PIGS

Are customers always right? I understand that customers are the ones that make a business successful, but come on…folks can be so vulgar, privileged and rude.

A man walked up to me at customer service and informed me of folks doing disgusting things with the fruit in the store.

I thought, what the hell?

I calmly walked over to the produce area and watched as customers opened every bag of BC cherries with their germ-ridden fingers and started flinging the ones they didn’t want onto the black showcase shelf like a bunch of barn-raised chimpanzees tossing chunks of shit at each other.

A chinese and a white chick started slinging them around all over the shelves with absolutely no regard.

I raised my eyebrows. “Excuse me, can you please stop doing that? It’s unsanitary!” I said strongly.

The white chick stared at me. “Well, some of them are wet at the bottom,” she snapped. Like that gave her some kind of right to act like an imbecile.

“I don’t care. Just stop, please!” I repeated.

Honest to God, these women are middle aged. You’d think they’d know better.

Then, later in the evening one of the deli girls came over to me to complain about a customer sticking his fingers in the olives at the olive bar, and shoving them in his gob like a starving Ethiopian at a free buffet.

She said to him, “come on, you’re a fifty year old man. That is theft and it’s unacceptable that you’re sticking your unclean fingers in there.”

He just grunted, chewing up the olives in his big hole as he walked away.

When he came up to the cash he didn’t even buy any olives. The nerve! I couldn’t say anything because I didn’t see it happen. But all I have to say is gross….just GROSS.

Folks need to give their heads a shake.

~GW

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Back To Work Blues

My vacation is over. My staycation, actually, because I didn’t go anywhere. I just enjoyed nine days of bliss and relaxation. No chaos, no whining, no complaints. Just pure – vegetate until you have a psychotic break – silence.

Sigh…

No more lazing around the pool for me. Okay, it was my bathtub but the good news is I am less likely to drown. Plus, I didn’t have anybody with gold teeth asking me if I’d be interested in a time-share. Then I’d have to sit through a three hour seminar listening to their blasted, “waaah, waaah, waaah, waaah, waaah!” (Like Charlie Brown’s teacher), just to be able to go on a free tour to snorkel with sharks.

Seriously, I don’t want a freakin’ rip off time-share, nor do I need a macramé bracelet. Note to self: On future trips just pay for the tour.

Anyhoo~

I just really did not want to do any people’ing with fuck-tards. Total seclusion is what I wanted, and that is exactly what I got. Complete, elated joy.

Just a little update for those following my food allergy issues: I stopped eating wheat, gluten and dairy. The rashes have healed a lot. My blood pressure has returned to normal and I’ve lost 20 pounds. I have literally thrown two sacks of russet potatoes off my body and I feel great. I’m telling you, there is something wrong with our food. I have become addicted to organic oranges however, but that’s not a bad thing. It cleans the innards.

Blah…I go back to work tomorrow.

~ Looking gorgeous 😀 ~

The good news is, I like the people I work with. That’s the only thing that makes my job worthwhile. As for the customers, well let me just say there is a shit load of arse wipes in the world who love to aggravate me, and they come right to customer service.

Well, I guess I have to get my blog material from somewhere. 😀

Back to the hamster cage, and more stories to come.

~GW

Shrimp, Shit, And An Angry Fit.

A burley man walked over to me at customer service with three different bags of shrimp in his hands. His eyes opened as wide as saucers and he aggressively demanded that I give him ninety dollars worth of shrimp for free. He based this misguided belief on the fact that no price was listed beside the products in the seafood department. He got angry and started yelling at me because the shrimp wasn’t up for unfettered grabs.

An air hose attached to an oxygen tank protruded up his largely pored, fat snout which helped him to breathe. I didn’t think that eating cholesterol laden bottom dwelling crustations would improve his health, but hey, that doesn’t matter anyway if you’re an entitled piece of shit.

I tried to explain to him that the scanning policy is only in affect if the products are priced incorrectly, but they scanned fine and at the right price. Alas, any explanation on the subject fell on deaf ears like an attempted conversation with ding-a-ling Patrick Star. When he realized I wouldn’t cave in to his demands he stomped off.

