The Four Kinds of Customers - A Hate Post

Being in retail, I frequently have to deal with people. And as if that isn't bad enough, I frequently have to deal with very weird people. People who make you cock an eye-brow at the guy upstairs and say "Really? Really? You could've created anything, anything - blue Doritos, a girl Spongebob, giant killer rabbits, even - and you made this guy right here?". They're the human equivalent of the ocher crayon in the 64 pack which can be used to draw nothing but poop. I mean, I'm a pretty fair person - I hate indiscriminately. But these four kinds of people? I sincerely hope there is a shoppers' hell.


1) The Story-tellers. General rule of thumb? You only small-talk to the people you're gonna get married to. They're the ones who need it most to cover up their agonizingly bland life with you, not your cashier, not your accountant, and definitely not me. I might make a sympathetic face when you're telling me you're getting a couple of movies to spend a quiet night at home (like every other night), or when you need to buy a new movie for your kids every week because "Omg, aren't kids so easily distracted?? I swear we weren't like that when we were young! I mean, you're a kid, and you don't sit around all day watching movies, do you??". No, moron, I have this thing called a job. But I am hating you inside. Even worse are the people who ask me if I have seen a particular movie and when I am forced to say no, proceed to explain the entire plot to me. And boy, do they get passionate about it. Every Tuesday a charming old timer comes to work to buy musicals. Afraid of having to listen to the story-line to every single one, I told him that I am, indeed, a fan of musicals and have thus seen most of them. Biggest mistake of my life. Now whenever the 70 year old sees me, he sings and acts out portions from the musicals. After he's done, he urges me to sing along too. I am proud to say I now know all the words to Bye Bye, Birdie...


2) The Awkwards: These are the poor souls who are so used to ordering groceries, clothes and movies online that they are,unbelievably, even worse at contact with fellow human beings than I am. Their bumbling, miserable, unsuccessful efforts at socializing are actually quite entertaining. We have people who turn red whenever they say a word, people who turn red whenever a word is said to them (that includes a simple hi, by the way), and people who turn red for absolutely no reason. Its both cute and sad, like watching a fat kid run and my cat trying to get past a glass door. What makes them annoying is trying to help them get what they want. First you have to bolster their courage by giving them encouraging nods, and then you have to spend precious minutes searching the store system for the obscure nerd thing that they're looking for.


3) The Impatients: Believe me buddy, I want to be here as much as you do - not at all. We all would just like to go home as soon as chronologically possible and woe be me if I knowingly delay either of us. But there are people who came here before you and my sense of justice and equality says I help them first. What's that? You have important stuff to do after this? So do I. I have another customer to help, and another, then another, and then another - and after that I have to go home and feed my cat. It's a tough world, pal.


4) The Intellectuals: We all accept that large, soul-sucking, evil, exploitative chain stores are also human and so we learn to forgive them for their ungainly inefficiency. Not these guys. "Megas XLR is not anime," they tell me, "even if it does have giant robots, time travel, and a witty hero, it has many features that mock the classic anime cartoon. It shouldn't really be in the anime section. Tell me, is there a shelf for satirical or ironic cartoons?". Oh yes, it's right next to the shelf called 'movies mapping out the lives of the main heroine as they move from obscurity to fame and stardom. They are also prostitutes'. These customers also include the type who think they are too smart to need help from a lowly, dumb sales clerk who doesn't know anything and probably didn't go to college anyway - never mind the fact that I am standing right there to help you and I have a 3.9 GPA, asshole.

I swear this seemed clever at 4 in the night

Blonde moment?

You'd think if strawberry lotion LOOKS like strawberries, SMELLS like strawberries and SAYS strawberry lotion on it, it'd taste like strawberries too.

Bleekh =(

There is nothing under the bed.

There is nothing under the bed, Lola thought firmly. I am a senior level theoretical psychologist and there is nothing under the bed. Its all a matter of perception, really. My room is dark and I am here alone, and these are ideal conditions for the brain's primitive defensive mechanism to kick in. In a minute or two now it is going to relax enough for me to fall in a deep, refreshing sleep...

