Please Spay Or Neuter Your Godawful Crotchdropping
I'm reasonably sure this is common knowledge, but if not: I'm childfree. I've never wanted children in my life, I didn't like them when I was one, I don't like them now, and working in an environment where a lot of them misbehave all at once really hasn't changed my mind. (Also, my DNA fucking sucks and we'd all be happier if another heapin' helping weren't unleashed on the world, and I REALLY DON'T LIKE KIDS and I HAVE REALLY VICTORIAN NOTIONS OF APROPRIATE CHILD-REARING PRACTICES to the point where I'd be one of those abusive parents I hate, so it's just better that I never go there in the first place.)
I should also mention that X-chan and I were not tantrum throwers as children; we were both pretty quick studies, and for both of us, the first time we chucked a fit was also the last.
Last night, I got to see a shining example of the tantrum raised to an art form. It was like the Mona Lisa of Screaming Your Goddamn Head Off For That All-Important Toy, Because You Are The Center Of The Universe. I can't do it justice with my humble little words, but I'll try, though I may need to use gimmicks like getting creative with font sizes. Also, there are many capslocks.
Also, an obligatory disclaimer: Behind the Counter is a lot funnier than I am.
I'm running...dun dun DAH DUN!...Register 7. You know, where they keep the cigarettes. So I can stare longingly at them at strategic points during my shift and fantasize, caressing them with my burning, myopic eyes, and think, "Man, my life would be so much better if I could go out to the lot and light one up after my shift. Like the good old days." This sort of thing makes duokinneas worry, because only Talyn can prevent lung fires (or thinks she can).
It's about 7:30 or 8:00 at night--typically when the kids are winding down, and small kids get kind of tetchy if they're out past their bedtime. I get this. I also realize that little kids are pretty much total pants at impulse control and sometimes need several reminders to SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP. I get this, too. It's annoying when I'm trying to check their parents out, but on the whole, most people make at least token efforts to discipline their children, and I can't get too pissed with toddlers for acting like toddlers.
I'm ringing people through and I can vaguely hear this noise somewhere off to my right. It sounds vaguely like AAAAAAUUUUUHHHHHHAAAAAAUUUUUH: the typical distress call of a child whose human rights are being OMGVIOLATED by the total failure of his or her shortsighted parents to get the Focal Point Of Existence from the shelves RIGHT NOW. But you learn to tune this kind of thing out, and so I continue to focus on getting my customers checked out, the more so since there's only like 60-90 minutes left on my shift.
The noise gets slowly louder, like the child is training for the Human Air Horn Sweepstakes. WAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUHAAAAAAAAHHHHHUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAH. WAHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUAHHHHHH. To my growing horror, I look up and notice, far back in the conga line that is Register 7, that it belongs to a couple who's going to come through my line in the near-to-immediate future.
This would be the universe's idea of a funny joke.
Despite my fervent hope that the well-adjusted, happy family will turn aside and enter another line, they are intent on the swift completion of their appointed task.
"And there's your receipt. Thank you!" I say, trying not to look up. Except I have to, because Mama informs me, "These orders are separate."
WAAAAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUGAAAAAAAAAAAH!!11111oneone!!!angst!!111tragedy WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAWWWWW!!!111
Clearly, the kid's life depends on the toy.
This is what got me, though: The kid is not a toddler. I'd peg him for at least five or six--definitely old enough to know better. He's sitting in the cart, red-faced and chucking the Queen Mother of All Grocery Store Fits, and he has apparently been screaming his lungs into shards of burning tissue for quite some time, judging solely by his steady volume and single-minded focus on the real issue: Getting Stuff. (One of the people who came through my line later said that she was in the back of the store and could hear him quite well, despite being nowhere near him.)
So I ring Mama through.
l33: Do you want your milk in a bag?
Hellspawn: AAAAAAAHHHHH-OOOOOOOOGAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHHWWWWUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH!
Mama: No, it's not necessary.
Hellspawn: (simultaneously with Mama's attempt to make her needs known) AAHUALAHUAHUAHAHAULAHGAAAAAAHHHHHH!
l33: I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. Because your screaming crotchmonkey has ruptured my eardrums.
