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.