There is nothing under the bed, Lola told herself strictly. It wouldn't even fit in there, for hell's sake!, she mentally pictured her little bed reassuringly. Its not physically possible and even monsters have to obey the laws of physics. Unless it was a tiny monster, a teeny voice inside her head said. But everyone knows tiny monsters aren't that scary, Lola argued with herself. Its the big ones you should really look out for. Somewhat comforted by her reasoning, Lola rolled over and closed her eyes.

There is nothing under the bed. Lola was cross with herself now. Everyone else managed to sleep without being driven paranoid by the thought of childhood fears under their beds, so why not her? There are no monsters anyway. I believe someone would have mentioned something by now if there were, she thought, trying to put her resolute mind to rest. And besides, people have looked all over: in jungles and space and even under the earth. If they couldn't find any monsters on mars or under the Gobi desert, there is no reason why there would be one under here right now. Does the Gobi desert even exist anymore? Why, I am just going to get up and prove to myself that there is no monster under my bed. Muttering at the injustice of the world and her poor over-worked brain, Lola got up and knelt down to peek. See? Nothing there.

And the monster under her bed swallowed her in one big fat gulp.

Serious post #5

"I hate old people."

"Wow. You're such an ageist!"

"Fuck you, ageist isn't a word."

It is.

This is not a post about zombies. So if you're a zombie, you don't need to read this at all. Like, at all. Look, brains! Over there! Waaaayyy there!

Haha, suckers. So now that all zombies who could potentially read this post are gone, I need to impart knowledge that could save the world to all of my ten followers. Yes, you. You...are the chosen ones. The fucking chosen ones. The ones who will determine the fate of the earth as we know it. An incredible adventure begins now: you will have to fight to protect innocent lives, kill the bad guys, walk with your swag on, steal cars and then drive them down mountains for no apparent reason. And you will have to blow the shit out of everything. The very future of humanity rests on your ability to blow the living shit out of stuff.

I will now stop emphasizing the swear words in this article.

Some of you (well, one of you) expressed concern over the fact that I have not posted on this blog lately. And while nothing could possibly tear me away from my worthy duty, a very serious situation has forced me to go into hiding. Yes, real hiding, with the underground protection shelter and crappy powdered food and leather suit everything. And let me tell you folks, leather pants are no easy business. They make me look fat.

Me, fat.

Its because I saw a zombie.

An authentic, live zombie!

See what I did there?

I understand the need to be truthful to you, my faithful warriors. Never should you take anything for face value in this deceptive day and age (Damn that filthy lying imbecile who told me Pokemon were real. Goddamn him). But trust me here - we're the only ones who have the power to rid society of this danger. After all, if not the world wide web, what other place is left for me to be my true self? Safeway? So from me to you and Google: a record of my first, real-world encounter with a zombie - bit by excruciating bit.

It was a dark and stormy night, and as I walked across the seemingly empty parking lot to my yellow sportscar after a night of wild joy and revelry, I felt a deathly chill in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man down on the blood-soaked tarmac. Was it too late to save him? I noticed with grief that the man seemed to have half his brains missing. It was, indeed, too late to save him. Something evil was afoot tonight.

But even I was not prepared for what I saw. It was a monstrosity we have only heard of before. There it stood fearlessly, in all its gruesome glory. Over six feet tall and built like a quarter back, it was the color of putrid flesh and smelled just as nasty. It wore the tattered remains the poor body had been buried in. A zombie. My trusty DShK I'd picked up from the last time I was in Russia had been left behind at home. A dumb mistake that could cost me my life. I panicked - he was only a hand's width away now. It was the sight of the fresh human brains hanging from his dead, unworthy lips that shocked me into action.

Did I mention he had glowing yellow eyes and resembled the COD zombies?

In a state of desperation, I whipped off a hairpin and stabbed those inhuman eyes. Even though at a temporary disadvantage, the monster kept grabbing at me with rotten hands, drawing blood wherever he clawed. I knew it was only a matter of seconds before he could grab a hold of me and make me one of his own hateful species. I thought of all those people who mattered to me, all those people who loved me (Hey, people who love me! Anyone? Hi? Do you wanna maybe go for a smoothie after you kill the zombies? No one?) With a sudden burst of courage, I leapt up straight into the air, and gracefully kicked the zombie in the face.

