mind: Size? Tables have sizes?

Me:  "It's ok, how many people sit at your table?"

Him: "What do you mean?" I thought that was easy, but guess not.

Me:  "I mean, when you sit at the table, how many people are there with you?"

Him:  "Oh, I get it.  Let's see one at each end and two on each side, so about 6 or 7."  Actually it's exactly 6 but I know that new math is tough.

Me:  "Ok, six.  You need a 60"x84" to cover your table.  Does your table have a leaf?"

Him:  Leaf?  Tables have leaves? "Ummm....leaf...ummm..."

Me:  "No problem, if you don't know you probably aren't going to use it."

Him:  "Are you sure?"

Me:  "I'm not sure since you haven't invited me to dinner."

Him:  "No, I mean about the size?  What if you're wrong?"

Me:  "Do you think I'm wrong?"

Him:  "Ummm..."

Me:  "Did your wife send you here for a tablecloth?"

Him:  "...yes... "

Me:  "Then get that one; go home and be happy.  Trust me."

Him:  "...okay..."


Sometimes, the stress of last minute buying can be too much for some people.  Often it is like a therapy session that they need to get out all of their frustration they've had up to the moment when they walked into the store.  And, please God, I have better have the item they need or they will turn on a dime and spit venom at me like I was the worst person since Hitler.  You know, if Hitler sold wares and do-dads.

It's not their fault, however, sometimes it's just a case of something else going on in their lives.  I know that these people aren't mad at me, I just happen to be in front of them when the have decided to let go of everything. Often, people are having a problem with a situation and they haven't found a way to let go of it.  Then they come into my store and they find me.  I am the vessel that they can expel all of their frustration into and walk away feeling calmer because their trouble has been told to someone, anyone, besides the person with whom they are actually having the problem.  The following is one of those situations:


Him:  "Hey, I'm looking for that thing you had in your ad a couple of weeks ago."

Me: "Okay, which item was it?"

Him: "You know, it was on the second or third page."  Oh, that item, why didn't you say so.

Me: "Gonna have to narrow it down for me, sir."

Him: "I don't know, my wife wants it."  Of course, and since I read minds I know what it is.

Me: "Let's get a copy of the ad and we can look."

Him: (Looking at the ad): "That's it right there." Great, time for the bad news.

Me: "I'm sorry, sir, we've been sold out of that for about a week, but we'll be getting more next week.  I guessing you probably needed it today."

Him: "Oh, come on! (he takes a huge breath and his catharsis begins)  My wife sent me here to get this thing for her and  couldn't get here last week because I had other things to do but I told her I would get it as soon as I could get there and I told her she should just go because I wasn't sure when that would be but she insisted I should go because I work closer to here than she does and she's always doing this to me and I hate going to these places because I never know where anything is and I never get the right thing and then she makes me bring it back and this just sucks it all goes back to this one time when I was supposed to get something and I got the wrong thing and she never lets me forget it so now she makes me get things for her all the time her makeup her tampons her everything I swear she just has it out for me ever since that one time and now I'm here and you don't have what I want and this just sucks!" (exhales)

Me:  ".....I'm sorry?" for ever even having made eye contact with you

Him: "Oh, it doesn't matter."  really? because it sounded like it mattered a lot! 

Him:  "No, I'll go somewhere else.  Thanks anyway."

Me:  "...you're welcome?"


But the best are just the random, bizarre questions that arise.  The kind of questions that truly are idiotic because fear and panic has wiped the mind clean of rational thought.  Those are the best.

Her:  "Which of these shades will fit my lamp?"

Me:  "Which lamp did you choose?"

Her:  "No, the one I have at home."

Me:  "Well, what does it take now a harp or a post."

Her:  "I don't know."

Me:  "I kinda need to know which kind so I can make a recommendation."

Her:  "It's a white one."  Oh, you should've led with that.



Or this one:

Her:  "I need a cooker for my turkey."  Roasting pan/cooker...whatever

Me:  "Great, what size turkey?"

Her:  "I haven't bought it yet."

Me:  "No problem, what size are you thinking of getting?"

Her:  "A big one."  You're right, big is a size.

Me:  "I meant how many pounds."

Her:  "I don't know...maybe...35."

Me:  "Ok, well, I have some large roasters that can accommodate that."  (I show her the pans)

Her:  "And this whole thing fits in the microwave?"

