I Loathe Salad

Hello, fine people. Happy Labour Day!

I have to admit, I am jealous of people who can eat an entire pizza and not gain a pound. No, let me rephrase that. It angers me. Dammit, it’s unfair. All I have to do is look at a pizza and I turn into Jabba The Hutt. When it’s pizza day at work, I just silently snort in the aroma of the passing deliciousness and then place the boxes in other people’s carts.

Some of my co-workers go on their breaks and buy Mountain Dew, chocolate bars, pizza and cupcakes. I admit it, I’m envious. They gorge on that shit like there’s no tomorrow. They’re as skinny as a rake and there’s no leaves to gather. It seems so unfair. It’s diabolical.

I only eat food that you can pick, pluck or shoot, and I still feel like a fairy elephant.

I don’t need a personal trainer as much as I just need somebody to follow me around to slap the unhealthy food out of my hand.

I want to work out, but then I don’t want to work out even more.

Experts say that refined sugar is like heroin. It awakens certain pleasure centers in the brain and makes you addicted. I just try to avoid it. Now I know why they call it junk food, because it turns you into an acne scarred, whale blubbering junkie.

I’ve lost thirty-five pounds thus far, so I must be doing something right. It’s just that..well, it feels like it’s taking an eternity to reach my goal. Two pounds a week is what doctor’s claim is a healthy weight loss. I don’t want to send my body into hyper-drive distress by losing far too much at once, and then end up shedding all my hair like Yul Brynner, but dayammm!

If I can’t stick to a diet, does that make me a desserter? Ha!

Why does sugar, fat and salt have to taste so good? Take Lay’s chips, for example. They come in a new onion ring flavour. I know it’s all chemicals with shit loads of artificial cancer causing ingredients, but it still brings forth a surge of excitement. I won’t eat them, mind you. God no, I don’t want to go back to my old physique. I just ask other people who buy them in line how delicious they are.

Fuck…

My nutritionist told me to eat about 1,200 calories a day. I said, “okay, so how many do I eat at night?”

Anyhoo, I suppose my health is more important. My blood pressure did return to normal, I’m not on any medications and have no issues. Knock on wood. Plus, I’m able to fit into many of my ultra cute outfits again. I really shouldn’t complain. I guess weight loss is just a waiting game.

~GW

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Butter Bitch

I stood at customer service helping one of my co-workers bag groceries. We chatted about different types of healthy food when this bitter, old elderly lady told me to shut the fuck up because she has a brain injury and can’t stand noise. I said, “fine.” I mimed the old zipper my mouth routine and threw away the key. I didn’t say another word.

Her son, about fifty years old, stood beside her looking like he wanted to internally combust from embarassment.

She brought six bricks of Lactancia butter to be scanned at the register and handed the cashier a rain-check. We hand those out when we run out of stock. There’s only supposed to be a limit of two, and I wondered who the hell fucked up.

Anyhoo… the rain-check wouldn’t scan. I tried to explain to the old cow…er, I mean customer that she brought us the wrong butter which is why I couldn’t discount it, and oh my God she just about had a bird, and cow and an obese zebra.

She completely freaked out, verbally ripped off my head and then body slammed it onto the counter.

“The foil butter is on sale not the boxed,” I tried to explain. I felt like I stood on top of a high mountain because all I could hear was her shrieking voice echoing over and over again about how stupid I am.

I thought, okay, what happened to the ‘low noise’ brain injury excuse? I guess that medical delusion goes right out the window when she doesn’t get her own way, because she made more of an uproar than an atomic bomb going off. Jesus, what a rude, jurassic shit-head.

She paid for the fucking butter and I sent her on her way.

I turned to my co-worker and said, “Oh my God, can you imagine living with her? Well, I better not talk about her on my blog. You know, I might look insensitive if I talk about a sour old crow with a mangled brain.”

My co-worker lowered her brow and snarled ,”screw that, she’s a bitch!”

Alrighty then

The next day when I arrived at work the assistant manager called me into his office.

That’s never a good sign~

The excitement just never ends at my job. Apparenly I locked an employee in the store and went home.

RO-oh.

I made closing announcements at 9:30, 9:45, 9:50, 9:55, 10:00pm, and yelled at the top of my lungs before I left at 10:10pm, but apparently this doofus, who I might add is as dumb as a bag of hammers, still didn’t hear anything. I don’t know what the hell he was doing.

All the motion sensors went off in the store and he called 911. Seriously, 911? A shit load of police came from everywhere. As my boss is explaining what went down, I’m laughing my ass off. He got angry that I laughed, but I’m sorry……it’s funny as hell.

~GW

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.

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