People I Hate Part 9

Askholes.

People who ask questions over and over. Why do they always come into my store?

"This bottle? Is it sweet?"
"Yes, it will be a bit sweeter?"
"It's sweet?"
"Yes."
"Sveit!?"
Yes, it's fucking sweet! Jesus H. On a related note, at what point do Eastern Europeans go from being a rather attractive people to people you can't fucking stand? Is there any transitional period, or do they just all of a sudden go from good-looking party-goers to arrogant old people? Maybe cool Eastern Europeans are a new breed and we just have to wait for all the jerks to die off before we get cool old Eastern Europeans.

In fact, I think old people in general are just irritating. Most askholes are old people.

"7.99?"
"7.99."
"It's 7.99?"
"7.99."
"Yes."
"How about this one?" picking up the the same label.
"It's also 7.99." pointing at the sign.
"They're both 7.99."
"Which one is better?"
"Well, it depends what kind you like."
"Okay."
Pause.
"7.99."
"Which one you drink?"
"The shiraz."
"Iz bettir?"
"Yes! Fuck!"
I don't actually say this, and in no way endorse shiraz over any other variety of wine, but that's pretty much how these conversations go. Also, yes, as my anger increases, this couple becomes more and more Eastern European.

People I Hate Part 8

Motherfuckers.

Sorry, I just needed to get that out there. The motherfuckers I'm talking about specifically today are petty thieves.

It's one thing when the natives come in and try to swipe a bottle of rye because they can't afford to pay for it because- nevermind. I'm not trying to pick on the natives here. Maybe it's racist, but when a trashy native comes in to steal from me, I expect it. It's a game. Hell, even when white bums come in to steal from me, I get it; they're homeless. When you don't have much in this world and you drift from fix to fix, I understand that it's hard to get out of that cycle. It's hard to clean up, sober up, and become a functioning member of society (again).

What really pisses me off is when motherfuckers come in to steal when they already have shit. When black kids come in with their hundred dollar jeans, designer oversized t-shirts, likely uncomfortable unbroken but most certainly overpriced hats tilted to a superfluous angle... when they come in and feel like they are entitled to take a bottle of raspberry Smirnoff (grow at least one testicle) it sends me into a self righteous rage. I used the black kids as an example that has happened to me in the past. But, again, I'm not trying to pick on the black kids. Half of them are on the level. A more recent account is when a disgusting middle aged white trash motherfucker came in yesterday and tried to steal a bottle of Captain Morgan's... that was on sale.

This motherfucker not only put the bottle down his pants (inside his underwear, no less.... what a fucking asshole) while on a camera that displayed on the sales floor, but also didn't do a very good job because I could see the fucking bottle through his shirt. The cherry on top? Motherfucker was talking on his cell phone.

Just who the fuck does he think he is?! You can afford that shit and it's on sale. What a motherfucker....

Big Brother Needs To Get To Work

I'm sick of this shit, guys. People can trace my IP, copy my debit card, and find my name, address, and phone number all without any trouble. The police have me on record for my heinous exiting my old high school after lunch break. The system has a credit history on me a mile long (that's the system, not just the bank). I have folders in different medical facilities that contain my medical history and information. But despite all this, Alberta Education doesn't have my grades.

I've got an Alberta Education number! I've taken my tests and I was assured that they were taken to our provincial capital for review. I attended a university inside the province. On top of that, I sent all of my information to Mount Royal the first time I applied! So here is my question:
Why is it so goddamn hard for post-secondary institutions to just look up all my information their goddamn selves?

My argument can be broken down into three simple arguments:

1. My information exists somewhere. Just link it all to my Alberta Education number. I can get all my transcripts sent anywhere I want from that anyway (it just costs me money)
2. Everyone else has me on file in some way. Safeway keeps track of how many bags of corn chips I eat per week, and the government can't keep track of sum of my educational achievement expressed simply as single page of grades?
3. a) How can an accredited institution such as MRU or UofC not be trusted with access to view my grades, and b) even if they can't be trusted, what malicious acts could they commit with knowing numbers of things that I did once? What? Are they going to feloniously report my aptitude?
4. (Bonus argument) They don't even accept a transcript that I give them! They need to get the information directly from my previous post-secondary institution- correction: They need to get me to get them the information directly from my previous post-secondary institution.

In conclusion, I'm sick of educational institutions that clearly recognize each other who refuse to communicate with each other independently. It's as if they make all the hoop jumping mandatory to prove that you're devoted to going to school. As if the application fees aren't enough to prove we're serious, we've also done post-secondary before and aren't shitheads fresh out of high school, but we're still harassed the most.

