I didn’t think Hell existed until those two hours…

I had a rather frustrating day, and this was the very last thing I did.  This is what happens when you just throw someone into a place they know nothing about.

So a deaf and half blind lady walks into the store at about 11:45.  She has a $5 Bingo card.  You know, the new yellow ones with the extra bingo lines on top? That one.  She lets me know she’s deaf, hands me the ticket, and I validate it (scanned it into the machine and typed in the special numbers).  I tell her it’s $5 and ask if she wants another ticket.  She makes some strange-non-sign-language gestures and I think, “oh, she just wants cash,” and proceed to do the $5 lottery win on the register. As I try to hand her the $5 and ask her if she needs anything else she slams her hand on the counter, makes some noises, snatches the ticket from me, points rather vehemently at it, and throws it back at me. I make the confused face and hand her some paper and a pen. She picks them up and slams them back down and somehow managed to non verbally tell me it should be more than that.  So I try to validate it again and, low-and-behold, “previously paid by you”. So I show her the validation slips and the one that said it was the right thing, and she, again, starts gesticulating wildly and making noses. So I try to explain to her that the computer
is right and she is wrong.  She won’t have it.  So I try to get her to use the self-check-thingy, and she refuses.  So I actually go over the call numbers with her to show her why it’s only $5, and she refuses to believe me.  So now I have a line of 10 people and a rather upset deaf and half blind woman and everyone is extremely frustrated when she grabs the ticket out of my hand and tries to leave.  I start gesticulating wildly and yelling that she can’t do that and to let me call and see what I can do.

So I get out my cell phone (because god forbid we actually have a phone in this piece of shit store that’s actually hearing impaired friendly) and call the G-TECH hotline and start running the only other register we have to knock down the line. So now I’m trying to explain to a half deaf blind woman that her ticket is only worth $5, wait on ten to fifteen people, and explain the situation to the lottery Helpdesk people, all at the same time.  I finally get the line down and the lady transfers me to the local claim center, and I’m trying to explain the situation to the lady on the phone and she’s just not understanding.  She keeps saying, “I don’t understand what the problem is.  The computer says it’s a $5 winner, it’s a $5 winner.”

“Well, ma’am, the customer is saying it should be more than that.”

“How much does the player think it should be?”

“Ma’am, how much do you think it should be?”

So she starts making weird noises and using her not-sign-language-signing to tell me twelve.  No, wait, not twelve, $120. No, wait, not $120 but $130.

“Sir, what game is this?”

“$5 bingo”

“There isn’t a $130 on the $5 bingo.  Flip the card over and show her the winning increments and explain those are the only denominations this game plays out.”

Somehow in the midst of this conversation and being transferred, etc., I went from having no one else in the store to having  a store filled with people! And I’m not talking a line of 20, I’m talking boulder to shoulder, tits to back, all three aisles and the back wall,
people waiting to get in, more than 50 people, above my fire Marshall regulated capacity filled with people. THERE WAS A TEN MINUTE
WAIT!!!

So the player says to go ahead and wait on the customers and the lady on the phone lets me take up her time while I try to knock out this insane line BY MYSELF.  So I’m explaining, while waiting on customers, exactly what’s transpired so this woman knows exactly what’s been going on and why I had to call the claim center in order to have someone explain to me to explain to this player why she only won $5.

So now the line is gone, it’s just us again, and I flip the card over and show her that there is no $130 or $120 winning increments in this game and she starts making noises again and gesticulating and pointing and is almost on the verge of tears and the lady on the phone, in her thick Jersey accent, goes, “oh, you’ve got a real problem there, sir, a real problem.  I can see that now.  Let me call lotto and see if we can’t find a rep in your area to come and help you.  Just give me a couple of minutes.  I need your retailer number and your phone number.”

So I give her all this information while I’m writing down what she told me so this half blind deaf lady understands what’s going on.  It’s now 12:30 and the lunch crowd is there and I, once again, have three lines of about 10-15 people each and can only use the one register. Yay.

So the player is happy and content to wait, and starts going over the ticket again to see if she’s wrong and I start running THE ONLY REGISTER LEFT BECAUSE SHE WON’T LEAVE THE COUNTER AY THE OTHER REGISTER to try to get the lines down. Alone.

