So I've been finding that working at WalMart is a lot more taxing on my patience than I ever would have thought.
I'm getting up there in years, and for every year that goes by I get a little more grouchy and intolerant of other people. You all know this. So working around the army of douchebags we call "customers" is going to make me crazy in short order.
First of all, there are the clueless ones. These are the people who can see that you are pulling a pallet behind you that weighs two-thousand pounds and has some real momentum behind it, and yet, they decide that they suddenly need to stop dead in your path. I mean, it's not as if the pallet was freakin' invisible. It's five and a half feet tall and four feet across and moving rapidly, and yet when they see that I'm bearing down on them at breakneck speed with a move-it-or-lose-it predatory grin on my face, they just stop right in front of me with the same slack-jawed, drooling expression usually seen on cows chewing on alfalfa in pastures.
You would think that a reasonable person would step out of the way and drag their ill mannered little slack-jawed clones with them, but you would be wrong.
Instead they stare; not at me, but through me. Like me and my burden aren't even there. I'm not hard to miss either. I'm nearly three feet across at the shoulders and wearing a bright yellow-green reflective vest! Hello, Earth to Clueless, move your about to be Darwin-Awarded butt!
Then, in a state of panic, I have to spin the handle on my pallet jack to slow it down and throw my weight against it to get it to stop before a lawsuit happens. I briefly try to teach them manners by hitting them with my best accusatory, reproachful glare, but they ignore me, turning their stupid heads away like those aforementioned slack-jawed cattle and slowly, oh so slowly move on, leaving me fuming and suppressing the urge to walk up behind them and punch 'em in the back of the head just for fun.
I swear, if I've ever done this kind of crap to some other poor Walmart guy in the past, I apologize a thousand times.
And second. The damned kids. Why oh why can't parents keep their little monsterous creatures under control? There's work being done here, people! If you have kids that will not behave, don't take them to Walmart after 9:00 PM. That's when the heavy gear comes out and they could get run over.
I almost ran over a kid yesterday that ran full tilt out of an isle without looking, just as I had a full pallet of dog food going full speed. I almost put my back out getting it stopped before I hit him.
And tonight; no joke, I was heading into the garden area with a full pallet of weed killer, when I see two kids, a girl and boy, jumping around on a pallet of bags, standing at least three feet off the floor. That's a major safety hazard. I don't care who you are, you don't let your kids play on pallets that are on concrete. If they fall, what's left of their brains is gonna be leaking out all over the place and I'm not cleaning it up.
So, there they were playing on a pallet of bags, when a guy that I can only describe as "watery-looking" walked up to me. Seriously, he looked watery, like he was just moist. It was weird.
So he walks up to me and says, not kidding at all, "I need you to go yell at them to get off that stuff. They won't listen to me or do what I tell them."
I stood there for a heartbeat looking at this guy's watery eyes and reddish nose. I wanted to tell him to sack up and be the dad, but that wouldn't be very good customer service, so I walked up to the kids and before I could open my mouth, I noticed what the bags were that they were sprawled all over, and my inner demon cackled in glee.
"Hey kids. You don't have to get off that if you don't want to, but you know what's in those bags right?"
"What?" The girl said it in a snotty tone and cocked her head and gave me this defiant little sneer that made me want to yell at her and cuff her upside the head. No wonder that poor guy was so at wits' end. Little bastards.
"It's poo. You're layin' in poo. Get off that stuff. Go look at the fish." I pointed down the isle where the fish are located.
"Eeew." The kids were grossed out and got off the pallet and walked away. I can't understand how they managed to have missed the smell of that crap. Bagged fertilizer still smells destinctively of poo.
Some people's kids. I'm betting that the guy was their two-weekend a month custody dad who gets to barely survive keeping his kids in line after they've spent the last two weeks being undisciplined and ignored by their mom and her thug boyfriend. At least, that was my impression, but what do I know?
So, just some brief scenes of delight from the Supercenter we love so much.
I'm gonna go stretch my back and take a hot shower and likely bathe my feet in Epsom salt, and then afterwards slap myself silly for writing such an old-man sentence as this.