Thanks for making my continued education easier, Alberta. I'll be sure to try to find work in BC.

Thought Experiment

Okay, readers, I'm drunk as balls.

Why? Well, I have to pick my long lost buddy up in six and a hlaf hours, so I though the liquor would calm me down enough to sleep. Jagermeister just gets me excited. Jag and 80's music.

There was a point to writing this blog. Something about people at work...
Right! I miss the deaf guy! There was a deaf guy who used to come into the grocery store and I really miss him. I miss the non-verbal communication. I miss being able to talk to someone without having to talk. Fuck, man, he was awesome. But everyday at work it seems like I say words that no one hears. "Your total is $195.85. Debit? Stripe side out." And then they still put the fucking stripe in.

Fuckin' Deaf Guy and and I used to be way cooler. You know, we'd just see each other and nod like we knew what the shit was going down. None of the service industry bullshit. We both knew the score. He was buying food, I was selling it. Why put on a show? He and I could nod acknowledgment, point out pricing, and motion to one another what we needed.



We were always glad to see one another. It's like we were company. We got to know each other on a semi professional level. Not just a sales clerk to a patron and not quite a friend to a friend, but... kinda like people who waited at the same bus stop.


Shit, man, I don't know. I'm drunk as fuck and I don't know what I'm writing about.
I like those knowing smiles. I like knowing about someone. I like that idea of a special bond. Maybe I'm losing that, maybe I'm finding that, maybe it's just over the horizon.

Let me say for now that I will try to clarify tomorrow when I sober up. For now it is time to sleep. Fuckin' finally.

People I Hate

1. Money droppers. Fuck you. You can hand me your money, or you can place it on the counter, but don't fucking throw it at me. I should start throwing change back.
2. In-your-facers. You have a question, not something to prove. Your toes shouldn't touch mine when we are talking. It's not like you have a secret or we're trying not to wake the baby. We can talk at arm's length.
3. "Where's the _____?" Just the opposite of the above. Shut the fuck up. If you haven't looked, try having a glance at our handy aisle signs. If you are still unsure, kindly approach an employee and ask. Notice how that did not include "yell from the other side of the store."
4. Retards and the Pompous. First, don't tell me what shit is, what shit isn't, or what shit is supposed to be. It is what it fucking is. Don't come into my store and ask, "Hey, bro, where the cold beer at?" because we don't fucking have any. We've never had any. In the who knows how many decades this store has been open, we have never had cold beer. Are you fucking new to this? If so, politely ask if we have cold beer, and I will politely tell you we don't, never have, and never will so long as we live. Secondly, don't assume like wine is common knowledge or that you're so much fucking better for drinking it. When I say, "no, I don't really drink wine" don't keep asking me how they fucking taste. They taste like grape juice that's gone bad! It's a fucking retail job. It's like the people who expect cashiers to know the posted price of every product in a giant store. What, do you think I go home every night and try a new bottle of wine so I can have a professional opinion on it? It's like asking a cashier at the grocery store if the fish is any good, and when they say "yes" you ask if the chicken is better! You should know which you like better! These people clearly make me the maddest.
5. That fucking foreign bitch from today.

Foreigner (from another country, not the band): Ackskuse, Ihk'm lüking fohr jus, hkelp in wit it chippe botil... wïne. Und eeehhh...
Me (while at the till finishing running someone through): I'm sorry, what was that?
Foreigner: "Hkelp!" You dohn't no vat hkelp iss?!
My brain: Fuck you! You don't know what "get ze fuck out" iss? Schnell!
Me: ....
Foreigner: Chippe botil wïne.
Me: How much are you looking to spend?
Foreigner: Chippist botil.
Me: The Rossini. Right (fucking) here.
Foreigner: People (motions with hands) drink it?
Me: People mostly use it for cooking-
Foreigner: Cookink! What people drink? Vat else?
Me: We have Barefoot, red and white, $8.39.
Foreigner: Vat?
Me: Barefoot. $8.39. Aisle 4.
Foreigner: Where?!
Me: Aisle 4.
Foreigner: Vat?
Me: 4. Aisle 4.
(I go to help another customer at the till)
Foreigner: Vat khind?
Me: Barefoot. Aisle 4. Red and white.

I mean, jesus fucking christ, woman. You yell at me for not hearing you mumble behind my back and you can't comprehend one fucking word that comes out of my mouth! What's worse, she walks her cart down aisle 3 and makes a 15 minute phonecall! The icing? She didn't buy the fucking Barefoot after 45 minutes of shopping.

I don't know who you are, where you came from, or where you're going, but I hope you go die in a fire.