Yes, fair reading public, I am back. Truth is, I never left. It simply took a special combination of laziness and disinterest to have kept me from blogging for nearly 20 months. At the prodding of a particular person, I have thought about writing ever so slightly more. After reading this, you might regret it...as will she.
I told myself years ago that I didn't want to work in retail ever again. I was burned out on the grind. The lack of days off (specifically weekends), the customers and their inability to be courteous or considerate or even basically decent representations of human beings. I managed to escape the retail world for a number of years, although that doesn't mean I was able to escape assholes altogether [They're everywhere]. It was nice. I even took to online shopping as to avoid crowds and certain types of individuals. This was more than likely equal parts social anxiety and curmudgeonry.
I'm not [necessarily] a misanthrope. I'm also by no means excessively exuberant. I consider myself well-balanced in emotional output. This hasn't always been the case, but that is an entirely different and probably much longer post.
For the last 9 weeks or so, I have been back in the purgatory that is retail commerce. Working for a certain Membership-based warehouse (that isn't affiliated with Wal-Mart) has been challenging and difficult. Physically more than mentally to this point. But as a friend keeps reiterating: "It is all means to an end." Most of our customers are well-to-do, but that doesn't mean we don't see our share of peopleofwalmart.com rejects. All are equally frustrating to deal with.
It is here that I would like to break with the traditional narrative style and enter the rest of my argument as a direct and open letter to "our members".
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Dear Members,
I hope this letter finds you well. Or at least moderately functional, since we only have four motorized carts for our differently abled members. And I know how pissy you all get when they are in use by some other lard-ass that is too lazy to walk, much less diet.
I am writing to you today to discuss an appalling trend in our warehouses across the nation. It seems that, having paid for your little plastic membership card, you now feel entitled to do some if not all of the following:
- Drive 84mph through the parking lot. It is a parking lot, not the Indy 500.
- Stand in front of the row of carts while rummaging through your belongings for the aforementioned piece of plastic. You are in the way. Plain and simple. Get your card before you get out of your car.
- Get overtly angry that you happen to not be the only person shopping in a bulk-item warehouse on this particular (or any other) day, and now you must wait in line to purchase your 55 gallon drum of Duke's Mayonnaise. Relax. You saw how many cars were in the parking lot. You knew what you were getting into.
- Make the comment: "Wow. You guys are slow today." You just fucking jinxed us, asshole. Now these lines are going to fill up like a tanning salon with sorority girls on Spring Break.
- Make the comment: "Wow. It's hot today, huh?" No shit. It's summer in the south. What? Did you expect to see a guy pushing carts in a parka in the middle of August?
- Actually, just you making any comment is more than likely guaranteed to ruin any semblance of a good day I may have been in line to have.
- A family meal does not consist of "3 Chicken-Bakes, 4 Churros, 3 slices of pepperoni pizza, 2 swirled frozen yogurt cups and 2 vanilla frozen yogurt cups with 'that berry stuff on top'." Why don't you just go ahead and start injecting your children with arterial plaque now and hope for a painless death.
- Yes. I would mind helping you load your items into your car.
- There are 8 cart corrals for your convenience. It is never more than a 50ft walk to one of them from where you parked your car. Don't be that special kind of asshole that rams the cart up onto the medians. Or the kind that parks all the way out by the periphery in an attempt to relish that sliver of shade from the undersized tree you parked next to, only to leave your cart crammed into the grass. I'm the guy who has to go get that cart. I don't want to walk out there anymore than your fat-ass.
Sincerely,
Disgruntled Cart-Pusher
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There are probably a million more things I could complain about. Strangely, having written some of them down seems to have taken some of the vitriol out of my veins. For now.
Still want to read this?
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