***NOTE: In case you haven't figured it out by now, this post was an April Fool's Day joke. But we'll leave it up for posterity, and above is a screen cap of the ludicrous site makeover.***
To me, the term “customers” is synonymous with the term “idiots.” My theory is that every customer is a moron. This kind of flies in the face of the old marketing theory, “the customer is always right”, but I think mine is closer to the truth. (Or, perhaps, the old market theorists were just trying to think of a nice way of saying that customers don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about, even when they think they do, which is pretty much the same thing I believe.)
Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to say that every individual customer is an idiot. There are plenty of perfectly reasonable, intelligent, even kind customers. The problem is the vast mass of assholes who flock to my store tend to distract me from the few genuinely delightful individuals I do encounter. It makes me loathe you people en masse to the point where if I don’t want to scream out loud and start gunning down people in the store I have to gnaw into my own arm, exposing the bone, and begging my manager to take a break so I can go to the hospital and escape you insufferable animals! You make me want to die! You make my life so hellish that I just want to slam my head repeatedly in the automated till so that I can slip into the peace of unconsciousness. That or go out back and have a cigarette.
Anyway, this is not going to be a long, unsubstantiated rant. I’m going to tell you exactly what it is I hate about you, and I’ve had to endure all the ranting about how your stupid clerk fucked up your order, so you’re going to endure this.
First of all, you are not smarter than me. You are a fat moron who shops at a convenience store for Slim Jims and cigarettes. I can, in fact, count. In fact, to judge from the number of people who hold out a fist full of change and ask me to count out how much they need, I can count a lot better than most of you. And even if I couldn’t, I have a computer right in front of me that can do the job for me.
Second, do not give me any Sacajawea dollars, half-dollars, two dollar bills, ha’pennys, or Susan B. Anthony dollars. If you have currency that fancy, take it home and put it in your fucking coin collection, not my till, which I have to count. Fuck the Treasury’s commercials, you don’t owe it to them to use their stupid new coins.
While on the subject of coins and stupidity, do not, I repeat, DO NOT try to pay for anything using change which amounts to more than a dollar. That is what bills are printed for. I do not need thirty dimes. Nor, for that matter, should you ever ask me, “Do you need some dimes” as a prelude to such a transaction. If I needed coins I would take them out of the safe, not from some asshole customer.
Although I am not impressed by your handful of change, I am equally unimpressed by your $50 and $100 bills. I have to make change for them. And you NEVER EVER buy $50 or even $43 worth of stuff. No, you buy a cup of coffee and a Tastykake, and you try to pay me for it with a fucking $100 bill. It’s bad enough when you people pay me for the $0.25 pack of gum with a $20 bill. The last thing I need is to give you $84.77 in change. The worst of all is when I can SEE the smaller bills in that big wad of cash you pull out to impress me. But no, you bypass both of the dollar bills on your $1.43 charge and give me a fucking $20, as if to say, “Look here, clerky boy, here’s a denomination so large that you shall never see it in your life unless I give it to you. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Next, you do not deserve my respect because you fancy yourself some kind of aristocrat. The fact that you do not see anyone else here wearing a fur shawl should tip you off that aristocrats do not belong in convenience stores. Convenience stores were built for rugged working class men looking for a bite to eat before they go home and try to get some sleep before their next day of backbreaking labor building your fucking houses. This is why you have country clubs with valet parking. Go there. Leave me alone.
Speaking of overly fancy bullshit, you do not need Marlboro Ultra Light Menthol Smooth 100’s in a soft pack. Be happy with sucking on regular Marlboros, or, to eliminate that problem altogether, just suck my dick.
Do not ask me where the Winery is. I do not care where you are going, nor whether you get there. I have neither the time nor the inclination to tell you. I just sell things. That is my job. It is AAA’s job to give morons like you directions. If you really want to employ me for the reason I am paid, buy a fucking map. I’d be happy to ring up your $50 bill for it.
By the way, don’t put your fucking money on the counter. Put it in my hand, which I am conveniently holding out to you for just that purpose. Do I drop your change on the counter and make you pick it up, penny by penny? No! So what makes you think I feel like doing it?
Do not wait until I have the drawer open to get something else. I don’t want to ring you up twice, asshole. There are enough people waiting in line that I don’t feel like checking you out two times. Why don’t you include your cigarettes and your gum and your inane impulse purchase of candy shaped like a paintbrush as a part of your order? I can’t just magically add it on after you’ve paid me! And if you know you’re getting something else, DON’T fucking pay me, tell me to wait several seconds while you fetch it. I’d be happy to stand there, looking in awe at the big wad of bills you’re holding in your hand, an amount of money which I, no doubt, will never possess.
