A Snit And A Fit From An Unpleasant Git.

HEY….It’s been almost two months since you’ve heard from me. Did you miss me? Ha!

I’m telling this story so that you can see what kind of horrible people we have to deal with every day in the grocery business. Some customers are so nasty and rude.

I stood at customer service ringing in a customer’s groceries, when this balding dick-head butts in line waving corn at me, demanding that I serve him. I told him that I hadn’t finished serving the customer in front of him and that he needs to wait his turn.

He barked, “well how many minutes are you going to take?”

I replied, “as long as it takes this customer to enter his information into the machine and pay.”

“Well, how long is that going to take?” he snapped.

I glared at him. “Sir, ask the customer yourself, he’s standing right beside you.”

The customer I was serving looked angry and said to me, “he won’t want to hear my reply.”

Baldy got aggressive. He turned toward me and continued to hiss, “I’m asking you. How many minutes is it going to take?”

“I don’t know. As long as it takes, Sir!”

Jesus, I felt annoyed. I wanted to smash him on the floor like a Greek plate. It’s too bad I can’t tell customers when they are being a fucking dickwad. I have to be nice and it took everything I had within me to contain myself. His whole demeanor felt like an annoying, circling horsefly and I wanted to slap him unconscious. What a piece of work.

We are quick at work, but we can only go so fast We aren’t aliens in disguise, although many treat us like we are.

Also this week, another piece of entitled shit griped that I took too long helping a crippled man in a wheelchair with his groceries. He complained that he waited in the lineup for forty-five minutes. This is utter bullshit. It’s like somebody describing the fish they caught, the exaggeration gets bigger and bigger.

Then to add insult to injury, he moaned to head office about it as well. Seriously, has he no heart? I helped a Vietnam vet. How impatient and low can people get? Ram a stick up his ass and call him a popsicle, cause that’s pretty damn cold.

He also called our phone at customer service as he stood in line and asked if we have an extra cashier. My co-worker answered the phone and told him, “NO, we don’t.” Do folks not realize this is rude and it delays us further? I thought, yeah buddy, we hide extra cashiers in the back and bring them out on special occasions when fucktards want their organics.

~IN OTHER NEWS~

Somebody left their hat in the bathroom today.

Jesus saved them, but he didn’t save their hat.

~GW

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I’m a Leper

Not really, but I feel like one.

I changed my diet. Not because I wanted to, but because I broke out into a giant rash.

I’m one massive itch ball. I’m hoping I don’t turn into a festered blob of ooze before I can figure out what the hell I’m allergic to. I don’t want to end up at the Scabdale Home for Lepers. Eczema itches like a mosquito bite mating with a big lump of measles.

You want grocery service? Here, let me give you a hand. Hand falls off …………….SPLOINK!

I think it’s a food allergy. I have to cut out wheat, gluten, corn, dairy, soy and eggs for thirty days, then introduce each one back, one at a time. Yeah, so for now what’s left to eat? Yard waste and blowfish, I suppose.

I’m on day three of this rabbit cuisine and it went okay. I mean, eating clean isn’t exactly exciting. It doesn’t pump my nab. At least I’ve been spared of having any major cravings for chocolate or cheeseballs.

I’m taking a multi-vitamin, primrose oil, vitamin D, probiotic, antihistamine, cannabis oil in skin cream, and non-perfume everything else in my entire existence. Hopefully this little cocktail of anti-itch ingredients stops me from ripping the skin off my flesh like a zombie in Night Of The Living Dead. Okay, but a sexy zombie, let’s be realistic. Ha! I’ll tell you one thing though…

Feelin’ itchy makes you bitchy!

It’s only been a couple of days, but so far it looks like I’m starting to heal a little. Do you want to see my rash?

~GW

Vapor Caper

A lady dressed in a tailored suit and wearing a pearl necklace came up to my cash register and waited for me to ring through her groceries. This chick must have soaked herself in a vat of perfume and then sprayed it all over herself as well for good measure.

She created a deadly, toxic force field. Her offensive chemical consistancy permeated in the air surrounding her like a hog sewer and a vat of rotting onions instantly and energetically smashed together. It choked me really badly like a skunk desperately running into my nostrils looking for berries.

What happened to the idea of a little dab will do ya? Or that less is more?