....oh, we have some work to do

and the truth shall set you free...

From a very early age, we are told to always tell the truth.  We learn from our family, our schooling, our faith, our society; telling the truth is the right thing to do.  I understand that a small, dishonest statement to save someone's feelings is sometimes in order.  Let's face it, there is no honest answer for: "Does this make me look fat?" Overall, however, honesty is the best policy.  But, sometimes, just sometimes, people just decide not to tell the truth.  Do you know who those people are? 

People who want to return something.

Not everyone, mind you.  No, just the assholes who are done using something and have decided to return it for a full refund because they are done with it.  Now, I'm not talking about the people who have no receipt and are trying to find a way to get an exchange for an item I don't sell because they think they are entitled to one.  Nor am I talking about the people who just stole something off my sales floor and are trying to return it like they bought it honestly.  No, those two groups of fucktards are way different than the liars I'm talking of.  The people I have in mind have their receipt, have the box, have even repackaged the product.  However, instead of saying that they just don't want their glorious purchase, or admitting they have buyer's remorse, they feel compelled to make up some bullshit story about why they need to return it.  Or, better yet, that they never even used it!  Let's start with this one:

Her:  "I need to return this coffeemaker."

Me:  "Ok, miss, is there anything wrong with it?"

Her:  "No, I never even opened it."

Me:  "You didn't open it?"  Noticing the box clearly has been opened.

Her:  "No, see, here's my receipt."  She starts to get anxious...this'll be fun.

Me:  "No problem, miss, I just need to check it."

Her:  "For what? I told you I didn't even open it."  She gets a little more nervous.

Me:  "I just need to make sure everything is correct. You understand don't you?"  I start to open the box.

Her:  "No, I don't understand.  I told you I DIDN'T open it!"  Right about now she's acting like the guy in the movie MIDNIGHT EXPRESS just before they find the dope on him.

And this is why:  As I open the box, there is still coffee residue in the carafe and the box completely reeks of coffee.  Not to mention it's wet.

Me:  "Oh, I'm sorry miss, this appears to have been used." 

Her:  "What?  Oh, my husband must've used it without telling me!"  Of course he did.


You know what would have made this transaction a lot easier?  Telling the truth.  I mean, if she had just come up the counter and said, "I don't like this, can I have my money back?"  I wouldn't have even batted an eyelash.  I seriously do not care if or why you want to return something.  I do care that you think I'm an idiot who won't see through your thinly-veiled attempt to make me think it is somehow my fault that you no longer want your item. 

It's bad enough that people feel they need to lie about something they want to return, but it is downright deplorable the stories they make up so that they can get a discount.  There are all kinds of legitimate ways to get a discount.  Coupons are the easiest.  Lots of people clip coupons and use them to save a little scratch.  Little effort; big reward.  Think about it, knowing how to use a pair of scissors (real scissors, mind you, not those left handed fuckers with the green plastic on them) can keep money in your pocket.  Shopping for items on sale is another great way to save some money.  Forget scissors, the only skill you need to accomplish this is knowing how to read.

But, there is a large group of people who frequent retail establishments who neither have the wherewithal to read or the manual dexterity to clip coupons.  No, their great skill is being a total asshole and just asking you for money off a regular priced item.  I'm not talking about the people who want to offer you two live chickens and some bits of string in exchange for goods and services.  No, those people are different.  I'm talking about the people who want to lie to you and hope that you believe their bullshit story so that they can get a huge discount on their purchase.  I like to call these people "the discounters" because I like to discount their story (see what I did there?).  There are many retailers who offer discounts.  Senior citizen discounts, military discounts, student discounts, club member discounts, the list goes on and on.  The discounters, however, do not qualify for any regularly advertised discount.  Instead, they make up a discount and expect you to adhere to it because why shouldn't I drop the price by 80% just because you say so.  I have heard people ask for lots of discounts in my day, but I will tell you about the three best, ever.


1.  I have cancer.

Her:  "Hi, I know this is awkward, but I have stage 3 cancer and my medicine is very expensive, so is there any way I could get a discount on my purchase?"

