Lure Me In

In these trying economic times several retailers have had to file for bankruptcy, thus closing their doors and liquidating their inventory. When it comes time to move merchandise these stores have to figure out a way to lure extra customers into their places of business. Enter Awkward Giant Sign Holding Guy. This dude is probably paid $40 per day to stand on a corner with a 7-foot sign plastered with info about "Total Liquidation!", "20-70% off all MERCHANDISE!", and "Everything Must Go!". Most of the men (I have yet to see a chick do this job) I have seen look like the dregs of society. The hispanic dude who was advertising for our local Linens and Things had greasy hair, dirty grey jeans, a Sony Discman probably playing Journey's Greatest Hits, and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Hardly caused me to feel inspired to go buy some clearance comforters and sheets. The skinny black guy who held the towering sign for Circuit City was drinking a beverage clad in it's secret paper bag cozy (Mad Dog or Colt 45), also had filthy jeans, and the same dangling cig from his lips. This dude HATED this job and it showed on his "Fuck you, I am Sweaty, Hungover, and Hoping to Escape my Probation Officer" expression. Most of the poor souls who commit to this dreary mindless job have the same sort of look and enthusiasm. Why bother? I can smell your 3 day old stank through my car window. I don't really want to buy anything you are selling. And yes, though no one else wants to do this shitty job, this hobo-looking mother-fucker represents YOUR store. So maybe you should rethink the hiring. A shower and no cigarette perhaps? The best representation I saw recently was in front of a going-out-of-business sale at a store I cannot even recall. Want to know WHY I don't remember the store? Because the guy holding the sign had enthusiasm, hygiene, and DANCE MOVES! If I had to guess his name I might wager Lance or Skippy. His Heather Locklear-highlighted coif was swept back by a few coats of Aussie Sprunch Spray. (You have to remember that shit--it smells like grape candy!). He was jumping up and down, SMILING, and no cigarette was in sight! I am not sure if there was a song in his head or he had a boom box resting beneath his enormous sale sign. He was popping side to side around that sign not unlike the VonTrapp kids in The Sound Of Music when they were "cuckooing" in the "So Long, Farewell" montage. It was inspiring. One thing was for sure, he was not drunk, not hungover, potentially a super-closeted child of Jesus freak parents who home school, and wearing a dapper ensemble that included white jeans and penny loafers. PENNY FUCKING LOAFERS. His smiled, popped aside the "Clearance NOW" in neon yellow letters and did a suave kick ball-change. I felt like putting him on the Hot Tamale Train a' la' Mary Murphy from So You Think You Can Dance. Had I not been driving at semi-warp speed to drop my daughter at Girl Scout camp I would have stopped to buy whatever the hell he was selling. Which looking back might have included crystal meth and a Book of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints....with a Lance Bass bookmark....

About That Disco Stick

I curse in the privacy of my own home. Okay, so that's a lie, I curse wherever the mood strikes me but I AM able to practice discretion. If I'm really pissed off I will fucking swear, even in front of my kids. But that's MY choice. What really gets my panties in a wad is the direction musicians are taking with their lyrics. Between the raunchiness of their subject matter and the leniency of what radio stations play it is nearly impossible to find anything suitable (that's not the douche-bag Disney channel radio) to listen to with my kids in the car. My kids are dancers, they like current music but even the radio edits these days are off the charts dirty. Today I heard a song called "I'm That Bitch". Nice. Lady Gaga sings about wanting to take a ride on your disco stick. The Black Eyed Peas are amazing artists but their album is littered with "shit", "bitch", "fuck" and "nigga". There's even a silly song called "Don't Be a Douche Bag". I get it. You are bad-ass. You are really, really rich. You don't want to compromise your artistic integrity. But why does your great music has to have such growingly explicit content? Can't you just chill out on that shit a little bit? It's like you are trying to "out-motherfucker" each other. What's next a ballad called "Lick My Throbbing Nips and Make Me Scream"? Or maybe "You've Got A Trouser Snake I Wanna Lick"? How about "Baby Want a Blowjob"? And don't give me the "there are edited versions" bullshit because that's only for the three or four songs actually released for radio from the album. You greedy-ass, dirty-mouthed bitches. Don't get me wrong, I love me some f-bombs. I guess I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I'm just getting a little burned out on my Camp Rock and High School Musical soundtracks, folks.

Lane Fucker

When I am ready to unload my merchandise onto the conveyor belt at Target would you kindly back up off my grill?! It is a huge pet peeve of mine when my personal shopping space is invaded as I complete my shopping adventure at a store which requires a conveyor belt, such as the grocery store or Target. Why is God's name do you insist on inching your cart forward till it's literally 4 inches away from my achilles tendon as I unload my shit? Do you think I don't see you waiting for me to put the plastic bar down to signify the end of my shit? Is your time more valuable than mine because you keep glancing at your watch? I fucking get it but my kids need to picked up in 20 minutes, too, beeotch. Do you think that just because I have spent 15 minutes unloading my probably close to $300 worth of groceries and am now sweating profusely I should let you go ahead of me because all you have is a 6-pack of Coors Light and three Hungry man dinners? Nope, sorry dude. Why don't you pick up a copy of Local Singles magazine because those dinners and beer aren't exactly gonna lure the ladies. I also cannot stand it when parents let their young kids encroach upon my zone. There was a little girl today at Target who had her grimy mitts resting on the belt as it rolled forward, decreasing my merchandise load zone by a full 10 inches. She was staring up at me like I had a baby's arm growing from my forehead. I never made eye contact because I wanted to deny gratification for this inappropriate behavior. I also noticed her mother staring at me as well. She never said, "Gee honey, why don't you step back and let this nice lady load her 50 pound cat litter and Tide detergent and sofa-sized packs of Bounty and Charmin?" Instead I could feel the white trash glare of her and her Nascar tank top-clad husband, Bubba. I think the family had a handful of items which is why I think they expected me to give up my precious space ahead of them. Fuck that shit! Maybe if you controlled your daughter's belt fondling problem I might have considered it. FINALLY it was time for me to load my ginormous toilet paper package and the mom snidely said, "Honey, be careful so she doesn't pinch your fingers!" Well excuse the fuck out of me! Bitch, you'd better hurry up and get home because you left your Jello and cottage cheese salad out on the coffee table. And Wheel of Fortune starts in 15 minutes.

Waiting Rooms

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.