Pictured here: An accurate representation of the scene

I succeeded in eliminating him, but who's to say he was the only one? Its a pretty good bet he made lots of new friends before his sad, untimely demise. As I retreat into the shadowy corners of our world, gathering information and more forces, it falls onto you to exterminate this despicable plague. Not many people will believe you. Many will make fun of you, and others will doubt your sanity. But it is a small price to pay (and anyway, they probably already do) for a better world. A safer world. A world where children can go out to play, a world where you have no doubt that that hot person definitely does not like you for your brains. Ah, life's small mercies. But till then, embrace your duty. Best of luck.

Godspeed, my soldiers.

My conversation with the hottest guy at work who looks a bit like superman, the not-gay one

What actually happens:

Me: Hey! Whatsuup??

The guy: Hi.

I don't own sunglasses.

What I wish would happen:

Me: Hi.

The guy: Hey hot-chick-whose-name-I-don't-know, do you wanna maybe go out sometime so I can take my shirt off for you and you can look at the deliciously manly six pack I have that is totally apparent through my office clothes?

Me: Sure, but make it fast. I got stuff to do.

Then I put on my sunglasses and walk away to AC/DC's "Back in Black."

I Feel a Funny Coming's take on Rebecca Black's "Friday"

Go back to the video and notice how scared the girl sitting next to her looks. That's not partying, folks, that's pure, unadulterated, pants-wetting titanium fear.

“Can’t any of you see what she’s doing?! For the love of humanity get me out of here!!”

We are heading towards a Barbie apocalypse. You have been warned.

Someone once said people fear what they do not understand...or maybe he said people do not understand what they fear. Maybe he said everyone fears clowns. Something like that, anyhow. And by golly, was he right. Clowns ARE scary bastards.

But he was right about us fearing what we can not understand, too. Unlike most other girls my age, I never got Barbie dolls. And boy did they scare me. Their half open mouths always seemed to be saying something but not quite, their dead eyes shone in the night. When I went to sleep I imagined their tiny beady eyes following me, ready to leap on my adolescent body as soon as I was alone because they needed a host to carry out experiments to figure out how to become real flesh and bone instead of plastic - for which they needed flesh and bone. My flesh and bone.

Needless to say, I have developed an irrational and furious hatred towards Barbie dolls.

So because I am currently the only one who can save the world from a barbie apocalypse (because seriously, that would just be pathetic) and because I'm nice like that, I realize that it behooves me to show the rest of the world the true, scary nature of Barbie. Here you go, the dark side of every Barbie you've ever played with. Prepare yourselves.

And keep checking behind you because I think I just saw your little sister's doll move.

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Raccoon Barbie looks at you when you’re asleep.

Princess Barbie is about to kick that kitten.

Coast Guard Barbie will polka stripe your ass

Midlife Crisis Barbie looks like your mom

The Handless Barbie doesn’t need to do anything to be scary. And don’t try telling me she has them, okay? She doesn’t. I know.

Exhibitionist Barbie eats babies.

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See what I meant? They're scary and heartless and will drag you off in the night to carry off their inhuman experiments. They will use your poor, dumb ass against the rest of humanity to replace us and take over the world. After all, what's one more human?

Also, don't look now, but I think that doll is right behind you. Sweet dreams.

Serious post # 4

I spelt bastard wrong in my header. Fml

None of you are going to come here again after reading this, are you?

Today, I am going to risk alienating all of the seven followers I have so one day I can die in peace knowing I was true to my own self. Guys, I am going to make a confession to end all confessions, something I have never told anyone in my life (except the plumber dude who was home that day I was feeling particularly vulnerable and shitty, but he doesn't count) - and if the whole world shuns me after today, then so be it.

I love bathrooms.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not in love with them. I don't draw secret pictures in my textbooks or sign my name I.B. (Ifra Bathroom?) or hope to marry them some day. Someone once said that love is not being blind to faults, but loving someone despite of them. I know that many bathrooms in the world are harsh, fluorescent hells, but that doesn't make me like them less. No, my fondness for them stems from the fact that they have always been my partners in crime.