Shortly after, a guy and a girl walk up to my cash to pay. He grabbed a Kit Kat and the girl says, “I’d like one too.”
“You can eat half of this one!” he snapped.
“I’d like a whole one,” she continued.
“You don’t need it!” he barked.
I’m glaring at the girl, looking to see the expression on her face. It’s blank. She didn’t say anything. I secretly hoped she’d say, “screw you, asshole!” But nope, nothin’. Not even a twitch. I glance over at him and he has a smug look on his face. I’m thinking, great…another narcissistic control freak. If she reacted he’d probably retaliate by leaving a bruise in a place nobody can see. What would Jesus say?

Speaking of nasty people…

A few days ago a lady walked into the store and berated one of the young cashiers. This mean-spirited cow went up one side of her and down the other like a fire ant on a mound. The cashier handled herself very well under the circumstances. She apologized even though she did nothing wrong, but eventually became so hurt it reduced her to tears. Why would anyone do that to another person, seriously? Later in the evening the same lady called the store and roasted her again on the telephone.

Un-fucking-believable!

Cashiers are not the punching bags of society. We are just there to make a living. Minimum wage does not entitle you to verbally pummel a young girl. For folks who cannot control their narcissistic anger, stay at home. Better yet, get psychiatric help because we do not want to be the brunt of your bitchy, spewing, cruel idiocies.

~IN OTHER NEWS~

I’m on holiday for nine days. Oh yeah, no more people’ing or stress caused by over-eating big-mouthed dimwits. Solitude is bliss. HAPPY CANADA DAY!

Yours truly,

~Strong Loonie.

Conspiracy, Zealots and Money…Oh My

Why do I always get the crazies bothering me at work?

I’m standing at customer service minding my own business, when this big oaf with a mouth as wide as a truck stop starts going on and on about the evils in Hollywood and that Jim Carrey is the head of a huge Satanic pedophile ring. He sold his soul to the Devil for fame. Yes, literal soul selling. Apparently it’s a thing. He wouldn’t shut up and I couldn’t get a word in edgewise because he loved to hear himself talk. I thought, this guy has a brain like Ker Plunk. Pull out the sticks and his marbles fall. His features looked like Ruth Buzzy and Pee Wee Herman had a baby.

I’d never heard of this story before so I looked it up online – because of course, if it’s on YouTube it must be true. (Sarcasm) Anyway, the only evidence I could find about Carrey is from some crazy luntic religious ding-a-ling and his so called secret informats. Okay, yeah, well, slap me silly and call me a tinfoil helmet whack job, It must be true then. If you’re going to make serious claims back it up with real evidence. In this technological age somebody must have a spy camera.

Later in the day this lady walks in and starts going on about how the world is coming to an end and everyone is going to be thrown into hell. The Lord is vengeful and is going to make things right, and all that jazz. I thought God was love? Oh well, there goes that theory smashing out the window. She’s about as annoying as a religious dude who always comes in trying to grab my hand. I don’t like people touching me. Maybe he’s hoping his crazed- eye hulk handshake will make me super zealous too. Perhaps he’s looking to make some sort of conversion transference. Dang! I might start having snack attacks for round bread and blood-wine.

I seriously don’t need a crutch to be a good person. To me, God is not in any corrupt cult organization, building nor in a man made book. He just…IS.

I don’t know why some folks are so focused on the worst things happening in society, when there are plenty of amazing things occuring around the planet. Many good samaritans still exist if you look carefully past the veil of doom and gloom.

Goodness will always prevail. Peace starts from within.

However, the cuckoos always seem to poke their snotty noses out of the closet at the weirdest times.

An elderly lady asked me for a refund today. She wanted a refund for cherries because they cost $1.80, which she thought was too expensive. It is getting beyond ridiculous. Then, she refused to sign the paperwork because her husband is a doctor. Like I care that her husband is a doctor. He’s a doctor who apparently can’t afford cherries on sale. I don’t care one iota. What you do for a living or how much money or material things you own doesn’t excite me at all.

Some folks have to constanlty rub it in your face that they have money like they are spewing some sort of God complex. I couldn’t give a shit. What does impress me? Perhaps your talent, but especially if you’re a decent human being. That is a real gift.

~GW

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

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.