Guns protect people, guns kill people and guns are hobbies. I am going to talk about guns. When I was a kid, I a had a step brother who was obsessed with all things army. Especially guns. We would have to take trips to Army surplus stores like they were toy stores. His hobby was imposed on the rest of us kids, even my sister and I. Due to the fact I was born an adult and knew he was mentally ill, and the fact I was a GIRL, I was not amused with this forced upon past time. He had toy guns, he had real guns. He would shoot his real ones in the yard, or worse yet, shoot his fake one at us, indoors, all the time as part of a charming game he made up called..."guns." Guns, the game, was basically hide and seek with a twist. You would hide, with your gun, and he would come find you and shoot you. You could try and defend yourself and shoot him first, but that wasn't possible in his mind. The game itself was painful enough, so we would just go along with whatever he said. We were normal, he was a whack-a-doo. Sometimes he would make us carry other army equipment. Maybe a shovel, maybe a canteen. All heavy and real. Except the guns. I hated this game because like I said, I am a GIRL. So one day I got really, really brave. I tied ribbons to my gun and adorned it with Lisa Frank unicorn stickers. Then instead of my gov't issued shovel or canteen (literally) I loaded my military belt with my Loves Baby Soft, and my sister's bottle of Eclamation. (A very mature, very strong drugs store brand perfume from the early 90's) When psycho brother came to "kill" me, I pulled out my perfume and aimed it, while proclaiming, "I don't believe in guns!"
So as a kid, I had sense about me that made me superior. Fast forward to adulthood in 2013, and people still want to play with their guns like a bunch of psychos. Look, I am not trying to eliminate guns, I am too lazy to care that much one way or another--but what grinds my ass is people who want their gun hobby no matter what, and would be willing to fight to the death in a mere argument about guns that still in no way is actually going to take their mf'ing gun away from them. It's just your freaking hobby, you ass clowns! If someone told me that my hobby of making homemade greeting cards from magazine clippings, ransom letter style, was killing people, sure I'd be sad to have to give it up, but I would do it to save a life. Even if it is my right to cut out pictures of Honey Boo Boo and glitter and glue it to construction paper--I'd at least be willing to discuss the alternatives.
And yes this comparison is the same. Exactly the same.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Underpants
Yesterday, at work, I returned used underwear. Twice. Two unrelated customers if you want specifics. In one day. Underpants. Used. Returned. Underpants.
I was called to customer service for an angry customer, which is my least favorite thing in the whole world--for two reasons. One, I don't understand being angry, and two, they are rarely customers from my department, making the scene of the crime that much more annoying and uncomfortable. I'd rather eat glass.
So the first customer is a skinny white trash looking woman who looks like an old piece of drift wood, and her fat dirty looking daughter looked bored angry and was probably the type who laid in her room all day, with a bed with no sheets eating Taco Bell while yelling into her phone at her fat smelly boyfriend whose name is probably Darryl, who dropped out of school and hangs out at the mall but wont come pick up his fat girlfriend because then she'd really be mad that he flirts with the old dirty pretzel lady to get free mountain dew slurpies (I needed a run on sentence for emphasis, sue me). As for the old drift wood looking mom--she chain smokes and works nights at IHOP, and is always angry about the latest thing. So now that you know who these people are, picture me, adorable as the day is long, trying to hide the expression on my face that says, "I don't care enough, and you should be killed," peppered with the facial expression that says, "this is funny that this is a scenario I even have to deal with, I wish Sallie Mae could see me now." Anyway, they wanted to return a dirty dingy bra six times bigger than my head, that had been worn and washed. Yeah, washed in a vat of onions and sauteed in cigarette butts. Not only did they want to return it, they were angry and rude as could be. And that's the part that gets me. Why are you screaming at me?! I didn't murder your whole family. It's not my fault you have a face like a horse's ass. So I said no, I could not take the dirty bra back. But after the derelicts all but said they would cut me if I didn't--I said, okay with a small and subtle amount of laughter.