Okay, pull at the heartstring.  I get it.  And, I might have been inclined to acquiesces and give her a discount if she hadn't been buying a set of golf clubs and balls, three new designer golf shirts and various other items.  It takes some serious stones to make up something like that

Me:  "Unfortunately, ma'am, I don't offer a discount like that."  I can tell that isn't going to go over well.

Her:  "Well, I wanted to get some things for my husband, but I guess I won't now!"  Yeah, I'm sure your husband would've loved the new ladies Under Armor shirts, I hear they support the bust pretty well.

I know what you're thinking:  how do you know she was lying?  I don't.  But based on the evidence given to me, I'm going with that it was a lie.  Besides, I hope to God that someone with stage 3 cancer would have more morals than to ask for a discount on her new golf clubs.



2.  I'm a tourist.

Him:  "Hi, I'm traveling from outside the country and I'd like my tourist discount please."

What in the fuck is a tourist discount?

Me:  ?

This one actually happened to a coworker of mine.  She very politely told him that we don't offer a military discount to our own citizens, so why would we offer a tourist discount to someone from abroad?  I'll just go back to the above statement:

What in the fuck is a tourist discount?



And, finally, we come to the best one of all.  This one is 100% true and I have a witness to it.  So get ready for:

3.  I'm retarded.

Her:  "I need a scale, but they cost so much.  Which are the cheapest?"

Me:  "Well, I have several that start at $20."

Her:  "Do you have any for around $5?"

Me:  "Unfortunately, I don't.  The least expensive ones that I have are $20."

Her:  "Well, could I get one for $5 because I don't have much money and I have the mental retardation."

Yup, you read it.  THE MENTAL RETARDATION.  That's exactly what she called it and she was very sincere.

Me:  "I'm sorry miss, I can't give a discount for something like that."  I really wasn't sure what to say.

Her:  "Are you sure, because I have the mental retardation."  Again with that phrase.  At that moment one of my associates came by and I quickly pitched the customer to her.

Me:  "I'm sure but Julie here will be happy to help you find one of the scales I spoke about."  Julie had heard the conversation and looked at me like I just stuck a needle in her eye.  Luckily, the customer decided to leave on a high note.

Her:  "That's ok, thank you anyway.  God bless.  GOD BLESS YOU!"


God has truly blessed me.

God gave me a job in retail.

This ain't Chuk E Cheese you know

You should never bring a kid shopping.

Let me clarify this: you should never bring a kid shopping if either your kid or yourself is an asshole.  By, "asshole kid", I mean the kind of kid that runs around my store screaming that they want something, need something, have to pee, or just plain scream.  And, by default, if you have an "asshole kid", you are usually an "asshole parent".  That is the parent who ignores asshole kid while they yell and scream and knock down expensive items causing them to crash to the ground.  To make things easier, we will, heretofore, refer to these two groups as AK and AP. 

We all know who the AK is right?  It's the kid that is constantly away from their parent,  yelling, screaming, and knocking stuff down.  They pick up product and drop it to the floor.  They open packages like they own them.  They spill their little snack or drink cup all over the place.  They climb all over the fixtures.  If there are two of them together (please, God, no) they play hide and seek all throughout the store.  They annoy other customers by being precocious and feeling the need to talk to them and ask them questions like they're long lost friends.  Have I missed anything?  You get the idea.  I understand if this sounds harsh, but I have seen way too much of this in my years as a retailer.  And, please, don't get offended if your kid has run around yelling and screaming and I look at you with disdain.  I know that all kids can be unruly at one time or another.  I have sympathy that for the fact that, once in a while, kids get out of hand.  Hey, shit happens.  That doesn't, necessarily, put you in the AP category.  No, you hit the AP category when you ALLOW your AK to run, scream, throw, break, destroy, rape and pillage my store, all while you continue to shop as though they weren't there. 

Do you know what will put you higher on the AP list?  Losing your child in my store and blaming them when they can't find you.  They're children for Christsake, it's your job to watch them not theirs.  It sure as hell isn't mine.  I have worked in a multitude of different retail establishments and a child has gotten lost in almost every one of them.  The majority of parents are really concerned when a child is lost.  It is a very scary situation.  But guess who isn't all that concerned.  That's right, the AP.  They let their kid wander away in a 52,000 square foot store and have no clue or care where they are.  Most of these kids are young (under 6).  Why not just put a sign on them that says "steal me"?  These are the kids who, eventually, can't find their AP and get scared.  Often, another customer will find them and flag me down.  It then becomes my responsibility to find the AP.  Often the response goes like this:

AP:  "I told you not to wander away."

