Sam's Club Rude Cashier

Over the weekend my wife's father bought us a membership to Sam's Club. We already have a Costco membership, and discount cards for every grocery store, but, hey I like to shop. I know it's gay, but I like it. Sam's Club has a nice variety of items. Costco is good too, but they only have a few types of coffee, and I like a good hazelnut. Sam's obliges, with many to choose from.

Just this past week I made a foray into the Sam's Club on Route 1, Nassau Park.

After grabbing a few delicious items and a couple of essentials, I happened to notice a big fat sonofabitch standing in front of the area where rotisserie chickens are sold. He had his tie undone and he was waiting for the chickens (hundreds of them) to stop spinning so he could slaughter them further. I would not be surprised to find that he had utensils in his pocket and a plate hidden in his underwear so he could have at it right there.

There was no employee in sight but I thought, "How rude, to just stand there and wait. Let the guy whoever he is, Mr. Chicken Unslinger, do his job in peace, Fatboy. You'll get your chance. Now move your sweaty plate in your underwear ass somewheres else for a while. PLEASE!"

A few minutes later, I saw a line forming behind him. Of about 30 people. Possibly they were stuffing these chickens with Wii's. The chickenslinger came out and pulled the chickens off of their spinning death machines and placed them in cartons. No sooner would he place a carton down than it was grabbed up by someone in the crowd. I didn't see Mr. Sweaty Assplate get his, but I did notice some blood on the floor, so he may have inadvertently eaten a couple of other people in line, and not in a good way.

As much as it concerns me that I might not score what I want to score when a line begins to form in front of what I want, I waited a bit longer. I did not want to be rude. When there was no line, I walked up and took one as the fine gentleman chickenslinger was walking away, and I said to him, "Thanks." He glared at me like I was the reason he had this job that he loved. What can you do? I tried.

Shortly thereafter I checked out. I picked a line that seemed to moving all right. The lady working the cash looked a bit flustered. Dyed blond, stocky, early 50's, rough around the edges. Rode hard and put away wet.

She put her hand out and said, "Give me your card."

Not exactly polite. But I'm not keeping track.

Then she put my order through, and I wanted to keep things friendly, so I asked her if she was having a bad day. She glared back at me without answering. I think I should have said, "Nice dye job, did you get it at Kennections or the Hairport?"

I ran my debit card through and chose $100.00 cash back. I like to do that, so I don't have to pay the bank fees.

Suddenly she looks at me and exclaims, "Oh, one hundred dollars cash back, NICE! I just opened, and you want one hundred cash back?! I don't have 100 dollars cash to give you. You are supposed to tell us this before we ring you through!"

I said, "Sorry, I was not aware of that policy." To which she pointed to the bank machine and said, "That is what the ATM is for."

I replied, "That will cost me 3 bucks or more."

To which she threw her arms up in disgust and said, "Whatever."

I then stared at her and said, "You will get me my money and you will give it to me."

And she did. The power of suggestion is very strong.

My point regarding the story above is who are these arseholes in customer service jobs that don't give a shit about customer service? I know the jobs are kind of shit sometimes, but you want to move up. You need to enjoy your life, even if it's spent ringing shit at Sam's Club. Change your attitude, act like you care, somebody just might notice and offer you something better.

The dyed blond cashier at Sam's earns the Dickfor award for this week!

G Spot Out!

If I Gotta Have a Snowman, He Can't Be White

I'm working on my car, and this forty-something white dude who looks like he was covered in wet dough and then sprayed with WD40 comes staggering down the street. Before I can even think, "When will this mongo come drool on me with some bullshit story trying to get some cash out of me?" this dusty mongo is already on me. He is right in my space. He looks at me, all wide-eyed, like Marlon Brando with a bug in his mouth, and blurts out, "Want some of this?!"

He unfolds his clenched fist, and there, in a messy ball of plastic baggy, is a bunch of oddly colored pills. "Want some of this? Only 20 bucks!"

"Do I want some of what?! Get your stinkin' face away from me, you friggin' stinky, sweaty mongo! I don't want your drugs. You are so stoned you likely mashed up some Flintstones chewables, soaked them in paint thinner and carried them in your ass crack for the whole day!"

Mr. Obviously-Not-From-This-Neighborhood (or Mr. Hey-Look-at-Me-From-a hundred-yards-and-see-that-I'm-stoned) looked at me like I was the one who stood out.

If I'm going to buy drugs, I ain't buyin' them from no stoned white dude. That's like buying a half-eaten sandwich from a fat man: there has to be something wrong with it.

Hey, when I want my drugs, if I want my drugs, I want some style, some pizazz. The guy selling them has be cool. He can't be stoned; in fact, he shouldn't even have the drugs on him. He should yell something at me while I'm driving through, and when I'm not looking; something discreet (as discreet as a yell can be), like "EEEER!" Then when I pull over to talk, he should send me down the street to his buddy, who is even cooler; he'll be a dude wearing a long tee, and a gold rope, properly dressed for the deal. Smart decisions, proper attire, and networking. That's what I appreciate in a business man.

If that white guy ever comes back to my neighborhood I'll have him arrested. If you are going to sell drugs, have some class: lift your head up, show me some respect. Trenton don't need no cracker spreadin' his crumbs on our beach!

Yours,
G Spot on the DownHigh!