So my phone rings with an Austin area code and they tell me they didn’t get my retailer number and that they’re trying to find ANYONE in the area who can come help me.  FINALLY a lady calls me (some district manager) and we go over everything that’s happened and she tells me the woman HAS to take the money because no one else can pay it.  I explain that the woman will not take the money.  She wants what she thinks she won or the ticket.  So she tells me to take her to the self-check-thingy and show her that it’s only $5.  So I do this (walking between my line of thankfully only 10 people) and she is again vehement that it’s more than $5 and the machine is wrong.

So the woman tells me the player can go to the claim center and contest it, to give her the player copy of the validation and keep mine, separate, because she will eventually have to come back and get her money from us because NO ONE ELSE CAN PAY HER.  She goes, “I can explain it to her, of you’d like.”

“Well, ma’am, you see, the problem comes on with the fact she’s deaf.”

“Oh. No wonder this has been so difficult.  Ok, I’ll wait while you explain.”  (Note: I don’t think she meant that deaf people are stupid, just that there was a severe lack of communication.  I’m half deaf and wholly intelligent.)

So I write down all of this information and she starts using another pen and paper to already start arguing with me (I almost laughed about arguing on brown paper bags) and I tell her to hang on and let me finish writing it out.

“You can take the $5 and contest it at the claim center (this is where she started slamming and arguing again and I told her to wait and let me finish). You can also take the ticket to the claim center, however, NO ONE ELSE will be able to pay you. You would have to come back here to get your money.”

So that’s what she wants to do. So I get the address for her, give the retailer number, game number, pack number, and
ticket number to the lady on the phone, and then have to give my name, the store manager’s name, the corporate customer service number (because god forbid we actually have the store’s phone number posted by the registers where it belongs), explain that I’m not from that store, the store manager is on vacation, give her MY store number and my stores phone number.

And then it was almost 1:30.

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New car, fresh cash, gotta steal!

So, if you follow me on Twitter you might have heard me complaining over the weekend about the jackass who stole the beer.  He was driving a pretty new Chevy Malibu, had his whole family in the car, and stole an 18 pack of Coors Light.  That pissed me off.  I mean, it pisses me off when people steal bear, anyway, but the sheer audacity to steal it with your whole family present, kid and everything, and put it into your SHINY NEW CAR pissed me off to no end.  If you wanna steal a loaf of bread or milk or some such, cool, go for it.  I’d probably applaud you for your survival skills.  You steal a candy bar, I’ll tell you to choke on it and have a nice day.  But you wanna steal beer in front of your family and drive away in your new car…motherfucker, just stay two feet away from me and you might get lucky and I’ll just spit on you.

In other news, life at that store is boring.  The crew is quite the cast of characters, however.  Like the chick with the pink hair.  Pink hair is awesome, I’m not gonna lie.  I just wanna know why I can’t have blue hair and still have a job.  I mean, hell, I get harassed and threatened and get sent to Hell, where we have to bag ice with a fucking scoop and bucket.  I feel like the coal shoveler on the steam engines, which is, of course, the job I always wanted.*

One of these days, though, I’m probably gonna snap and kill somebody, or at the very least cuss them out but good.

Like the bitch that decided I’m not good enough to ring her up because, G-d forbid, I asked her a question.  Apparently no one really likes her, though, so I don’t feel bad.  And I’m sure as fuck not gonna feel guilty when I tell her, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not allowed to turn the pump on for anyone unless they prepay as it’s our corporate policy to help maintain low gas prices and defeat the felony of drive-off’s, whether they be accidental or otherwise.  Will that be cash or charge?”

This bitch is so anal she makes us check the dates on her cigarettes before she buys them.  Apparently she even had the audacity to open a pack before checking the date and then, upon realizing they weren’t the freshest possible cigarettes she could have purchased, had the gall to demand she be allowed to exchange them.  Um, sorry, how about NO, YOU STUPID, FAT, CUMGUZZLING CUNT!

Whew, sorry, she just really irks me, and I really wish I could say that to her.  Oh, wait, if I’m outside, off camera, and there’s no witnesses, it never happened.  I’m such a bad boy.

*Note:  This is, in fact, a true fact.  That has been my dream job since childhood.  Do not judge me.

Somebody is making a rather big mistake, I think…

No, I live in Texas, and, if I’ve learned one thing from living in Texas, it’s that Texans like to drink beer.  They’ll drink whenever and wherever they can.  The Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission, or TABC, is the ruling body concerning alcohol.  For people who work in a convenience store, they are the bogey man.