Kid:  (Begins to cry) "I'm sorry."

AP:  "You should be, what if someone had taken you?  Now stop crying, Mommy wants to look at new yoga pants."

Really??!  That's your takeaway from this?  It's the kid's fault that you're a neglectful pile of amphibian shit.  Great life lesson for the kid:  Just ignore your responsibilities and when someone else takes charge pass the blame so that you look like the hero.  Overall, however, the AP and the AK are two separate entities.  It's when the AP has an AK in tow that the real trouble can start.  You see, an AK can be unruly and troublesome, but when they have an AP this is a pair that can beat a full house any day.  It usually starts with the AK taking off and running through the store knocking things down.  Then, the AK manages to get out of eyeshot from the AP.  The AP then continues shopping, but shouts the name of the AK to come back, even though the AK has no intention of returning, and the AP could give a fuck if he does.  The two of them just continue to shout and scream and shout and scream and shout and scream.

On the other hand, I could take the shouting and screaming.  I could put up with the broken product and almost-missing child.  I could get over all of it, as long as there were no....bodily function malfunctions.  You see, if have been in several situations where an AP has an AK who has just juiced up on three cans of Mountain Dew and a giant-sized Kit Kat bar, when they realize that they need to pee.  The kid will start jumping around and making all kinds of noise about needing a bathroom before the AP decides to acknowledge it.  The response usually comes like this:

AP:  (continuing to shop)  "Do you need the bathroom?"

AK:  "YYYYEEEESSS!!!!"

AP:  "Well can you wait until we come around this aisle, I just want to look at something."

MOTHERFUCKER!  This kid is about to wet his pants and you want to continue to shop.  Take him to the Goddamn bathroom, I assure you the same stuff will be here when you get out.  But, no, you continue to shop and little Johnny sonofabitch pisses himself right in the middle of my store.  Now, not only do we have to clean the store, we have to clean up pee.  Thank you, thank you so much.

But that is still not the bottom of the abyss of neglectful parenting.  No, I have one more delightful anecdote to relay to you.  It will never cease to amaze me that, sometimes, people confuse a dressing room with a toilet.  I understand that we all have to go, but really, in a dressing room?  And, I'm not talking about pee.  No sir, that would be too easy.  Yes, people (I am assuming children because the alternative is just painful) have pooped in a dressing room in my store.  This has happened three times in my career.  Three times too many by my count.  And, I don't understand what people were thinking.  I mean, when you sat on that little bench, there was no hole in it.  Where did you think the poop was going to go?  I understand the two dogpiles I have found in the corner, but on the bench?  That is just too much for me. 

So if you're an AP, don't bring your kid shopping.  If you have an AK, please leave them at home.  If you are the AP of an AK, stay way the fuck out of my store.  And, if you have to poop, find a toilet, not a dressing room.

That is all...

Can you break a $50?

I like money.

I like all kinds of money.  I feel good when people give me their money in exchange for goods and services.  I am a tried and true capitalist.  I believe in free enterprise.  I am filled with a sense of joy when someone comes to our great country from abroad and starts a business here so that they can make money.  Money, when used properly, is a wonderful thing.

Yes, I like money.

Which is why the following little story is going to give me great pain when I relate it to you.  Not that long ago, I was forced to shy away from money.  Not because it was ill-gotten.  No, the transaction was completely legitimate.  Not because it was counterfeit.  No, this money was on the up and up.  Not because it was foreign.  Not because it was torn.  Not because of any reason except one...its origin.

It was very warm the other day, and it was even warmer in my store.  Being late Spring here in New England, many of us are quite happy to see and feel warmer weather.  And, being in New England, and although it was probably only 70 degrees, people were dressed like it was August 23rd at noon.  One such woman approached my register to make a purchase.  She was wearing VERY tight, white pants.  You know the kind.  Not the pair that took six men and a smaller dog to squeeze her into them.  Not the pair that she jumped off the bureau and hoped they made the proper alignment on the way down.  No, this was the pair of pants that were applied with a thin layer of spray paint.  To compliment this lovely pair of pedal pushers, she had on a sky blue, button down, halter top/half-shirt thing with a with very few buttons and even less of them fastened.  I'm not sure if the fabric top was two sizes too small, or her top was two sizes too big, but the only thing keeping that shirt together was sheer will and shortened breathing.  She put her purchase on the counter and I proceeded to ring her out.  Once completed, I read her the total:

Me: "That'll be $8.47, please."