This black hole stench-vortex sucked the oxygen right out of my lungs. My throat seized up like a rusty engine and I simultaneously explosively farted and choke-coughed at the same time.

Oopsie…

Yes, I felt embarrassed. I wanted to drop through a trap door beneath me. I obviously have really bad allergies. This definitely wasn’t a grocery whisper.

She took a step back, eyes wide, staring at me looking both surprised and horrified. “Are you okay?”

What I really wanted to do is curse. I felt angry because I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t actually say the words in bold, but it’s what I thought.

“Yes, I’m okay. You stupid, stinking bitch. I always like to pretend I’m an exploding balloon at least once a day. I’m big at parties!” I remarked sarcastically. “Actually, I’m allergic to your perfume,” I gasped. “You’re wearing too much. How do you not know that you reek like a pit of decaying animals covered in ammonia? The buzzards are circling!”

She looked offended and left. It wasn’t my fault she stank like a two cent hooker. I wonder to this day if she still soaks herself in lung destroying chemical. I exploded like an aerosol can on an open flame in front of her. I hope she learned this valuable life lesson:

If you wear too much perfume you’ll get a KABOOM!

~GW


Old As Dirt

I used to believe that growing older is a privilege denied to many, but I’ve changed my mind.

Let’s face it, your brain slowly fries like an egg. You forget everything and you repeat everything. You repeat everything, you repeat everything, eh?

Your joints hurt like hell, and your limbs become as weak as a boarding-house cup of tea. You fall on the floor trying to put on your clothes and you can’t get up. Ah…and dammit, the life alert is laying on the freakin’ couch. You’re left ugly-naked on the floor for a few days until somebody eventually finds you half dead on the decoratively patterned carpet.

Cooking becomes an impossible challenge. You slop tomato soup all over your cupboards and linoleum tiling like a homicidal murder scene.

You can’t see a damn thing anymore and your eyes sting so bad they’re like two fighting blowfish.

Eventually your hair turns grey and naturally backcombs itself into a witchy pooh bouffant.

You apply makeup like Tammy Faye Baker on your face that looks like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. Your imperfect pencilled in eyebrows look like two caterpillars contemplating suicide.

The day finally arrives when your body loses complete control. You explosive diarrhea and piss all over yourself like a sewage troll while you scream at everyone to fuck off.

Ah yes, the golden years.

Happy Easter, folks.

Yours truly, Smartie Sprinkles.

You Stink!

For the love of God and all that is holy, stop wearing Patchouli oil. You stink to high heaven.

Um….no. Just no.

I can’t tolerate the stench. Especially when I’m trying to work. Everyone is too polite to say anything, but I want you to know…it’s horrible.

Perhaps you’re trying to cover up the fact that you haven’t bathed in weeks. I really don’t know. Listen, if you have bad personal hygiene or if you’re just a dirty bugger, it’s your own concern. BO = bugger off. I have no idea what could possibly possess anyone to splash Beelzebub’s urine onto their body. I don’t care how much you think you like Patchouli oil. It barks like a diarrhea inflicted hell hound. You obviously can’t smell yourself.

Take a shower and scrub that shit off your body with a wire brush. Preferebly with industrial soap. You effin’ reek like a skunk’s armpit that’s been kept deep in a cave and hidden from the light. I don’t want a lingering, moldy dank-stank to hook me by the nostrils like Pepe Le Pew’s ghost. It causes internal cringing and I feel like I’m bleeding internally.

I mean, I’m sure it works great as a Jurassic fart insect repellent, but it seriously makes me want to projectile vomit like Linda Blair right into your face…and that’s pretty bad. Seriously, I can’t wait until you go away. I hate it. I don’t know why it hasn’t been banned.

Our ancestors from the seventeenth – nineteenth century used to put Patchouli oil on their dead, which is where it belongs. On a decaying, maggot infested, corspe. I retch at the smell. So if you aren’t dead, please don’t wear it around me unless you enjoy watching me get nausiated and empty my stomach onto your crunchy vegetables and soy infused meat alternatives.

As a matter of fact, do us all a favour and soak your head in rose water for a few decades. Maybe it will float a few molecules of grey matter to the surface and you’ll finally realize how foul smelling you are, making everyone want to blow chunks.