Having read this story and having worked in a convenience store and spent plenty of time hanging out in different convenience stores with friends, I can clearly state that this is the worst idea I have ever heard.  Now, granted, I have never had the pleasure of visiting Pennsylvania, nor do I even have any idea what the area around this convenience store is like.  Maybe you live there or have been, or maybe you know someone who has.  Maybe it’s a really nice area.  I don’t know.  But I know that, at least in the three states I’ve lived in, this would never work.  There’s a reason why that scene in those movies where the characters are brown bagging it outside 7 Eleven always precedes a scene involving a police chase or some other such trouble.

While grocery stores and the like get the grouchy “I haven’t had my morning brew yet” people, we get the fall down, gotta lean on my friend the wet floor sign because I can’t stand up on my own, hit on you because I don’t know you and oh I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were a dude and why are you three guys staring at me like that, drunks.  So, of course, it would just be an even better idea if the state were to force us to serve them beer in our stores!

Okay, enough of that.  I just checked Wikipedia for answers and apparently Pennsylvania as a 1984 style control system over alcohol and you can only buy liquor from the state of Pennsylvania and cannot buy beer from convenience stores or grocery stores.  I guess we should call Pennsylvania the Ministry of Spirits.  I wonder if they sell anything other than Freedom Wine and Freedom Tequila?

SOOOO tired, but must bloggy

So this new store…yeah…see, people, if I wanted to smell like a bartender, I would be a bartender.  But, alas, I am not a bartender, and yet I leave work smelling of cheap beer, cigarettes, and pot.  The people are polite, though.  No arguments about sandwiches not being fresh, no complaints about Subway (since we don’t have one)…

Really, we don’t even have a hose for the mop sink, y’all! And the ice down (that thing where beer is kept on ice, seriously, I have to explain EVERYTHING to you people, gah!) doesn’t even drain.  Nope, it has a valve and we put the mop bucket under it and oh G-D somebody shoot me now!

Other than that it’s not really too bad.  It would be like if I worked in my neighborhood…which I don’t…for a reason…

Then there’s “creepy-seemingly-homeless-guy” who you can’t tell is drunk or just that crazy.  Other than seeming crazy, he didn’t appear intoxicated…  Really, he reminds me of 90% of the homeless guys in downtown Savannah.  I was waiting for him to break out his trumpet and start playing for tips…or make a palm frond rose and try to sell them.

And then the “crweens” came in.

Crweens: noun

1) Creepy Tweens/Teens

These two girls, one covered in tattoos and looking ~20 years old, the other looked about 14, stand by the door closest to my register and the one in tattoos starts going off about how the other one (the true crween) thinks I’m just “sooooo cute, and, like, are you single, cuz she needs a boyfriend” and I ignored them in favor of the customer I was doing business with.  Then they walk up and are all “OMG yer hot, you should, like, totally take her out” and I was all “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that” and the one with the tattoos just runs out the door and the other girl seemed completely mortified and couldn’t remember her pin number and then just ran out the door a few minutes later.  It was funny.  Now, if the blonde had actually been around my age and hot, this whole thing would have gone completely differently and, hopefully, rather Skinamax-ely, but, meh, I’m not picky.  Although that extremely hot bear from my old store…yeah…I need to go now, it’s hard to type and…yeah….

Surrounded by assholes, and not the good kind

I’m moody this week. And tired. At least there was a drunken holiday and good food in the middle of the week. But that just made me more tired. Going to bed with a belly full of beer and rich food does NOT make for restful sleeping apparently.

Nor does a red bull and vodka, which is what I had last night while playing WoW. It’s an ok game. Loads of fun and a MAJOR time suck if you’re bit careful. But the strategy it takes…

No one should have to think that hard to play a video game unless it’s Zelda. If you don’t know what I’m talking about try playing Ocarina of Time.

Also, I’m told I’ve been promoted. Which is awesome because this means I get bonuses when we do a good job. Bonuses mean more savings. And right now, that’s a good thing.

And my boss just discovered women’s tits are two different sizes. How he didn’t know, I have no idea. I told him the human body isn’t symmetrical and that one of his nuts was bigger than the other. He freaked out for ten minutes and said he was gonna have his wife check. Ummm, really? I was taught that in health class. Maybe it’s just the whole gay thing. I think it’s just because I actually paid attention in class. Yes, I was that guy…DO NOT JUDGE ME!!!!

Also, some stupid bitch pissed me off.  I know, I work in customer service and someone pissed me off.  Big surprise.  But this chick took the cake today, even beyond the “I’m just gonna cut everyone off in line because I think I know everything even where your name comes from because you’re obviously completely illiterate because you work at a gas station” jack ass I had earlier.  Her car was broken and it was my fault and apparently that means she has to whine at me for ten minutes when I have other, more important things I need to take care of.