Presently, Mama hands me a couple of Hot Wheels and a paper bag (the fancy kind you put gifts in) and says, "Would you mind putting these up? We're not going to get them."
King Zeus. All Hell breaks loose. Kid emits what I can only describe as the PowerScream (tm), a sort of ultraloud WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH, and then starts bouncing up and down in the cart. Even worse, he starts up a refrain which will be broken seemingly only by his death. At this point, I'm just waiting for him to go for the trifecta by crapping his pants or something.
"MOM, I NEED MY BAG! I NEED MY BAG, MOM!"
Imagine this playing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again like some sort of hellish refrain. Kind of like the Devil's jukebox, which I assume only plays Barry Manilow's "Mandy" on constant repeat. Except at this point I no longer fear Hell, and would in fact welcome "Mandy" for all eternity.
At this point, I'm just trying not to laugh, because we've sort of reached some kind of Ludicrous Saturation Level. I almost have to respect little Screamy's effort, given that he wants his bag more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life with the possible exception of going back to Bloomington, and obviously my need to keep having a job prevents me from delivering any kind of beatdown. I have to wonder if this is how he handles every setback, and try not to amuse myself by concocting mental scenarios. Unfortunately, laughing at his Psychic Pain is Not On either, so I make a mental note to LJ the whole thing later.
Mama wheels little Screamy out (HE NEEDS HIS BAG DAMMIT) and we're all treated to the joyful noise of the PowerScream (tm) one more time. (One of the ladies behind them in line said that he chunked his mother's groceries out of the cart, evidently to demonstrate his Deep Displeasure. Because the world will end if you don't get your toy car swag THIS INSTANT.) It's time to check little Screamy's father out.
Papa hands me his auto accessory, which comes in a long box. I put my hand on the end and find it wet--the box isn't leaking. Great. He's just given me something that little Screamy got his PowerSnot all over whilst PowerScreaming.
Thank God we keep antibacterial at the registers.
Life news: The Undead Zombie Tree dropped limbs in the yard a couple of weeks ago, which mysteriously missed a.) the house, b.) the street, and c.) the power lines. We were without power for about 45 minutes, but didn't have the phone back up until about a week and a half ago. I had allergies. Whee.
Haven't really felt like being around much or doing anything; have been depressed, not getting better, finally bit the bullet and made initial appointment a week from Tuesday. There will be no therapy filter, and I likely won't be discussing it in any detail; I already use some of you as my unpaid therapists. (augustuscaesar, you can stop being on retainer now!)
Further bulletins as events warrant.
I should also mention that X-chan and I were not tantrum throwers as children; we were both pretty quick studies, and for both of us, the first time we chucked a fit was also the last.
Last night, I got to see a shining example of the tantrum raised to an art form. It was like the Mona Lisa of Screaming Your Goddamn Head Off For That All-Important Toy, Because You Are The Center Of The Universe. I can't do it justice with my humble little words, but I'll try, though I may need to use gimmicks like getting creative with font sizes. Also, there are many capslocks.
Also, an obligatory disclaimer: Behind the Counter is a lot funnier than I am.
I'm running...dun dun DAH DUN!...Register 7. You know, where they keep the cigarettes. So I can stare longingly at them at strategic points during my shift and fantasize, caressing them with my burning, myopic eyes, and think, "Man, my life would be so much better if I could go out to the lot and light one up after my shift. Like the good old days." This sort of thing makes duokinneas worry, because only Talyn can prevent lung fires (or thinks she can).
It's about 7:30 or 8:00 at night--typically when the kids are winding down, and small kids get kind of tetchy if they're out past their bedtime. I get this. I also realize that little kids are pretty much total pants at impulse control and sometimes need several reminders to SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP. I get this, too. It's annoying when I'm trying to check their parents out, but on the whole, most people make at least token efforts to discipline their children, and I can't get too pissed with toddlers for acting like toddlers.