Speaking of personal hygiene, a few weeks ago I bought a box of baby wipes at work.
One of my co-workers wondered why I needed them.

“Are they for a baby?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No, they’re for me.”
“For you?” she scoffed. She looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
My eyebrows lowered. “Don’t you use wipes?”
“No, I just use toilet paper,” she replied.
I rolled my eyes. “Look, think about it. If your kitty plops shit all over the floor, do you just use a paper towel and wipe it, or do you vigorously Bee Mop the floor with scalding, sudsy water?”

She just laughed. Seriously though, everyone should know the answer. If you don’t use wipes you aren’t clean. Scrub your anal pore, folks. Nobody wants your shitty, smelly skid marks or crusty underwear.

Your ass stinks like rotten cabbage.

If you don’t stop stinking, you know the drill.

You stink when near, you stink when far. Ram a carrot up your star.

This has been a public service announcement courtesy of the Grocery Whisperer.

I’m Not Deserving?

I’ve heard some folks say, “well, golly gee willikers, why should a person working in a grocery store get the same wage as somebody who has gone to college? They don’t deserve it. They didn’t have to sacrifice any time to better themselves, or pay any money to further their education.”

Wow!

Well, let me fill you in on a little secret. I’ve graduated from college, many times. Don’t be a judgemental shit-head and assume I’m not educated. It bugs the hell out of me.

I don’ t have a fat head or anything, but truth be told, I have diplomas in many different fields. I did my time and I paid my dues over the years. I’ve accomplished many amazing things. I deserve a good wage just like everyone else. Anyone who begrudges me that, well that’s too fucking bad.

Why don’t I use my diplomas? Why am I working in a grocery store?

Because I like it!

Mostly, I like the people I work with.

It’s so hard to find a job where your co-workers are nice, thoughtful, and don’t try to throw you under the bus. I’ve worked with some of the biggest thick-headed, venomous bitches and jerks known to mankind in my trained profession, and trust me, after you experience that you don’t want to subject yourself to that kind of negative environment ever again. I don’t know why folks have to be such low vibrational mud-suckers, but they are.

No amount of money is worth that bullshit. Peace of mind is gold. I’m an educated grocery whisperer, and I’m okay with that.

Those people who think only of themselves, are hopelessly uneducated. They are not educated no matter how instructed they may be.

Here’s a wee poem I wrote. I hope you like it.

You stand in line, food on the belt,
You never knew just how I felt,
When you judged me from afar,
Ram that carrot up your star.

What can I say, I’m a talented poet. Hahaha

How To Kill A Virus.

This is not a funny blog, it’s a serious one. Seriously awesome!

Heal yourself naturally. Because inquiring minds want to know!

He’s kind of cute…but a really mean bugger!

I’m going to give you a naturopathic recipe to kill off the cold and flu virus. It’s a magical little recipe that really works and will keep you out of the doctor’s office. (And keep your money in your pocket). Plus, it will stop you from sneezing all over everyone (especially me)and spreading the nasties. Write it down.

Add:

1/2 of a pineapple, 1 large onion (in pieces), cayenne pepper (as much as you like), 4 cloves of garlic, 2 teaspoons of turmeric powder, or raw grated turmeric, 2 lemons chopped in pieces, (remove the rind), 2 tablespoons of ginger, 2 tablespoons of honey.

You can double up the recipe if you want to make more. It actually tastes better than it sounds.

Blend well. Keep in fridge. Use within 3-4 days.

Bless you! This is a public service recipe. You’re welcome!

You’re kidding, right?

Today was just friggin’ marvy!

I sat on a chair at the clinic this morning waiting to get my bloodwork done.

The fellow next to me waited to get his blood taken also. He asked me if I’d hold his hand because he felt nervous.

I said, “you’re kidding, right?”

He said, “no,” and began to sweat like a tiny waterfall just exploded in his cranium. He looked like a fainting butterfly princess ready to kiss the floor hello at any moment. I thought, this guy would never make it in the times of the gladiator. If he can’t even take a damn needle, what would he do at the sight of a sword flying toward his limbs like a giant food processor?

“You’ll be fine,” I assured him. I wasn’t about to touch his sweaty, pansy-ass hand.

Later at work, I offered this dick-head (a different man) a fork to go with his salad. Because who wants to eat a salad with their fingers? I’m thoughtful that way.