Do not call me on the telephone with stupid questions, distracting me from customers who had the grapes to actually come here in person. Do I have any more Inquirers? Why don’t you come down here and fucking find out, you pompous putz? You think I have time to check every item in stock for you? What time are we open until? We’re open until I see your shit-stained face coming up the steps, then I’m going to lock up the whole store and turn out the lights and play hide and seek with my manager! No, I apologize, that’s unfair. If you really want to know what time we’re open until, just come down here, I’ll get up on the counter, and, from eye level, you can begin sucking my gigantic Polish dick until I have a hard-on big enough to act as a sort of a crude sun dial on the counter, then I’ll drop some of your change on the counter to point out which hour we’re open until.
I have no control over the quality of the items YOU purchase. I did not date the milk. I did not punch a minute hole into the bottom of your iced tea causing it to leak into your hand. YOU are the one who chose this faulty merchandise, so do not complain to me about it later, or, indeed, ever.
I am legally old enough to purchase tobacco in this state. I can tell if you are younger than me. I will not take your word for it that you are eighteen. As for forms of ID which I do NOT accept, they include but are not limited to your NRA membership card, some form of ID from Spain written (not unsurprisingly) in Spanish, and, of course, a driver’s license with your date of birth cleverly hidden by a thumb or flap of your wallet.
Turn off your fucking cell phone and talk to me. I know I’m only a lowly clerk, but I’ve seen people greet dogs in the park. What I enjoy even more than you ignoring me on account of your cell phone, is your ignoring me for no reason whatsoever. I do so adore speaking to you amiably and eliciting no response save dropping thirty dimes on the counter.
Do not have your child pay for you. It is not cute.
My opinion should have no bearing on what you purchase. Do not ask me about the qualities of various items. I do not know how the beef jerky tastes. I do not eat shit. You, however, can eat my shit. And, failing that, you can get down on your knees and suck on my dick until I spooge, then tell me how THAT tastes.
Condoms are in front of the counter. Batteries are behind the counter. Gums and mints are to my left. The candy is (ironically) in the candy aisle. I suppose you could have discovered some of this for yourself, but, then again, I suppose that would have required some effort on your part. No, we do no sell English muffins. If there are no newspapers, then we are out of newspapers. I am not hiding them cunningly in the back room where, hopefully, no one will ever buy them, and I will have my own secret cache of useless outdated papers in case they come in handy. Nor did I save one specifically for you, the wonder customer.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to say that every individual customer is an idiot. There are plenty of perfectly reasonable, intelligent, even kind customers. The problem is the vast mass of assholes who flock to my store tend to distract me from the few genuinely delightful individuals I do encounter. It makes me loathe you people en masse to the point where if I don’t want to scream out loud and start gunning down people in the store I have to gnaw into my own arm, exposing the bone, and begging my manager to take a break so I can go to the hospital and escape you insufferable animals! You make me want to die! You make my life so hellish that I just want to slam my head repeatedly in the automated till so that I can slip into the peace of unconsciousness. That or go out back and have a cigarette.
Anyway, this is not going to be a long, unsubstantiated rant. I’m going to tell you exactly what it is I hate about you, and I’ve had to endure all the ranting about how your stupid clerk fucked up your order, so you’re going to endure this.
First of all, you are not smarter than me. You are a fat moron who shops at a convenience store for Slim Jims and cigarettes. I can, in fact, count. In fact, to judge from the number of people who hold out a fist full of change and ask me to count out how much they need, I can count a lot better than most of you. And even if I couldn’t, I have a computer right in front of me that can do the job for me.
Second, do not give me any Sacajawea dollars, half-dollars, two dollar bills, ha’pennys, or Susan B. Anthony dollars. If you have currency that fancy, take it home and put it in your fucking coin collection, not my till, which I have to count. Fuck the Treasury’s commercials, you don’t owe it to them to use their stupid new coins.
While on the subject of coins and stupidity, do not, I repeat, DO NOT try to pay for anything using change which amounts to more than a dollar. That is what bills are printed for. I do not need thirty dimes. Nor, for that matter, should you ever ask me, “Do you need some dimes” as a prelude to such a transaction. If I needed coins I would take them out of the safe, not from some asshole customer.
