Despite my obvious lack of political correctness on the blog, I've tried not to call children "retarded." When kids act like idiots in the store, usually you can attribute that to their age and lack of maturity within reason. After all, a kid who bounces down the aisle and knocks stuff of shelves, while annoying to us associates who have to clean up after him, is not a demonstrably liability to society. Oftentimes, a child is just a child, and I don't hold that against them.
The key phrase within that paragraph was "maturity within reason." And even kids should have their limits.
I was putting up some freight and otherwise doing my job today at Sporting Goods, when a kid who was no older than ten (I estimate seven or eight) started giving me some small talk. I conversed, as it helped pass time along, despite the fact he was sort of being a douche by bouncing a ball everywhere. (Unlike many of my coworkers, I won't immediately snap for a kid to put up a ball that he's dribbling; I figure if he's doing it and controlling it, that means he's not touching things he shouldn't be.)
Things changed when he casually asked me if I was a football fan. I honestly answered that I was, and that I was a Steelers fan. That's when things started going to hell.
It started with him talking some shit about the Steelers because he's a Bengals fan. As much of a fan as I am, I don't play that game, so I just smiled and ignored him as he danced around and said how much they suck.
The phone rings, so I pick it up and start talking to the customer. I'm leaning on the counter from the front while I talk; as I do so, I feel the kid tap me on the ribcage from my left side. The instant he did that, he graduated to being a retarded customer; you never bug a person physically while they're on the phone, especially a stranger, especially an adult, especially in public, especially while they're doing their job. Just that was enough to make me realize the kid's parents didn't teach him respect enough.
But we don't stop there, oh no. To the asshole's credit, he stopped bothering me until I was off the phone. But the instant I hung up, he started to take off his coat...
"So, Steelers fan, how could you do that to us?" He's referring to something that happened in some game between the Steelers and Bengals, god knows what specifically though. "So, you wanna go? You wanna go?"
He removes his coat and tosses it on the counter -- carefully, I notice -- and opens his arms wide in the American sign for "let's fight." "C'mon! You wanna go? Come on, let's go, ese!"
"Ese" was too much: I started laughing so hard that I nearly fell over. I backed up only because I didn't need to be a part of this, but I just continued laughing and responded, "Whatever, kid."
He took a couple more steps toward me. "C'mon, chica, let's go! Let's do it!"
Again I can't stop laughing. This li'l dipshit's best insult at this point is to call me a girl. Amazing. "Kid, you're a third of my weight and a fourth of my age. Leave me alone, buddy."
He continued making an ass of himself for another couple minutes as I continued to put my freight away, but calmed down enough to put his coat on. I knew from the beginning he was "just joking," but the whole method was stupid was hell, and I clearly (from his face expression) damaged his ego when I just laughed at him.
Finally he decided to leave me alone and said "It's all good," followed by attempting what I call a "homie handshake." That's when the giver has his hand up at about eye level palm-down, expecting the receiver to offer his own hand about waist-level palm-up; it's like a high-five, just lower and your hands stay together instead of immediately separating. (Wow, that's one of those things where everyone's seen it, but no one has ever given it a name to make it easy in text.)
Anyway, the kid offers a homie handshake. I again laugh at him, and "leave him hanging" as it were as I finish up my work. He walks away annoyed, still talking shit to the Steelers, as I get on the phone and call security to keep watching him. As far as I know, he didn't cause any more trouble; not that I think the kid would have done anything more troublesome.
April gave me the term "hoodlet" for wannabe gangstas who are (or think they are) badasses by day but at home in time for their dinners of tuna casserole prepared with TLC by their mommies. This moron is clearly a hoodlet, and has the honor of being my final Retarded Customer of 2009.
A Tender Moment
“Stucco. James Stucco.”
She knew his name. He knew she knew it. It was a game to them at this point. She enjoyed the sound of his baritone British voice; it made her smile. He enjoyed seeing her smile as well. It was just the way he said it that gave her a little shiver along her spine... and he enjoyed giving her that tingle. Not that he did not enjoy giving her other tingles in other places.
Jasmin lied back on the silken sheets and discarded what remained of her dirty clothing. Escaping a mortal danger makes one view the otherwise ordinary world with a more discerning, criticizing eye, and she disliked the feel of her shredded tatters of a typical office dress. Besides, the cool silk against her naked skin felt like a persistent breeze in a scorching summer day. Of course, she fidgeted beforehand and wrapped herself in the top layer to ensure that James could see nothing that she did not want him to see… yet.