Winner of the Stupid Bitch of the Month Award goes to………………………….THE IGNORANT CUNT AT PUMP 12.  Come on down and claim your prize.  You have now one the title of Stupid Bitch of the Month and will be receiving the worst customer service ever from now on and will be treated like the idiot you are.  How do you feel?

Gay people donate to charity mother fucker, so shut the fuck up!

So at work we’re doing this whole MDA donation thing where we ask people for change or to donate $1 or $5 dollars and then give them coupons for free stuff.  A lot of people say no, which is their prerogative, and completely ok.  I asked one guy, who used to be one of my favorite customers, if he wanted to donate his 29 cents to MDA and it went like this:

Me: would you like to donate your 29 cents to MDA?

Him: What’s that?

Me: Would you like to donate your 29 cents to MDA?  It’s the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

Him: MDA…what charity’s that again?

Me: The Muscular Dystrophy Association.  You know, Jerry’s Kids.

Him: PFFT, sure, yeah, I guess, since it helps those poor kids.  But, ya know, if anyone knew about Jerry’s private sexual life aint but nobody would donate to it.

Me: *laughs*

Him: No, I’m serious.  Damn homosexuals *mumble, mumble*

Wow, really?  It’s 20fucking10, y’all.  Who the fuck says shit like that now?  And it’s unusual to hear from someone older like that.  I’m used to the overly homophobic under 35 guys who seem to think they’re just so fucking hot everybody wants to fuck them.  Yeah, no, you’re not that hot, bro, so just stop all ready.  Hell, my pink-shirt-wearing-eyebrow-tweezing-hundred-pair-of-shoes-owning priss of a boss is the same damn way.  And, really, it’s kind of funny when he’s all “I don’t mind what you do in your own time, as long as none of them touch me” so, of course, I poke him.  (With my finger.  He’s married.  Damn, you people sure think dirty.)

Of course, there were the two chicks who looked damn near identical, though the one was shorter than the other, and I asked if they were related…that fucking pissed me off.  “What, you think all white people look alike?”  Um, no bitch, because my mama, though I never met the woman who’s spawn I am, was 10,000 times prettier than you will ever be, so stop being a stupid ho and smarten up a bit and suck some cock to make your $5 for your cheap pack of smokes and get the fuck out of my store.

Epically bad timing is the theme of my life

So I’ve been trying to get out of the store I’m at since my boss is an idiot too nice a guy to work for.  I found a place to go, but, alas, thanks to having the epically poor timing I have been graced with, one of my employees quit, leaving us shorthanded by a full timer.  This situation does not please me.

One of the managers has six kids.  It takes a lot to finagle someone to take care of six kids, especially on short notice.  And especially when the notice you’re given is at 10 o’clock at night.  All because the store manager decided he deserves a day off.  I’m not ok with that.  The assistant’s not ok with that.  Apparently it doesn’t matter.

And apparently computers are never wrong.  They’re suggestions are always right.  Which boils down to us having a weeks supply of Copenhagen delivered three times a week so we end up throwing it away and writing it off.

And I worked with a kid tonight who is 18 going on 79.  There used to be this 78-year-old woman who worked with us in Subway.  She wasn’t crotchety, but she was moody as hell and seemed to have a chip on her shoulder.  This guy…yeah…  Kind of makes me wonder what he’s actually going to be like when he hits 78.

But don’t mess with the elderly.  This lady thought my employee was being rude and decided to go on the following tangent:

Well, I guess if I was too stupid to have a real job and a retirement plan so I could actually retire and was forced to work at a fucking Subway when I was 92 fucking years old I’d be a rude, bitter, shriveled old bitch, too!  But that doesn’t mean she has to be a rude, bitter old bitch to me.  I don’t deserve that shit.  I’m never coming back to this fucking Subway again.  Stupid old hag!

To which I replied by throwing her money at her and giving her 60 seconds to leave my store before I reported her for stealing sandwiches and gave PD her license plate number.

And, yes, I realize the above response is rather lame and anticlimactic, but for a guy who normally just smiles and nods and says “Yes ma’am/No ma’am” and then calls her a fucking cunt later to actually say that to the customer that’s still standing in front of him…it felt good.  It felt damn good.  And what made it even sweeter is I never got in trouble for it.

I deserve a fucking cookie.