Good day.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
You Thought You Loved Jayne Casey Before
So first of all, you have to read this article.
http://bighollywood.breitbart.com/abaldwin/2009/11/30/climategate-good-news-world-a-crisis-of-faith-is-ended/#more-270386
Go ahead, I'll wait.
It's a very good article about the dangers of that annoying religion known as radical enviro-fascism. Thoughtful, entertaining, and above all, right on the money.
But look who authored it.
That's right. Adam Freakin' Baldwin, that's who. Jayne Cobb. John Casey. The Animal Mother himself.
Looks like he might be putting a lot of himself into his role on Chuck as the very Republican, Reagan-loving, gunslinging John Casey, and that's just awesome.
Even more interesting is the fact that he's got a regular voice in New Media Blog-King Andrew Breitbart's Big Hollywood website, where he routinely dresses down the overly collectivist Old Media culture assassins for their underhanded role in ruining our society from within.
Pretty cool of him, I think.
It's nice to know there are a few actors in Hollyweird that reject the granola-fed, nutless, whiny, mincing, Politically Correct leftist dogma that California Progressives keep shoving down our throats.
http://bighollywood.breitbart.com/abaldwin/2009/11/30/climategate-good-news-world-a-crisis-of-faith-is-ended/#more-270386
Go ahead, I'll wait.
It's a very good article about the dangers of that annoying religion known as radical enviro-fascism. Thoughtful, entertaining, and above all, right on the money.
But look who authored it.
That's right. Adam Freakin' Baldwin, that's who. Jayne Cobb. John Casey. The Animal Mother himself.
Looks like he might be putting a lot of himself into his role on Chuck as the very Republican, Reagan-loving, gunslinging John Casey, and that's just awesome.
Even more interesting is the fact that he's got a regular voice in New Media Blog-King Andrew Breitbart's Big Hollywood website, where he routinely dresses down the overly collectivist Old Media culture assassins for their underhanded role in ruining our society from within.
Pretty cool of him, I think.
It's nice to know there are a few actors in Hollyweird that reject the granola-fed, nutless, whiny, mincing, Politically Correct leftist dogma that California Progressives keep shoving down our throats.
Monday, February 22, 2010
This Makes Me Feel All Creepy
He enters at 0:15 and stay tuned for his mind-searing laugh at 1:55.
Outstanding.
And is it just me or does he look like a living ventriloquist dummy?
Outstanding.
And is it just me or does he look like a living ventriloquist dummy?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Best Headline Ever
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1242637/Gay-man-tried-poison-lesbian-neighbours-slug-pellets-legged-cat-feud-walks-free.html#ixzz0eS5Zoxve
This headline makes my eyes water and my sanity leak out of my nose a bit.
I love the Brits. They never fail to amuse me.
This was the best part of the story. "It was them next door, the f******* fat lesbians, I'm glad I've poisoned them and yes it was slug pellets."
The UK gets weirder by the year, I'm telling you.
I blame the BBC. And socialism. And Simon Cowell. Not necessarily in that order.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The McGinty Legacy
By the night the biggest storm in twenty years had hit the forgotten McGinty place, the old farmhouse had been abandoned for almost nineteen years. Its roof sagged from years of neglect and wind and driving rain that the broken shingles let in by the bucketful during every summer monsoon. Mold and termites and water damage had left the interior a crumbling mess of cracked wooden floorboards and rotting plaster that a good sneeze from an old man could obliterate in an instant.
By midnight the monsoon storm was in full swing. Low-hanging clouds rode across the sky like waves in a stormy sea. Thunder crashed, echoing through the surrounding hills while blinding flashes of lightning illuminated the wind-blown and sand-scoured whitewash on the walls of the old house.
By two in the morning, the straining rafters on the west end of the house began to sag from the powerful wind that beat against the decaying gable. The roof, so lovingly built by the hands of its owner forty three years before, could only stand so many years without attention and its time had come to give up the ghost.
At 4:17 AM, the joists on the west end finally gave. The old wooden beams, heavy with water, sagged and pulled loose from their supports as the truss collapsed and crashed through the remains of the ceiling, tumbling in a heavy mass down into what was left of the dining room. The termite-eaten floorboards gave way with a crackling noise as the roof finally came to rest in the basement.