James, for his part, was willing to play this game too. He removed his tuxedo jacket, dress shirt, and silk pants, leaving his cotton tank top and tight polyester compression shorts. Jasmin was surprised at this: it explained how he was able to move as well as he did against her captors, dodging bullets and blowing a hole in the bunker’s walls to escape. She was relieved as he discarded the tank top as well, which had a trace of blood on it; like the memories of the bunker, she wanted to leave the memories of her imprisonment back in Siberia where they belonged.
James finished off the last of his champagne, then smoothly mounted the bed. Jasmin shifted a little, wiggling under the sheets, rearranging them so James could see her legs clearly but little else up to her shoulders. She smiled again; she couldn’t help the effect he had on her.
James crawled and leaned into her, their breaths mingling. Their eyes, both sets the color of chocolate, met and locked onto each other despite the near-darkness of the hotel room. Despite the clear night outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows a few yards away, the rush of traffic a dozen stories below, and the gentle music playing on the radio, the world seemed to collapse around them. In that moment, only they were in their world.
“Oh, James…” Jasmin cooed.
James did not reply. Instead, he leaned down further. One kiss to show her that he was interested.
“Oh, James…” Jasmin repeated.
A second kiss to show her that she was wanted.
“James…” she sighed.
A third kiss to show her that she would be taken.
“James!”
He threw the sheet off; Jasmin was exposed, yet felt completely safe and secure. Strangely, or perhaps not so, he never took his eyes off hers. Their world was still only their own. He leaned into her again… a fourth kiss, a peck, to show her that he would be gentle.
Unable to control her instincts, Jasmin reached up and gently held James’s cheeks. “James… I love you!” She slid her fingers upwards, caressing his temple and the perfectly parted jet black hair that was, in her opinion, his best feature.
James again did not reply, a certain instinct taking over him as well. He repositioned himself and started to remove his final undergarment.
“James?”
The tone made him pause. It was curious, seeking information. He hoped she would not ask him to repeat her declaration. “Yes, my darling?” he said softly, his voice not betraying his moment of doubt.
“What is this?” She held out a finger, and he squinted in the darkness. “From your hair… is it part of the fallout from the explosion that freed me?” She was uncaring and unconcerned at this insignificant flaw on his perfect hair, really, but the curiosity overcame her. “Gunpowder from when the guards shot at you? Maybe some torn cloth from your clothes?”
James gently held Jasmin’s hand, bringing her extended finger up almost against his eye. He studied the black speck for just a moment, then lightly chuckled. “No, my dear, it is none of those things.” Jasmin cocked her head to the side and subtly flicked the black speck away as James continued. “Don't worry, darling. It was just one of my lice.”
She knew his name. He knew she knew it. It was a game to them at this point. She enjoyed the sound of his baritone British voice; it made her smile. He enjoyed seeing her smile as well. It was just the way he said it that gave her a little shiver along her spine... and he enjoyed giving her that tingle. Not that he did not enjoy giving her other tingles in other places.
Jasmin lied back on the silken sheets and discarded what remained of her dirty clothing. Escaping a mortal danger makes one view the otherwise ordinary world with a more discerning, criticizing eye, and she disliked the feel of her shredded tatters of a typical office dress. Besides, the cool silk against her naked skin felt like a persistent breeze in a scorching summer day. Of course, she fidgeted beforehand and wrapped herself in the top layer to ensure that James could see nothing that she did not want him to see… yet.
James, for his part, was willing to play this game too. He removed his tuxedo jacket, dress shirt, and silk pants, leaving his cotton tank top and tight polyester compression shorts. Jasmin was surprised at this: it explained how he was able to move as well as he did against her captors, dodging bullets and blowing a hole in the bunker’s walls to escape. She was relieved as he discarded the tank top as well, which had a trace of blood on it; like the memories of the bunker, she wanted to leave the memories of her imprisonment back in Siberia where they belonged.
James finished off the last of his champagne, then smoothly mounted the bed. Jasmin shifted a little, wiggling under the sheets, rearranging them so James could see her legs clearly but little else up to her shoulders. She smiled again; she couldn’t help the effect he had on her.
James crawled and leaned into her, their breaths mingling. Their eyes, both sets the color of chocolate, met and locked onto each other despite the near-darkness of the hotel room. Despite the clear night outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows a few yards away, the rush of traffic a dozen stories below, and the gentle music playing on the radio, the world seemed to collapse around them. In that moment, only they were in their world.
“Oh, James…” Jasmin cooed.