He said, “no thank you.”

I mentioned that there is salt and pepper in the implement bundle, and out of nowhere the guy cracked like Humpty Dumpty and had a major meltdown. He gnashed his teeth, “I told you I don’t want it!” he griped. Then he insisited that I call the manager.

I looked at him in disbelief and uttered, “you’re kidding, right?

He replied, “no, I’m not kidding!”

My eyebrows raised. “You want me to call the manager over a fork?”

“No, it’s because you’re arguing with me,” he snapped.

Whoa, anger issues. Okay, now this guy is really annoying me. “I’m not arguing with you, Sir, I’m just trying to be helpful,” I replied politely.

His face got really red and his anger flared. “Now you’re arguing about arguing with me. I want the manager!”

I couldn’t believe it. I just could not win. The guy was a complete shit-stirrer. I felt a little embarassed that I may be reprimanded about a plastic utensil.

The manager showed up and spoke to this ignoramous. I don’t know what was said, but as I looked over I saw Mr. anti-fork stomping out of the store like a bull looking for a red cape.

Truthfully, I wanted a gladiator to stab him in forehead with a fork. Stick the salt in his eyeballs and shove the pepper up his arse.

We need gladiators. A gladiator could get rid of a lot of the dick-wads of the world.

Do I love my job? Yeah, I’m living the dream.

The Rantings of a Cashier

Hello, I’m the Grocery Whisperer. How may I be the brunt of your life’s failures and shortcomings today?

Here’s some things that make me want to kick you in the shin.

What really peeves me is when you discard your shopping cart in front of me and block all the other customers. Seriously, do I look like your buggy maid? Don’t be lazy. Show some class and put things away after yourself. How about…I’ll show up at your place of employment and throw around a few staplers. Then I’ll photocopy my fairly large, but firm bum and gently cascade one hundred copies onto the office floor. You go ahead and pick it up though, because it’s your job and the customer/client is always right.

Another delightful experience is when you leave food behind in the red grocery basket that you decide you don’t want. Hey, I’m not going to chow off your arm like a hungry bear zombie because you changed your mind about the chunky peanut butter. Seriously, hand it to me. It saves me from rolling my eyes when I discover it. Too much of that strains them and I don’t want to end up looking like Marty Feldman.

Must you talk on your cell phone when I’m asking you how you’d like to pay?

YOU.KEEP.DOING.IT

I’d love to take your phone and smash it to bits on the counter with a six pack of Orange Crush. Then I’ll chug the frothy brew like an open keg at a frat party while you rant about your phone being ruined. Oh, so now I have your attention and you want to talk? Perhaps you don’t realize what a rude and ignorant piece of smelly armpit tuft you are.

When something won’t ring in, quit saying it must be free. Like, I’ve never heard that one before. You know what else is free? My scanning gun’s laser in your eyeball.

You forgot your wallet in the car? OMG, check your pockets before you cash out, it’s not that hard. Look, I’m on express. The line gets as backed up as a starving rhinoceros pigging out on bananas and cheese. ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t cut it because now I have to ring everything through faster than a high-strung Speedy Gonzalez on steroids, and everyone else in line is angry as a smashed hornet’s nest because they had to wait for you.

You stroll in to purchase items two minutes before the store closes. Seriously, are you going to be that person? Some folks are as smart as a box of rocks. No, no, be completely selfish and shop. I’ve only been working for thirteen hours straight with no break, ready to drop on the floor like a fly that just got her head smashed in by a paralysing Raid can, but you go ahead and fill up your cart with all your low fat, gluten free foods. I’ll just wait another fifteen minutes past closing for you…and bleed.

Oh, you’ve got a bad flu, too? Well, have a cough all over the counter before you leave. Have a good sneeze on the money before you hand it to me as well. I wanted the bubonic plague. Thank God you came in. Feel better soon.

I

Killers

What is the underlying factor?

Those mass murders that you hear about in certain parts of the world have been a topic of great discussion. Everyone wonders what causes psychotic episodes possessing certain individuals to do such horrific things. Some people say it’s mental illness, drugs or lack of drugs. A few will state that perhaps bullying played a roll in their behaviour. Many may even believe they are just evil boofheads who have no regard for life.

I’ll tell you right now what the trigger is for someone to become a homicidal maniac.