Although I am not impressed by your handful of change, I am equally unimpressed by your $50 and $100 bills. I have to make change for them. And you NEVER EVER buy $50 or even $43 worth of stuff. No, you buy a cup of coffee and a Tastykake, and you try to pay me for it with a fucking $100 bill. It’s bad enough when you people pay me for the $0.25 pack of gum with a $20 bill. The last thing I need is to give you $84.77 in change. The worst of all is when I can SEE the smaller bills in that big wad of cash you pull out to impress me. But no, you bypass both of the dollar bills on your $1.43 charge and give me a fucking $20, as if to say, “Look here, clerky boy, here’s a denomination so large that you shall never see it in your life unless I give it to you. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Next, you do not deserve my respect because you fancy yourself some kind of aristocrat. The fact that you do not see anyone else here wearing a fur shawl should tip you off that aristocrats do not belong in convenience stores. Convenience stores were built for rugged working class men looking for a bite to eat before they go home and try to get some sleep before their next day of backbreaking labor building your fucking houses. This is why you have country clubs with valet parking. Go there. Leave me alone.
Speaking of overly fancy bullshit, you do not need Marlboro Ultra Light Menthol Smooth 100’s in a soft pack. Be happy with sucking on regular Marlboros, or, to eliminate that problem altogether, just suck my dick.
Do not ask me where the Winery is. I do not care where you are going, nor whether you get there. I have neither the time nor the inclination to tell you. I just sell things. That is my job. It is AAA’s job to give morons like you directions. If you really want to employ me for the reason I am paid, buy a fucking map. I’d be happy to ring up your $50 bill for it.
By the way, don’t put your fucking money on the counter. Put it in my hand, which I am conveniently holding out to you for just that purpose. Do I drop your change on the counter and make you pick it up, penny by penny? No! So what makes you think I feel like doing it?
Do not wait until I have the drawer open to get something else. I don’t want to ring you up twice, asshole. There are enough people waiting in line that I don’t feel like checking you out two times. Why don’t you include your cigarettes and your gum and your inane impulse purchase of candy shaped like a paintbrush as a part of your order? I can’t just magically add it on after you’ve paid me! And if you know you’re getting something else, DON’T fucking pay me, tell me to wait several seconds while you fetch it. I’d be happy to stand there, looking in awe at the big wad of bills you’re holding in your hand, an amount of money which I, no doubt, will never possess.
Do not call me on the telephone with stupid questions, distracting me from customers who had the grapes to actually come here in person. Do I have any more Inquirers? Why don’t you come down here and fucking find out, you pompous putz? You think I have time to check every item in stock for you? What time are we open until? We’re open until I see your shit-stained face coming up the steps, then I’m going to lock up the whole store and turn out the lights and play hide and seek with my manager! No, I apologize, that’s unfair. If you really want to know what time we’re open until, just come down here, I’ll get up on the counter, and, from eye level, you can begin sucking my gigantic Polish dick until I have a hard-on big enough to act as a sort of a crude sun dial on the counter, then I’ll drop some of your change on the counter to point out which hour we’re open until.
I have no control over the quality of the items YOU purchase. I did not date the milk. I did not punch a minute hole into the bottom of your iced tea causing it to leak into your hand. YOU are the one who chose this faulty merchandise, so do not complain to me about it later, or, indeed, ever.
I am legally old enough to purchase tobacco in this state. I can tell if you are younger than me. I will not take your word for it that you are eighteen. As for forms of ID which I do NOT accept, they include but are not limited to your NRA membership card, some form of ID from Spain written (not unsurprisingly) in Spanish, and, of course, a driver’s license with your date of birth cleverly hidden by a thumb or flap of your wallet.
Turn off your fucking cell phone and talk to me. I know I’m only a lowly clerk, but I’ve seen people greet dogs in the park. What I enjoy even more than you ignoring me on account of your cell phone, is your ignoring me for no reason whatsoever. I do so adore speaking to you amiably and eliciting no response save dropping thirty dimes on the counter.
Do not have your child pay for you. It is not cute.
My opinion should have no bearing on what you purchase. Do not ask me about the qualities of various items. I do not know how the beef jerky tastes. I do not eat shit. You, however, can eat my shit. And, failing that, you can get down on your knees and suck on my dick until I spooge, then tell me how THAT tastes.
Condoms are in front of the counter. Batteries are behind the counter. Gums and mints are to my left. The candy is (ironically) in the candy aisle. I suppose you could have discovered some of this for yourself, but, then again, I suppose that would have required some effort on your part. No, we do no sell English muffins. If there are no newspapers, then we are out of newspapers. I am not hiding them cunningly in the back room where, hopefully, no one will ever buy them, and I will have my own secret cache of useless outdated papers in case they come in handy. Nor did I save one specifically for you, the wonder customer.
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