By 10:00 AM, sunlight reached into corners of the old McGinty house where it had never shone before. The bright summer sun blazed into a hidden area of the basement, only four feet wide, which had been hastily walled-up exactly eighteen and a half years before. Now, half-buried among roof joists and chunks of plaster and oaken floor beams, the half-clothed bones and the gap-toothed, grinning skull of a dead man were plainly visible through the hole in the floor. Pieces of yellowed, parchment-like skin still clung to the remains, and there, sitting in the middle of the denim-covered skeleton, was a decorative metal box that lay on its side; the heavy engraved padlock that gleamed dully in the morning sun locked the lid down tight.
As the summer heat warmed the painted metal, a series of plunking noises could be heard as the sides of the box bowed outward and then slowly relaxed, again and again, as if something inside were stretching out, testing its limits, fighting against its metal prison. Then, finally, the movement stopped, and the box fell silent once again.
At 1:00 PM, on the gravel path leading from the house to the long abandoned dirt road, a gleaming dark green Buick, fresh off the factory floor, rolled over gravel that hadn’t been disturbed in a decade and came to a stop at the front gate of the McGinty place. The motor fell silent as the ignition was turned off. Doors opened. Doors closed. The crunch of shoe leather meeting gravel and the snap of a rusting padlock being forced open broke the silence. The gate swung wide. The gate shut. Shoe leather squelched across muddy turf, and the sound of curses and shoe leather being scraped on wooden porch steps drifted across the yard. The front door gave way to a heavy sledgehammer. Shoe leather stepped across the threshold for the first time in eighteen and a half years.
At 1:09 PM, the Mouth of Hell opened wide, and screamed.
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By midnight the monsoon storm was in full swing. Low-hanging clouds rode across the sky like waves in a stormy sea. Thunder crashed, echoing through the surrounding hills while blinding flashes of lightning illuminated the wind-blown and sand-scoured whitewash on the walls of the old house.
By two in the morning, the straining rafters on the west end of the house began to sag from the powerful wind that beat against the decaying gable. The roof, so lovingly built by the hands of its owner forty three years before, could only stand so many years without attention and its time had come to give up the ghost.
At 4:17 AM, the joists on the west end finally gave. The old wooden beams, heavy with water, sagged and pulled loose from their supports as the truss collapsed and crashed through the remains of the ceiling, tumbling in a heavy mass down into what was left of the dining room. The termite-eaten floorboards gave way with a crackling noise as the roof finally came to rest in the basement.
By 10:00 AM, sunlight reached into corners of the old McGinty house where it had never shone before. The bright summer sun blazed into a hidden area of the basement, only four feet wide, which had been hastily walled-up exactly eighteen and a half years before. Now, half-buried among roof joists and chunks of plaster and oaken floor beams, the half-clothed bones and the gap-toothed, grinning skull of a dead man were plainly visible through the hole in the floor. Pieces of yellowed, parchment-like skin still clung to the remains, and there, sitting in the middle of the denim-covered skeleton, was a decorative metal box that lay on its side; the heavy engraved padlock that gleamed dully in the morning sun locked the lid down tight.
As the summer heat warmed the painted metal, a series of plunking noises could be heard as the sides of the box bowed outward and then slowly relaxed, again and again, as if something inside were stretching out, testing its limits, fighting against its metal prison. Then, finally, the movement stopped, and the box fell silent once again.
At 1:00 PM, on the gravel path leading from the house to the long abandoned dirt road, a gleaming dark green Buick, fresh off the factory floor, rolled over gravel that hadn’t been disturbed in a decade and came to a stop at the front gate of the McGinty place. The motor fell silent as the ignition was turned off. Doors opened. Doors closed. The crunch of shoe leather meeting gravel and the snap of a rusting padlock being forced open broke the silence. The gate swung wide. The gate shut. Shoe leather squelched across muddy turf, and the sound of curses and shoe leather being scraped on wooden porch steps drifted across the yard. The front door gave way to a heavy sledgehammer. Shoe leather stepped across the threshold for the first time in eighteen and a half years.
At 1:09 PM, the Mouth of Hell opened wide, and screamed.
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Friday, January 15, 2010
Soap and Price Teaming Up With Edward and Jacob = Awesome!
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