Impromptu speeches influenced by Julius Caesar? Bathroom. Hide and seek? Bathroom. Too loud outside? Bathroom. Inspiration for blog? Bathroom. Is that too much information? Bathroom. But the real reason why bathrooms have a soft spot in my heart is because of this:

In the times before I knew there were things like germs or bacteria (or hygiene, apparently), I used to hide my candy in the bathroom.

Has that sunk in yet? I hid candy in the bathroom.

The idea being that no one in their right minds would go looking for candy in a bathroom. And I was right. Not once in my entire 8 years of hiding chocolate in the bathroom (I started to hide it under the sofa after that) did any body find it. There was a handy sill just above a window where packets of Toblerone and Jubilee could be hidden for days without anyone noticing, after which I transferred them to a more secure location, or just pigged the hell out of them.

Then, after years of my mom wondering where the heck I was getting candy at two o clock in the night, my little sister discovered my secret stash. She'd been at it for months: watching my every move, keeping stock of the candy in the fridge, looking into every nook and cranny of the house. With my secret found out, I promised her she could keep her candy there in exchange for her silence. She agreed. I humbly took away my candy, and my sister inherited that handy plank above the window. That spot was now hers to put her candy on as she pleased.

I then told my mom on her, because why the f**k not.

I was a genius. A thoroughly disgusting person, but a genius.

The 5 stages of Typing everyone went through

1) Slow:
This is when us mortals were first introduced to the marvels of the QWERTY keyboard. Instead of the aabeeseedee we were taught in first grade, we were given this strange new system, which feels a bit like my five year old brother took out all the letters from the keyboard and stuck them back again in random order (something he would do if he figured out how to get away with it) I mean, who in their right minds would begin with Q?

Also called: The Yahoo phase

2) i hav the typng capablitis ov a chmpanzee wth opposabl thmbs:
U rmmbr ths, dnt u? Yes, the second phase. Don't feel so ashamed, we're all guilty of this one. A mysterious disappearance of vowels, coupled with an assurance that making up our own spellings made us 'Cool.' This went up to the time when we finally realized tht typng lik ths maks us luk lik fcktrds. Don't take it too hard, though; people once thought genie pants were cool.

Pictured here: Epitome of coolness.

Also called: The Myspace phase

3) lolz, yew r so kewl.
This is when the power of being tech-savvy, powerful individuals went to our heads. We got so cool, we just had to invent a new exclusive language that would distinguish us from the mere mortals who didn't have an internet connection. This stage is characterized my adding unnecessary letters to every word and making up new, unnecessary words (ROFLOLBAG, anyone?) Fortunately, we got tired of looking at the red squiggly lines any time we typed anything, so perhaps this wasn't such a good idea...

Also called: The Orkut phase



4) ThIs iS aNNoYinG.
Still squiggly red lines. I have no idea what the human race was thinking at this point.


Also called: Facebook before The Social Network

5) Grammar Nazi.
Faith in humanity restored. This is the English our fore-fathers taught us, followed with almost an obsessive intensity. Even though this shows we did pay attention in fourth grade English (Ha, Ms. Sarah! I told you I didn't deserve that F!). I am afraid, however, that this might lead to world war...on the internet. (See what I did there?)

Also called: Facebook after The Social Network.

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6) omnomnomdhajsdhuahiabrainsgaudasbrainsduis:

No information available currently.

Also called: Facebook after the zombie apocalypse.

Why adults won't swear in front of us and other stories involving zombie gnomes (Not really, its just the one)

Y'all know how this goes. You're sitting in your room innocently trying to not do anything productive like home work or reading, when suddenly the door bangs open and you look in horror at the red-faced, really, really angry being that is your mom right now (or maybe its just my mom who does that, in which case I got a really unfair deal, God). As she gets ready for one of her...highly motivational pep talks, you cower and try to remember what is it that you did this time. Oh yeah, maybe she found out the moldy pizza crusts under your bed. Or the rabbit skeletons in your closets. Don't you just hate those furry little tykes with their tiny twitchy noses and big red scary eyes and stupid long useless ears? Anyway. Wait for it...