It happens because you can’t open the fucking produce bags in the supermarket!

You massage your finger and thumb along the top of the bag, over to the corners, and then you blow on it trying to separate the plastic. You turn it over thinking you have the wrong side, and it still won’t god damn open. Flipping it back over again you realize it wasn’t the wrong side after all. Repeating this process over and over again, a massive clot begins to form in your cranium and it quickly eats into your brain’s grey matter like a hungry alien on steroids. Your face turns bright red and the veins on your forehead bulge outward into massive elephant man sized lumps of anger and frustration. Losing it, you scream…………”COME ONNNNNNN! You ^%$$# piece of $%(^$%!”

The damn bag still won’t freakin’ open!

It makes you want to kill everyone around you. And that, folks, is what causes privileged white imbeciles wearing questionable polyester fashion to grab an illegal AK-47 and blow shit up.

Sad. All they want is a cucumber.

~The world may never know. But now you do.~

Secrets – DON’T LOOK!

Sucker! Reverse psychology works. Hahaha.

Some of my secrets have never been revealed….until now.

Why do I keep using every dish in the house? Every single god damn time. I can’t get angry or yell at anyone else because I live alone. It’s ME! It drives me crazy. I’m the plate and utensil dirtying idiot.

A meal here, a snack there, a cat dish everywhere. The next thing I know there’s a stack of porcelain piled so high it looks like I’ve just fed a hoard of starving Ethiopians. I have to wash them because I don’t want my kitchen to smell like I have a sewer rat as a pet. I always make it such a chore.

Seriously, why can’t I just keep using the same plate?

Yeah…don’t act like I’m the only one. Even Jackie Chan has issues.

And then there’s my cats…

I relax and sink down into my tub filled with warm water, Epsom salts and lavender.

OH YES…BLISS! Feelings of pure heaven.

Why do those two torture inflicting furballs of mine always defecate such a smelly shite every single time I’m in the bath?

My two cats probably talk to each other. “Okay, she’s in there. No…no, don’t eat the dry crap, eat a Jethro sized bowl of that wet, funky smelling food. Yeah, that’s it. Gobble it down fast. Let’s blow her out of the water with a vile submarine turd missile. We’ll target the enemy. The result will be catastrophic.”

They set their plot in motion. The foul smell eventually permeates over to the bathroom and slowly drifts up my nose like a twerking genie returning to his bottle. It hits my nostrils like a I-HISS terrorist attack. This soul destroying stench puts me into a state of septic shock almost knocking me out cold. It’s like they know exactly how to time it. When it assaults my senses I could die a million deaths.

I scream in agony. “NOOOOOOOO!”

~And then here’s my greatest secret of all ~

My bonsai tree has a penis!

Men, don’t be jealous.

This isn’t going to end well

Well, before I get into my personal story, let me start off with this image I found which I think is as funny as hell. It’s Macho Man, Randy Savage body slamming Jesus. Um, yeah…

Oh….this isn’t going to end well.


Would you care for some sweets?

Oh…this isn’t going to end well, either.


They are a little chewy.

So…on with my story. This happened on my way to work.

A big, black truck cruised along the road and then attempted to make a right turn. At the same time, a handicapped girl barrelled down the sidewalk on her red scooter trying to make the green light. Neither of them noticed each other. The scooter flew forward into the intersection with lightning speed and the truck driver made his turn.
All I could think at that moment is…

Oh…this isn’t going to end well.

It reminded me of a chicken being thrown out of a helicopter and expected to fly, the feeling of complete helplessness over the situation.

Then…..CRASH! The girl smashed right into the side of the truck, her face plastered up against the passenger door like she was auditioning for a Yop commercial. Then everything changed to slow motion. She flopped backward like a limp gymnast onto the ground. The scooter turned and did an Evel knievel maneuver on two wheels. Then it came to a stop at the sidewalk and tipped over onto one side.

Amazingly, or perhaps it was a miracle, the lady stood up on both legs and swore like a truck driver at the guy in the truck.

The irony.

“You ran me over!” She screamed frantically.

Well, technically she got smooshed. I don’t know if that term would hold up in court, but that’s my personal jargon.

I saw her a few days later riding a spanking new, blue scooter with all the bells and whistles. Insurance is a wonderful thing.

No, it didn’t end well…or did it?