The second time I am called to customer service is for a skinny too-tan burgundy looking crack addict with blood shot eyes. He looked to be the type to whore around in seedy bars pretending to be a successful business man, but too stupid to lie well so he would just end up saying things like, "do you have any idea how much money I have? I can buy like a Camero if I want." And of course the only fools that would fall for this would be insecure women over 46 (My scary age) who were stuck in some sad time warp. Really this guy worked at one of those mini fake car lots in the ghetto that sold broken down cars to poor people. He dumped out a plastic grocery bag of worn boxer briefs on the counter and handed me about 67 receipts. I didn't want to thumb through 67 receipts because that sounded boring, and I didn't want to thumb through 67 pairs of boxer briefs because that sounded sick. Like the first customer, I started with a semi firm, "no." But when this man began with his elaborate tale of putting on uncomfortable underpants that are no longer made in the USA, I began o say, "I'll give you whatever you want if you just go the f away." He even asked me what I would do if I bought uncomfortable underwear with the same fervor one would ask, "what if your whole family died in a fire, Lord Jesus?!" So I responded the way I respond to most things that I don't give two licks about-- a blase, "I'm sorry that had to happen to you." I returned the gd underpants and threw them away in the nearest trash receptacle.
Look, not everyday can be glamorous, and not everyday can I live up to the diamond encrusted brooch corporate sent me (#1 Manager), but everyday can be humorous...if only in my perfectly adorable intellectual head.
Moral of the story: People. Should. Be. Killed.
I was called to customer service for an angry customer, which is my least favorite thing in the whole world--for two reasons. One, I don't understand being angry, and two, they are rarely customers from my department, making the scene of the crime that much more annoying and uncomfortable. I'd rather eat glass.
So the first customer is a skinny white trash looking woman who looks like an old piece of drift wood, and her fat dirty looking daughter looked bored angry and was probably the type who laid in her room all day, with a bed with no sheets eating Taco Bell while yelling into her phone at her fat smelly boyfriend whose name is probably Darryl, who dropped out of school and hangs out at the mall but wont come pick up his fat girlfriend because then she'd really be mad that he flirts with the old dirty pretzel lady to get free mountain dew slurpies (I needed a run on sentence for emphasis, sue me). As for the old drift wood looking mom--she chain smokes and works nights at IHOP, and is always angry about the latest thing. So now that you know who these people are, picture me, adorable as the day is long, trying to hide the expression on my face that says, "I don't care enough, and you should be killed," peppered with the facial expression that says, "this is funny that this is a scenario I even have to deal with, I wish Sallie Mae could see me now." Anyway, they wanted to return a dirty dingy bra six times bigger than my head, that had been worn and washed. Yeah, washed in a vat of onions and sauteed in cigarette butts. Not only did they want to return it, they were angry and rude as could be. And that's the part that gets me. Why are you screaming at me?! I didn't murder your whole family. It's not my fault you have a face like a horse's ass. So I said no, I could not take the dirty bra back. But after the derelicts all but said they would cut me if I didn't--I said, okay with a small and subtle amount of laughter.
The second time I am called to customer service is for a skinny too-tan burgundy looking crack addict with blood shot eyes. He looked to be the type to whore around in seedy bars pretending to be a successful business man, but too stupid to lie well so he would just end up saying things like, "do you have any idea how much money I have? I can buy like a Camero if I want." And of course the only fools that would fall for this would be insecure women over 46 (My scary age) who were stuck in some sad time warp. Really this guy worked at one of those mini fake car lots in the ghetto that sold broken down cars to poor people. He dumped out a plastic grocery bag of worn boxer briefs on the counter and handed me about 67 receipts. I didn't want to thumb through 67 receipts because that sounded boring, and I didn't want to thumb through 67 pairs of boxer briefs because that sounded sick. Like the first customer, I started with a semi firm, "no." But when this man began with his elaborate tale of putting on uncomfortable underpants that are no longer made in the USA, I began o say, "I'll give you whatever you want if you just go the f away." He even asked me what I would do if I bought uncomfortable underwear with the same fervor one would ask, "what if your whole family died in a fire, Lord Jesus?!" So I responded the way I respond to most things that I don't give two licks about-- a blase, "I'm sorry that had to happen to you." I returned the gd underpants and threw them away in the nearest trash receptacle.
Look, not everyday can be glamorous, and not everyday can I live up to the diamond encrusted brooch corporate sent me (#1 Manager), but everyday can be humorous...if only in my perfectly adorable intellectual head.
Moral of the story: People. Should. Be. Killed.
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