James did not reply. Instead, he leaned down further. One kiss to show her that he was interested.
“Oh, James…” Jasmin repeated.
A second kiss to show her that she was wanted.
“James…” she sighed.
A third kiss to show her that she would be taken.
“James!”
He threw the sheet off; Jasmin was exposed, yet felt completely safe and secure. Strangely, or perhaps not so, he never took his eyes off hers. Their world was still only their own. He leaned into her again… a fourth kiss, a peck, to show her that he would be gentle.
Unable to control her instincts, Jasmin reached up and gently held James’s cheeks. “James… I love you!” She slid her fingers upwards, caressing his temple and the perfectly parted jet black hair that was, in her opinion, his best feature.
James again did not reply, a certain instinct taking over him as well. He repositioned himself and started to remove his final undergarment.
“James?”
The tone made him pause. It was curious, seeking information. He hoped she would not ask him to repeat her declaration. “Yes, my darling?” he said softly, his voice not betraying his moment of doubt.
“What is this?” She held out a finger, and he squinted in the darkness. “From your hair… is it part of the fallout from the explosion that freed me?” She was uncaring and unconcerned at this insignificant flaw on his perfect hair, really, but the curiosity overcame her. “Gunpowder from when the guards shot at you? Maybe some torn cloth from your clothes?”
James gently held Jasmin’s hand, bringing her extended finger up almost against his eye. He studied the black speck for just a moment, then lightly chuckled. “No, my dear, it is none of those things.” Jasmin cocked her head to the side and subtly flicked the black speck away as James continued. “Don't worry, darling. It was just one of my lice.”
Retarded Customer #41: (Not) Better Than You
The Christmas shopping season is busy for the whole store, not just Toys. Sporting Goods is also getting hit pretty hard because this is in the middle of deer hunting season, so we're selling tons of ammo and many hunting licenses and deer permits to a very large customer base. This is on top of extra pressure to keep Toys pretty and stocked, yet do all this with no additional manpower.
I was given the keys to Sporting Goods (the ammo is, naturally, behind locked glass), which basically officially told me that I was to cover it. I continued to stock in Toys, per orders, and was grabbed (figuratively) by a customer who informed me that he needed help in Sporting Goods. No problem, this always happens, so I nodded and followed him back to the counter.
Five people were standing there, and I felt small. Normally when we're grabbed, there's one or even none other at the counter; this time, I had five customers total. I tried making a small joke that they came out of nowhere and must have heard that it popular me which is why they swarmed the counter; the joke fell flat, though it doesn't usually.
Anyway, I started helping the first guy, and the phone rang. The customer on the phone needed product information which I tried to help him with, but couldn't get away from the counter to double-check my answer. I apologized profusely, and he was cool about it.
I hung up, then started ringing up my first customer, who is sympathetic to me freaking out a little with the mass of people I have to deal with at once. Along comes a fat woman on one of our little motorized carts, and the hairs on my neck tingle: it's my retarded senses telling me something stupid is about to happen.
The woman holds up a basketball: "Do you have a pump back there for this?" No "excuse me," no anything: she just drives her way past all my customers and wants to know about the pump.
"Uh, yes, ma'am, I've got a pump back there; just give me one moment."
I clear two customers, and the fat woman speaks up again: "So, do you just have the pump back there? I mean, just right there?" And for emphasis as if I have the memory of a goldfish, she holds up the basketball again.
"It's in the back room, ma'am. I can't go back there right now, let me get clear here." I knew immediately I was shaken from the combination of situations because I used a Wal-Mart term on a customer ("get clear of customers"), something I try to avoid since most don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
I clear two more customers, so I have one left. "Can someone else do it?" She holds up the basketball again. "I've seen like five of you go in and out of the doors over there [that lead to the Associates Only area]!"
"Possibly, ma'am, just give me a second though and I can do it."
"Well, here comes someone; I'll ask them. If it doesn't work though, I'm next."
She motors off to bother Kat, one of the Toys associates. Meanwhile, I'm literally starting to shake, somewhat from the sudden stress but mostly from how much the woman is now irritating me. I overhear the customer ask Kat the question (and probably holding up the basketball). Kat hilariously responds: "Ma'am, I don't even know if there is a pump or needle back there, or whether it will fit. I know there is a bicycle pump, but--"
"Well, bicycle pumps will work. Bicycle pumps will fit."
"Ma'am, yes, the pump will work, but I'm not sure if Jon has a needle for it. I'm not sure where they are if he does have one, so you'll have to wait until Jon is done with his customers."