"You! You..."


And...stop. What? That's it? Thats all you get for being a crazy bunny mass murderer leaving week-old pizza under your bed?

Wait. Why isn't your mom saying anything? What is wrong with her?!


Oh, thats right. She can't swear in front of you. Heh heh. You watch in barely-disguised amusement as your mom seems to choke on her very words. This is bizarrely fascinating, sort of the way you'd watch a squirrel get run over by a car or a fat man coughing up food.



I'll give you a minute to get over the disturbing images...

Okay okay, I'll give you guys a minute now while I go check to make sure I'm not violating some law by posting pictures of dead animals.

I wasn't.


So here are the reasons why I think parents don't want to swear in front of you:

1) They don't want to introduce you to bad language - Which is pretty bull; I learnt my first bad word at school when in 5th grade (and all the later ones in sad, late night fights about platypus ((platypii?)) with unknown people on the internet, a period of my life that comes back to me most nights at 3 AM).

2) It's all about setting a good example. Adults are probably scared shitless that one day you're going to say a bad word right back at them, or in front of their parents or neighbors or bosses, after which they will have no choice but to drag your sorry behind (along with the rest of you, of course) out in the backyard, beat you into pulp and then fashion a garden accessory out of you.

Google Images will be the death of me. And everyone who is not a zombie garden gnome.

No nice person likes doing that.




3) They are honestly, sincerely oblivious to the fact that you might actually know swear words too. Most adults I know are completely ignorant of the fast pace that society moves at nowadays; my mom still thinks polka dots are "cute." Call it a generation gap or what you will, but some people prefer the good old days where the B word was balderdash and the F word was...fishnet stockings?

This is an insult.

4) We don't live in the 80's anymore, so we don't have to prove our badassery by creatively abusing every single person we meet.

Or by watching Saturday morning cartoons of this guy.

Instead, we use snarky, smart-ass retorts which would've taken a person in the 80's twenty minutes to figure out. It is no longer fashionable or polite to use swear words in society, or anywhere except with close friends and/or in life threatening situations, and people who still swear for the heck of it find themselves being looked down upon. While I may not agree with a lot of things going on right now, it seems like maybe political correctness is a good thing sometimes.

Also, we use guns.















Disclaimer: No animals were harmed during the production of this post. No, really.

Serious Post #3

"You know, you smell really nice."



"What the hell are you smelling me for??"

A deeply meaningful interview with my Doritos bag

Tis late at night and everyone is lost in sweet, peaceful slumber. Except me. I sit hunched over my tiny laptop, feverishly working on my Facebook. At my side are my trusty sidekicks, a 12 oz. can of Mountain Dew and a large bag of Doritos, spicy nacho flavor. I rub my bloodshot eyes, aware of my dwindling consciousness and fleeting sense of reality. As I reach out to grab another Dorito to replenish my health, I hear a tiny, squeaky voice say "hey!" in an admonishing tone. It is my Doritos bag. I do a double-take.



My Doritos bag: Hey!

Me: Double-take!

My Doritos bag: Huh?

Me: You're talking. Why are you talking?

My Doritos bag: Free country, pumpkin cake.

Me: Pumpkin cake...

My Doritos bag: Yes, snuggle muffins?

Me *mumbling*: Catch me taking you to bed again

My Doritos bag: But thats the beauty of it, sugar. No one can resist me. You cant have just one.

Me: That was Lays.

My Doritos bag: Those faggots.

Me: I actually kinda like Hickory Barbecue.

My Doritos bag: Someone needs to teach you the ways of the world, baby doll. Lays are for kids. Gay kids. Gay kids who are going to grow up to be fat, sad losers.

Me: And people who eat Doritos don't get fat? Or sad and ugly, for that matter?

My Doritos bag: Course not. Probably says so on the packet somewhere.

Me: Then seeing as how I am on fast track to being a fat, sad and ugly loser in no time because of you, I'm gonna sue you guys as soon as I get a law degree.

My Doritos bag: I'm not really worried, strawberry shortcake. Not many sad, fat and ugly losers who make it to law school.

Me: Actually...

My Doritos bag: Don't say it.

