Three Things that Guarantee Bad Customer Service

Get Angry. The moment you get mad you definitely won’t be helped: Sorry, it’s not in stock (nope, not in the back either), no you can’t return that, I’ll get that complaint filed right away (to the garbage). Nobody in this country is paid enough to be treated by shit by some other wage-slave because a manager (the person you should be bitching at) forgot to order the only brand of wheat bread you’ll touch to your lips.

My name isn’t where’s the bathroom, or what isle’s cheese on. My, like many companies, make us all where name tags so all you creeps can feel buddy-buddy while you buy whatever it is you fill your gullets with, so the least you can do is glance at the piece of plastic on my chest, and use my name. It’s better than assuming I’ll assume you must be talking to me instead of any of the other 300 employees who might be standing around.

Don’t insinuate I’m lying to you. The entire job revolves around sales–Sales–I’m not an anti-sales clerk, my job isn’t to convince you to shop somewhere else, yet so many of you seem to think I have shit stashed away in back and am just too lazy to bring it to you, when my only other job besides trying to talk to you is bringing all that shit from the back out, taking it out of its box or crate, and putting it on the shelf, so you can turn it into shit over the next 24 hours.


When an artist does a drug it’s mind expansion,
when old people take drugs it’s life expansion,
when poor people do drugs it’s a crime.

I stay away from people who tan themselves, there’s always something wrong with someone who deliberately cooks their skin to what they assume is a desired shade of cancer.


Violence against women. Sounds huge: violence against women, misogyny, these words bring up powerful pictures in all our minds, all different for each of us. Reading and watching society mull over these issues is like watching fourth graders try to discuss philosophy while giving each other wedgies. A lot of the problem is local; they’re people problems. A year ago an employee I worked with transferred to a different state. When I suggested to my boss that I had the skills necessary to take his job, and the raise that came with it, he stuck his crotch out and told me to “start sucking”. Women were subject to rape “jokes”, and an endless¬†barrage of shit that’s not worth repeating. His favorite story to share with us was the one about him physically throwing a young female manager out of his department. He was keeping count of all the people that left while was “managing”, and even though he burned through more than 18 people, all of which gave detailed reports–including myself–he was never fired, he was hardly spoken to at all about his behavior. That’s what these problems really are, men taking advantage people because they can, and they believe nobody will stop them. Would the government make laws against women if they made up more of the governing body? But here we are again at a scary, looming monster of a social problem, so here’s my advise: Sue. Ask family, church, friends, your union for legal help and take their money. Use it in a way that helps other women do the same thing, so they can take that money and go to school. People have mixed feelings about suing, but to people who only care about money, it speaks volumes, so much that eventually that sort is behavior will become to costly to tolerate and eventually men will stop, not necessarily because they’re suddenly good people, but because at the very least they’ll be punished for holding society back.

Casual Violence

I carry in my cells a long legacy of poor stress management, violent tendencies, and drug abuse. One evening, 44 years ago a family friend read aloud to my mother at the dinner table while her mom, my granny Leona, did dishes in the kitchen. That night, like almost every other, my grandfather Frank came home raging drunk. A stumbling, flustered, 200 pounds of Cherokee and German crashing through the kitchen. Everyone froze as he ripped his way across the house to the comfort of a sweaty, restless sleep. But just as the smell of booze and tension evaporated he calmly stepped out from the bedroom, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned to the table with the biggest knife he could find. Before the man could react Frank threw my mother off his lap, shoved him into the kitchen, poorly slit his throat, and threw him into the back of his truck. By poorly I mean Frank was too drunk to cut with any strength, or the knife was dull–either way, lucky fellow. He came back the next day and threatened to turn him into the police. Frank told him if he so much as heard a¬†siren pass through the neighborhood he’d kill him. The police never came, and nobody’s heard from him since.

As I was busing home from work, a man in his late thirties steps on board. Clad in soured khaki cargo shorts, a cheap Hawaiian shirt, and white Nike socks tucked inside scuffed white sneakers with no visible label. His hair had the familiarity of my childhood barber’s style, a Mr. S. Cuts; who upon my final visit attempted to make my ear and hair the same length. And of course the doucheglasses, a very special pair of sunglasses that warn young women to stay far away. This fellow scans the bus, acquires a target, ignores the eight completely opens seats–with no one around at all–and creepily sits beside the tall dirty blonde with ass-high jean shorts a seat up from me. He sits, gets comfy and says “Hey the-r-e…” to this girl who couldn’t have been older than 16. Did she reply? No. Did she look up and laugh at the asshole’s bad tan and handlebar mustache? Nope. She was iron (sadly, probably at the cost of dealing with this issue constantly), she didn’t a move a muscle, she didn’t sigh, it was the stonewall that stonewalls. He just sat there and looked around awkwardly for a minute before he got up and took a different seat. That’s when I stuck, with the most excruciating eye contact I could muster, and at that moment we both knew: he was a fucking loser. I got off the bus, and enjoyed my beer just a little bit more than most days.

“Where’s that smile at?”

“How many male employees do you ask that question to?” You ignorant fucking douche.

“Come on!” No one likes frowny-face titties.

*Half smiling. I have a nice big smile in my ass you can suck out.

“That’s better. Remember, you’re the first thing the customer sees before they start shopping.” How many times do I have to tell this bitch to smile?

“I know, sorry. I just need a cup of coffee.” Seven more hours of this.

“Alright, now, and remember, we don’t allow coffee in the counter area. OK.” BITCH.

Oh. My. God. “OK.” What a fucking asshole.