She never said a word.  She had no purse.  She had nothing in her hand but a phone.  When suddenly, she realized that she had to pay for this.  Silly rabbit, you need to provide money in exchange for goods and services.  Maybe she was too constricted from her pants and shirt and little blood was reaching her brain, but she flashed an awkward smile and began to look for money.  She quickly felt the outside of her pants.  Nothing.  She felt the back of her pants.  Nothing.  Then it dawned on her.  Reaching her right hand up to the front of her blouse, she stuck her hand inside her shirt, reached under her left boob and proceeded to pull out a very folded twenty dollar bill.  Now, I know it was under her left boob, because she had to use her left hand to lift it up a little to give the right access to her "wallet".  Holding the bill in front of me, she says the following:

Her:  "Sorry, I don't have any change."

Before we go any further, I'd like to clarify a few things.  First, I like money.  I like money a lot.  I like money a real lot.  Second, I like boobs.  I like boobs a lot.  I like boobs a real lot.  Third, I have always believed that two great pairs that go great together should always be enjoyed.  For example:  chocolate and peanut butter, peanut butter and jelly, jelly and donuts, donuts and coffee, coffee and cream, cream and cookies, cookies and milk, milk and cereal, cereal and breakfast, breakfast and bed, bed and bath, bath and bubbles, Bubbles and Boomer, the list goes on and on.  But, you know what's not on that list?  SWEATY BOOBS AND PAPER MONEY!  I mean, come on!  Your left tit is not a pocketbook.  God knows what kind of bacteria is fermenting under that thing in the heat.  Not to mention that money is one of the dirtiest substances known to man.  Everybody and their brother has touched it.  Not only that, but paper is made from cotton which absorbs, oh, I don't know...EVERYTHING!  And here she is, holding it in front of me, with a cute little smile like she's doing me this huge favor offering me a tit-sweat soaked twenty dollar bill to pay for her wares.  Is there anything else you'd like to give me?  Hepatitis perhaps?

Now comes the ugly part.  I have to take this money from her hand and act like everything is cool.  I put my hand out flat for her to drop the bill into.  She does.  EWWWW...IT'S WET.  I unfold it to put it in my drawer so that it can contaminate the rest of the money I have collected so far.  I count back her change to her wondering if she's going to put it back where she retrieved the twenty from.  She dropped it all in the bag with her purchase and left the store.  As quick as I could, I got the hand sanitizer out and tried to disinfect as best as possible.  And, as I washed and tried to move on with my day, I reflected on what she said and thanked my lucky stars I didn't know the answer to the question:

Where would she have kept any change?

For more options, press "7"

No one should be without a cell phone.

They fulfill  a definite need in case of an emergency.  They help keep us in contact with friends and families.  They serve as a diversion and keep us entertained.  Yes, no one should be without a cell phone.

Unless, of course, you're some asshole who doesn't know when to hang up and speak to the people who are actually with you.  You know the people I mean.  You see them at a restaurant talking on the phone while the person they are with sits in silence.  They are the people who are texting at the movies instead of enjoying what is on the screen. 

And they are all over my store. 

These are the people who come to the checkout and refuse to hang up the phone, or, at the very least, stop the conversation.  Nope, just continue to be rude.  Keep on talking to Sally-Sue Sonofabitch there, because, you know, I am practically invisible and meaningless to you.  And, by all means, get offended when I talk louder to try and elicit a response from you. 

A woman comes up to the register with three items and a very loud conversation on her phone.  Understanding that her conversation is much more important to her than her interaction with me, I begin the checkout process.  Being good at what I do, it is over very quickly.  The conversation on the phone continues.  That's when this begins:

Me:  "Your total is $21.57."

Her: (to the phone) "...so I told her...blah, blah, blah,...green curtains...blah, blah, blah,...lady things..."

Me: (a little louder) "Your total is $21.57."

Her: "...she's such a bitch...blah, blah, blah,...those are totally fake...blah, blah, blah..."