Me: So, Doritos. How long have you really been around?

My Doritos bag: 1964. I'm as old as your dad. Haha. Who's your daddy now, little girl?

Me: Shut up or your company is going to lose a valuable customer. I think I'm the only one who still eats those green Doritos. They're nasty.

My Doritos bag: Results of a drunken night with leprechauns usually are.

Me: Ahan. There goes your one last customer.

My Doritos bag: Wait, wait! I'll tell you something cool now. Wanna hear something really cool?

Me: Welll, okay. Shoot.

My Doritos bag: Did you know Doritos means little bits of gold in Spanish? It's from the word Dorado - gold.

Me: That is pretty cool.

My Doritos bag: That's not all. If you rub two cool ranch Doritos together really really really fast, you can make fire.

Me: Nice!

My Doritos bag: This is why...I'm hot. Haha. Get it? Get it?! This is why, this is why. Haha. This is why you're not. Shawty see me drop, catch me on the block. Haha. Ha-

*Sadly, the chip is forced to cut short his tirade as I suddenly grab it and stuff it in my mouth. If you listen carefully, you can hear the last dying verses of Mim's 2007 hit song, 'This is why I'm hot.' Despite the chips depressingly short-lived foray into this world, this feels like an appropriate ending for the little fella. *

Me: I never really did like that song.

Retards, I tell you

Now America, I empathize with the fact that you were given more than your fair share of morbidly fat people*, but that is no reason to take it out on the rest of us. I mean why on earth would we need COMPLETELY SQUARE BLANKETS? Because hey, you know what? Vast majority of the human population does not, and I repeat NOT, look like this:







After all, not many people are just as wide as they are tall. In fact, the average human's girth is just about 1/4 of his height. Someone out of all those geniuses who've made water beds and heck, even balloons beds could've stopped and thought "Hey, this is a crazy thought, but I haven't really seen that many people with the exact proportions of a slice of cheese. Maybe I could, I dunno, make comforters a liiitle bit longer?"

Apparently not.


Not only is this scientifically incorrect - bordering on impossible - but I can't cover my ears and toes at the same time.


What the hell, guys?




Amreekans: 3
Desis:4


*For the sake of being politically correct, I wanted to write something like "horizontally gifted" but it wasn't funny that way. Sorry fat people!

Stuff to NOT do at 3 in the morning

Tis late and night and every mortal soul in the world is asleep, dreaming of the sweet success and love and peace and shiny Wailord Pokemon cards with 200 hp; except for one big glob of mass failure and incomplete homework (You, as if it weren't completely obvious already). Now, as the darkness grows, your tiny vulnerable brain is going to get even more messed up than it usually is. You will feel like you blended awesomeness into a milkshake and drank it in one straight gulp like the badass you are. Like the very soul of the world is whispering to you, telling you to save it from the boredom that is killing it inside. You will feel, in short, like this guy...



...minus the beard. Now, you will begin getting certain ideas. You will want to do something: something great, something heroic, something so utterly amazingly, awesomely supermanly that come tomorrow morning, the entire humanity will worship you and kiss your feet.

All I can say to you is. KEEP YOUR REAR END IN THAT BED. Tomorrow morning is going to expose your wonderful plans for the complete crap they are. Plans like these:-



1) Build a water slide:



You! Yes, you, the one who's completely drugged on coffee! Looks easy, doesn't it? The sort of thing you'd accomplish in about half an hour with some bits of plastic and a hammer? One of those fascinating enterprises of physics people talk about for decades afterwards? One that will note your name in shining glory as an example for the rest of humanity? Its so...pretty, isn't it? Yeah. Forget about it.




2) Eat: Oh hey, its late at night and no one's up, perfect time to stock up on those carbs you've been staying away for a while now...



No, okay? Just no. You will hate yourself in the morning.




3) Try on make up:

This is what you think you look like -




What you really look like -



I'm all against gender streotyping and calling people ugly, but do us all a favor and get a paper bag surgically attached to your face. Thank you.




4) Dance. Dance to celebrate the you-ness that is you:


Or, you know what? Don't.




5)


This is wrong on so many levels. Don't even think about it.