I clear my customer, and the woman kicks her little cart into reverse. She backs up a bit, and I exit the counter. She holds the ball out, again, and I take it with the promise I'll be back presently.
I'm able to calm down somewhat at this point because Kat follows me, and I get to rant about it. I am pissed off enough at this point that I start trashing customers in general and her in particular loudly enough that Kat tells me to relax in case she hears me, to which I remember responding: "I really don't give a shit if she does hear me. It doesn't change the fact that she was just rude not to just me but all five of our other customers."
Kat then openly wonders why she thought she should get privileged treatment, and--
Well, and then, I go on a rant. And since we all know I'm not even remotely close to politically correct around here, allow me to rant again. I said that -- and qualifying no offense to Kat -- that the customers who upset and shake me seem to fall into two major categories: those who do something demonstratively stupid, or those who act like their time is more valuable than anyone else's, whether that means associates' time or other customers' time.
Further, I've noticed a trend in my 30 months at Wal-Mart: it seems men are the ones more prone to saying or doing something demonstratively stupid; and it's women who are the ones who act privileged. Just go through my archives and you'll see the retarded customers who treated me like shit are almost always women, and the retarded customers who just lost their minds are almost always men.
And that double standard of women continues to drive me up a wall. In my experience, I've encountered very few women who actually have enough respect for society in general and me in particular. And at this point -- and seeing as that this my blog -- I don't care if that's perceived as sexist or whiny or whatever. It's a fact that most people who have disrespected and continue to disrespect me are female; it's an opinion that these are the same women who don't understand what sacrifice means and/or don't care. The same women who don't actually mean "I want you to be happy," but who really mean "I want you to be happy insofar as I'm happy. So if our happinesses are ever at odds, mine takes priority because you're male." Especially when more than one have implied that they truly believe that my happiness must be secondary regardless of what they actually say.
The best part about this whole thing? Kat agreed with me 100%. She's one of the very few.
I don't care who you are, what your gender is, how much money you have, what you look like, who you worship, how closely I know you: Wal-Mart is first-come first-serve, and it's basic common courtesy to recognize that fact. You might be special to other people, but no one is special in the grand scheme of society or a customer base of a business.
I was given the keys to Sporting Goods (the ammo is, naturally, behind locked glass), which basically officially told me that I was to cover it. I continued to stock in Toys, per orders, and was grabbed (figuratively) by a customer who informed me that he needed help in Sporting Goods. No problem, this always happens, so I nodded and followed him back to the counter.
Five people were standing there, and I felt small. Normally when we're grabbed, there's one or even none other at the counter; this time, I had five customers total. I tried making a small joke that they came out of nowhere and must have heard that it popular me which is why they swarmed the counter; the joke fell flat, though it doesn't usually.
Anyway, I started helping the first guy, and the phone rang. The customer on the phone needed product information which I tried to help him with, but couldn't get away from the counter to double-check my answer. I apologized profusely, and he was cool about it.
I hung up, then started ringing up my first customer, who is sympathetic to me freaking out a little with the mass of people I have to deal with at once. Along comes a fat woman on one of our little motorized carts, and the hairs on my neck tingle: it's my retarded senses telling me something stupid is about to happen.
The woman holds up a basketball: "Do you have a pump back there for this?" No "excuse me," no anything: she just drives her way past all my customers and wants to know about the pump.
"Uh, yes, ma'am, I've got a pump back there; just give me one moment."
I clear two customers, and the fat woman speaks up again: "So, do you just have the pump back there? I mean, just right there?" And for emphasis as if I have the memory of a goldfish, she holds up the basketball again.
"It's in the back room, ma'am. I can't go back there right now, let me get clear here." I knew immediately I was shaken from the combination of situations because I used a Wal-Mart term on a customer ("get clear of customers"), something I try to avoid since most don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
I clear two more customers, so I have one left. "Can someone else do it?" She holds up the basketball again. "I've seen like five of you go in and out of the doors over there [that lead to the Associates Only area]!"
"Possibly, ma'am, just give me a second though and I can do it."
"Well, here comes someone; I'll ask them. If it doesn't work though, I'm next."
She motors off to bother Kat, one of the Toys associates. Meanwhile, I'm literally starting to shake, somewhat from the sudden stress but mostly from how much the woman is now irritating me. I overhear the customer ask Kat the question (and probably holding up the basketball). Kat hilariously responds: "Ma'am, I don't even know if there is a pump or needle back there, or whether it will fit. I know there is a bicycle pump, but--"
"Well, bicycle pumps will work. Bicycle pumps will fit."