Me:  (clearing my throat for dramatic effect) "Miss, your total is $21.57."

Her: (to the phone) "...hang on I'm at the checkout." She stops and looks at me blankly

Me: "Your total is $21.57."

Her: "Oh, I didn't want those two things, just this."  (she goes back to her phone) "Yeah, I'm at the checkout, the guy totally wasn't paying attention and rung everything up."


Of course it's my fault, I mean, who else would be to blame?  Here's an idea, HANG UP!  Or, if you don't want to hang up, just tell them to hang on for a minute.  Could we just go back to manners for a moment and acknowledge the person with whom we are dealing?  I know that there are many people in your life who are much more important than I am, but, please, just give me a little bit of credit that I am worth a few, precious moments of your time.  I don't want to have a conversation with you.  I just want to complete my transaction and move on with my life.  I would, however, like those few moments to be nice. 

Let me just take a moment to say that there are plenty of people who stop their conversation appropriately.  There are those who understand what manners are.  The average person knows when they are about to be rude and they counter act that instance by pausing their conversation to deal with the person in front of them.  But this is not about those people.  No, it is about the 1% who are self-absorbed assholes.  The people that have that speaker thing in their ear and walk around my store talking out loud so that everyone can see they're having a conversation with someone and we weren't invited.  Oh, yes, we hear you closing that big business deal in your loudest voice possible.  "YOU TELL THEM $2MILLION OR WE WALK!"  Wonder what the person on the other end of the line would say if they knew you were picking up a sale priced can of Pringles, big spender?  But there are some people that do this not for our edification, but clearly because they just don't have a clue.

A woman is walking around my store, talking to her phone, clearly agitated,  when I hear the following:

Her:  "I can never find any help here.  You think someone would help."

Like a superhero I speed over to her.  Her back is still to me when I approach.

Me:  "Pardon me miss, do you need some help?"

Her: (still to the phone) "...seriously, there's no one in here to help."

Maybe she didn't hear me.  I get into her line of sight.

Me:  "Miss, did you need some help finding something?"

She looks me right in the face, holds up one finger and (swear to God) says:

"I'm on the phone. (back to the phone) I'm going to have to go up front and ask."



I'll wait, she'll be back...

Bears do what now?

I was thinking about writing something, but I can't quite remember what it was.  It was something funny...

As you all know, I love words and phrases.  Sometimes I hear things and see things that I find amusing or interesting, and they lead me to spout off one of these witty, little rejoinders.  But, sometimes, my mind betrays me.  Usually, I can conjure up adverbs and adjectives; expressions and euphemisms; metaphors and synonyms.  Not tonight.  Tonight I am without a word or a phrase or a story to relay.  And I can't even think of the name of a group of animals that would sound funny.
I wish I could think of something, but tonight my mind seems to have given me the shit end of the stick.  The phrase "the shit end of the stick" has a couple of different origins.  In their public toilets, Roman citizens would rely on a cloth that was attached to a stick which rested within a bowl that contained a mixture of two-parts salt water and one-part catastrophe.  The doo-doo rag, if you will.  After a person had finished their business, they would request this stick to be passed along to them. If they weren't concentrating on the task, they would end up grabbing the end of the stick that was covered in the shit of 50 other guys. This was considered grabbing the "wrong end of the stick." Yeah, no shit. But that's more disgusting than funny.  It's too bad, I'm usually pretty good at coming up with funny things.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think my shit doesn't stink, I'm just, usually, pretty good at this.  I guess I'm up shit creek on this one.  The phrase "up shit creek" first appeared to us in the 1860s and was used by the Secretary of War for the Confederacy to state that the boys of South Carolina really "had old Lincoln up shit creek."  Now, you might think I'm full of shit on this one, but you can actually look that up in the Annual report from 1868.  I know you're thinking that's a crock of shit, but believe my that this is no bullshit.  As a friend of mine would say, just for shits and giggles, let's say you give shit about what I'm going on about right now.  You're reading along waiting for the moment when the shit hits the fan hoping that it'll be hilarious.  I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't think its coming tonight.  Your shit for brains author can't even come up with a coherent thought tonight.  I'm just sitting here with a shit eating grin on my face thinking of all the other things I have written that have give me a chuckle.  The phrase "shit eating grin" we usually take to mean smug or being happy at the expense of everyone else's misery.  However, there is some evidence that its origin can be traced to the New England Journal of Medicine in the 1950s.  A doctor observed that some schizophrenics, while deep in their dementia, would eat their own feces and smile while doing it.   Holy shit that's awful!  I guess, I'm in deep shit on this blog entry.  No good ideas, no random customer observations.  Just a lot of nonsensical stuff.  Well, I guess I should just shit or get off the pot.  I mean, if I can't come up with something, its time to move along.  I suppose I could just start making notes about all the funny things I see and hear on a regular basis.  Maybe then I could organize them and make them into smaller, easier to manage ideas.  Alphabetize them, rank them, really put them to good use.  You know, some kind of list. 

But what would I call it?

Oh, wait, a group of dung beetles is called a qianglang.  Yeah, that was it...wait, that's not funny at all.

Out

How long do you cook a 3 minute egg?

It's tough to admit when you're wrong.

Let's face it, human nature, instinctively, wants us to be correct.  There are those who can tough up and take being wrong as a learning experience.  There are those who quietly accept that they thought one thing when it was actually another.  There are those who embrace being corrected because they truly did not know the correct answer.  And then there are those who cling on for dear hope even though they are just plain wrong.  They know they're wrong, but they are, in no way, going to admit that defeat.  Yes, it's tough to admit when you're wrong.  Losing is not something we like to do.  But, we all have to learn how. 

Unless, you're a customer in my retail establishment.

If that's the case, you can be wrong as fuck about whatever it is you are asking, and even when I try to tell you what the matter of the fact is, you can continue to talk to me like I'm wrong.  Not just wrong, like I just teleported onto this world and it is my first day among the humans wrong.  Not just like its my first day among the humans wrong, but like its my first day among the humans AND I took my dick out wrong.  Not just like I just took my....okay you get the picture.  But, seriously, if you don't know something, and you ask for my help, don't correct me like I don't know what I'm saying.  Believe me, I am one of those people who has the very strong ability to admit when I don't know something.  If you ask me a question and I tell you, "I don't know."  It means I DON'T KNOW.  Don't try asking the question a bunch of different ways and expect a different answer!

Case in point. 

Sporting goods store closed at 6pm.  It is now 6:57pm.  Phone rings:

Customer:  "Hi, what are your hours today?"

Me: "We actually closed at 6 today, sir."

Customer: "You closed at 6?"

Me: "Yes, sir, we closed at 6."

Customer: "I don't understand." Buddy, what's to understand? We closed at 6!

Me: "We closed at 6, sir.  Is there something I can help you with?"

Customer: "You closed at 6?  What does that mean?"  Let me clear the confusion.

Me:  "It means at 6 o'clock, we closed."

Customer: "What time is it now?"

Me:  "Almost 7."

Customer: "And you're closed?"  Now you're starting to get it

Me:  "Yes sir, now what can I help you with?"

Customer:  "Why are you still there?"  No you're not

Me:  "Well, sir, we have to clean the store and prepare for the next day's business."

Customer:  "So, you're open?"

Me:  "No, sir, we're closed."

Customer:  "I don't get it."  And you probably won't


Continuing to ask the question in a myriad of ways does not change the answer.  Some people think that it will.  I like to refer to these people as, "stupid people."  But, there is another class of people called, "stupider people."  These are the folks who don't know that they're wrong.  In fact, they don't even know that they are the root cause of the problem.  All they know is that they have one thought in mind and you'd better give them the answer they want, because they are not going to accept anything less than that.  Doesn't matter to them that what they are saying sounds like a sack of screeching spider monkeys on acid, they just want you to shake your head and tell them that they're right.  Or, better yet, that you can fix their problem.  Asshole, if you looked in a mirror, you'd see the problem.  It's like the fifty year old woman who is wearing yoga pants and a halter top even though her muffin top has become an exploded can of biscuits.  I'm all for curvy, but 360 degrees is an arc, not a curve.  Hey, sweetheart, cheerleader tryouts were thirty-five years ago!  News flash, you didn't make the squad then either!

Woman is returning some ceramic cookware because her eggs stuck to pan and burned.  I have to fix her problem.

Her:  "Every pan I use burns the eggs."

Me:  "Ok, well I have a big selection of non-stick pans."

Her:  "I've tried those.  Everything still sticks."