"Ma'am, yes, the pump will work, but I'm not sure if Jon has a needle for it. I'm not sure where they are if he does have one, so you'll have to wait until Jon is done with his customers."
I clear my customer, and the woman kicks her little cart into reverse. She backs up a bit, and I exit the counter. She holds the ball out, again, and I take it with the promise I'll be back presently.
I'm able to calm down somewhat at this point because Kat follows me, and I get to rant about it. I am pissed off enough at this point that I start trashing customers in general and her in particular loudly enough that Kat tells me to relax in case she hears me, to which I remember responding: "I really don't give a shit if she does hear me. It doesn't change the fact that she was just rude not to just me but all five of our other customers."
Kat then openly wonders why she thought she should get privileged treatment, and--
Well, and then, I go on a rant. And since we all know I'm not even remotely close to politically correct around here, allow me to rant again. I said that -- and qualifying no offense to Kat -- that the customers who upset and shake me seem to fall into two major categories: those who do something demonstratively stupid, or those who act like their time is more valuable than anyone else's, whether that means associates' time or other customers' time.
Further, I've noticed a trend in my 30 months at Wal-Mart: it seems men are the ones more prone to saying or doing something demonstratively stupid; and it's women who are the ones who act privileged. Just go through my archives and you'll see the retarded customers who treated me like shit are almost always women, and the retarded customers who just lost their minds are almost always men.
And that double standard of women continues to drive me up a wall. In my experience, I've encountered very few women who actually have enough respect for society in general and me in particular. And at this point -- and seeing as that this my blog -- I don't care if that's perceived as sexist or whiny or whatever. It's a fact that most people who have disrespected and continue to disrespect me are female; it's an opinion that these are the same women who don't understand what sacrifice means and/or don't care. The same women who don't actually mean "I want you to be happy," but who really mean "I want you to be happy insofar as I'm happy. So if our happinesses are ever at odds, mine takes priority because you're male." Especially when more than one have implied that they truly believe that my happiness must be secondary regardless of what they actually say.
The best part about this whole thing? Kat agreed with me 100%. She's one of the very few.
I don't care who you are, what your gender is, how much money you have, what you look like, who you worship, how closely I know you: Wal-Mart is first-come first-serve, and it's basic common courtesy to recognize that fact. You might be special to other people, but no one is special in the grand scheme of society or a customer base of a business.
One-Click Wonder
I'm a sick gamer who enjoys what I dub "background games," less nicely known as games that play themselves. The most basic form of this can be done on sports games where you set up matches between two sides both controlled by the processor. Blizzard and I used to do this all the time with wrestling games: we'd set up match between two wrestlers, set them both on AI, and watch the hilarity ensue. Of course, it was more fun when the AI was actually retarded, because seeing attacks and moves clearly outside of logical processes is always a treat.
Anyway... While searching for more background games or games that play themselves (a genre which, unsurprisingly, doesn't really exist because games by definition are supposed to be interactive), I came across a little gem called Grid Game, written by some dude named Mark James. It's pretty fun and addictive, and you play with just a single click. It's pretty self-explanatory once you see it, so give it a go.
You can check it out by clicking the link below. Comment to the post with your best score! My best score is 1617!
http://fizzlebot.com/gridgame.php
Anyway... While searching for more background games or games that play themselves (a genre which, unsurprisingly, doesn't really exist because games by definition are supposed to be interactive), I came across a little gem called Grid Game, written by some dude named Mark James. It's pretty fun and addictive, and you play with just a single click. It's pretty self-explanatory once you see it, so give it a go.
You can check it out by clicking the link below. Comment to the post with your best score! My best score is 1617!
http://fizzlebot.com/gridgame.php
Rainbow AAR #7: Welcome to the Show
November 24, 2009: At Mercy Hospital, fifty armed businessmen who are upset at their HMO take the first floor of a hospital hostage. They are kind enough to move all civilians and the injured to other areas, as their sole purpose is to shoot up all the equipment. Team Rainbow is called in to "bring order to chaos" as the LAPD SWAT expression goes.
Team Falkon had helmet cams on for this mission, so you readers get an EXCLUSIVE look at how the mission went down...
Music is "Ladies and Gentlemen" by Saliva.
Team Falkon had helmet cams on for this mission, so you readers get an EXCLUSIVE look at how the mission went down...
Music is "Ladies and Gentlemen" by Saliva.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