Me:  "Yes, ma'am, but you still have to use something to help loosen the food."

Her:  "What about this stainless stuff?  Is that any good?"

Me:  "Yes, I actually prefer stainless.  However, there is more of a chance that something will stick or burn on stainless steel."

Her:  "Well, what about the most expensive stuff?  That shouldn't burn, right?"

This conversation went on for about twenty minutes.  I explained every piece of cookware that I sell.  What was good, what was great, what I had many people return.  How to use it,  how to care for it, and how to make it work for her.  We had it narrowed down to two pans whens he hit me with this question:

Her:  "Of these two, which one is going to burn the eggs."

Now, I don't want to get grouped in with the stupid people.  I certainly don't want to get grouped in with the stupider people.  But, fuck me, there I was.  Twenty minutes before it hit me that the real problem with the eggs burning and sticking to the pan:

SHE'S A REALLY BAD COOK!!!!!!!

 

So, now that I have come to this epiphany, how to break it to her.  I don't want her to feel bad.  I certainly can't tell her that she sucks at making eggs.  I, honestly, can't sell her something high end, because I know she's just going to return it and blame me and be even more upset.  What to do, what to do?  I came up with this:

 

Me:  "Ma'am, if you were at a car dealership and they present you with the choice of a Cadillac or a Hyundai, and you ask the dealer 'Which of these is going to crash?'  The dealer is going to tell you that by themselves, the cars are fine.  Whether or not they crash depends strictly on the operator."

 

Her: "Oh,...."

 

Her:  "Maybe I'll do some online research before I make a purchase."

 

 

Glad I could help.....

 

 

 





I thought it was "hoidy-toidy"?

Can't sleep again.

Unfortunately, I get to thinking about lots of things.  I think of things I've read, movies I've seen, people I've met.  All kinds of things.  Things that don't help me go back to sleep.  My mind has a tendency to race in various direction when I think of things.  Usually, it's money, or the lack thereof.  Don't get me wrong, I do ok. I mean, I'm not piss poor. The phrase "piss poor" comes from a time when urine was used for the tanning of animal skins and dying cloth. If you had a very lousy job or no work at all, members of the family would urinate into a pot and then that was sold to a local tanner(bet that guy loved his job!). But if you were really bad off, you didn't even have a pot to piss in. And, there is an even longer version of this phrase for the lowest of the low who didn't have "a pot to piss in or window to throw it out of."

I'm certainly not hoity-toity.

The phrase "hoity-toity" has been kicked around a lot.  There's been discussion on how it's spelled, where it comes from, or even what it means.  By definition, hoity-toity has been used to mean pretentious.  Many people claim that it comes from the French and two words: haut and toit, which translate (literally) into high roof.  The thought is that those with higher roofs looked down on those of us who were piss poor.  The phrase isn't French, however, and probably has more to do with our penchant for liking rhyming phrases like "artsy-fartsy" and "fuddy-duddy."   The base of the phrase is the word hoit which is an obsolete, 16th century verb which means "to play a fool."  I guess those with money could be more frivolous than the commoners.

That's some hifalutin knowledge, eh?

The word "hifalutin" is a strictly American word.  It comes from the days of steamboats.  The expensive seats were high up on the decks next to the smokestacks.  The smokestacks had very high fluted tops for the sake of the smoke.  Those up on deck had money.  Ergo, hifalutin.  Wait a minute, that boat had a high roof.

The riff-raff couldn't sit up there.

The phrase riff-raff does come to us from the French (ah, those sneaky French).  There was on old expression rifle et rafle. These words are from the verbs rifler, to strip, and raffler, to carry off. The phrase referred to the plundering of the bodies of the dead on the battlefield and the carry off  the spoils.  The French phrase came into English in the forms rif and raf  meaning "every scrap".  It’s more than likely that the negative associations of common soldiers ransacking the bodies of the dead linked the expression to mean "general undesirable people."

Riff-Raff was one of Underdog's arch enemies.

The phrase underdog comes from...awww, who cares?  I know my logastellus (look it up, I'll wait) isn't all that important to you.  In fact, I'm just hoping that it will help me sleep.  Hey, at least I haven't delved into what groups of animals are called.  Because a group of dogs is called a pack....

The Alpha dog is the hoity-toity one.