I'm ringing people through and I can vaguely hear this noise somewhere off to my right. It sounds vaguely like AAAAAAUUUUUHHHHHHAAAAAAUUUUUH: the typical distress call of a child whose human rights are being OMGVIOLATED by the total failure of his or her shortsighted parents to get the Focal Point Of Existence from the shelves RIGHT NOW. But you learn to tune this kind of thing out, and so I continue to focus on getting my customers checked out, the more so since there's only like 60-90 minutes left on my shift.
The noise gets slowly louder, like the child is training for the Human Air Horn Sweepstakes. WAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUHAAAAAAAAHHHHHUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAH. WAHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUAHHHHHH. To my growing horror, I look up and notice, far back in the conga line that is Register 7, that it belongs to a couple who's going to come through my line in the near-to-immediate future.
This would be the universe's idea of a funny joke.
Despite my fervent hope that the well-adjusted, happy family will turn aside and enter another line, they are intent on the swift completion of their appointed task.
"And there's your receipt. Thank you!" I say, trying not to look up. Except I have to, because Mama informs me, "These orders are separate."
WAAAAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUGAAAAAAAAAAAH!!11111oneone!!!angst!!111tragedy WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAWWWWW!!!111
Clearly, the kid's life depends on the toy.
This is what got me, though: The kid is not a toddler. I'd peg him for at least five or six--definitely old enough to know better. He's sitting in the cart, red-faced and chucking the Queen Mother of All Grocery Store Fits, and he has apparently been screaming his lungs into shards of burning tissue for quite some time, judging solely by his steady volume and single-minded focus on the real issue: Getting Stuff. (One of the people who came through my line later said that she was in the back of the store and could hear him quite well, despite being nowhere near him.)
So I ring Mama through.
l33: Do you want your milk in a bag?
Hellspawn: AAAAAAAHHHHH-OOOOOOOOGAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHHWWWWUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH!
Mama: No, it's not necessary.
Hellspawn: (simultaneously with Mama's attempt to make her needs known) AAHUALAHUAHUAHAHAULAHGAAAAAAHHHHHH!
l33: I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. Because your screaming crotchmonkey has ruptured my eardrums.
Presently, Mama hands me a couple of Hot Wheels and a paper bag (the fancy kind you put gifts in) and says, "Would you mind putting these up? We're not going to get them."
King Zeus. All Hell breaks loose. Kid emits what I can only describe as the PowerScream (tm), a sort of ultraloud WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH, and then starts bouncing up and down in the cart. Even worse, he starts up a refrain which will be broken seemingly only by his death. At this point, I'm just waiting for him to go for the trifecta by crapping his pants or something.
"MOM, I NEED MY BAG! I NEED MY BAG, MOM!"
Imagine this playing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again like some sort of hellish refrain. Kind of like the Devil's jukebox, which I assume only plays Barry Manilow's "Mandy" on constant repeat. Except at this point I no longer fear Hell, and would in fact welcome "Mandy" for all eternity.
At this point, I'm just trying not to laugh, because we've sort of reached some kind of Ludicrous Saturation Level. I almost have to respect little Screamy's effort, given that he wants his bag more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life with the possible exception of going back to Bloomington, and obviously my need to keep having a job prevents me from delivering any kind of beatdown. I have to wonder if this is how he handles every setback, and try not to amuse myself by concocting mental scenarios. Unfortunately, laughing at his Psychic Pain is Not On either, so I make a mental note to LJ the whole thing later.
Mama wheels little Screamy out (HE NEEDS HIS BAG DAMMIT) and we're all treated to the joyful noise of the PowerScream (tm) one more time. (One of the ladies behind them in line said that he chunked his mother's groceries out of the cart, evidently to demonstrate his Deep Displeasure. Because the world will end if you don't get your toy car swag THIS INSTANT.) It's time to check little Screamy's father out.
Papa hands me his auto accessory, which comes in a long box. I put my hand on the end and find it wet--the box isn't leaking. Great. He's just given me something that little Screamy got his PowerSnot all over whilst PowerScreaming.
Thank God we keep antibacterial at the registers.
Life news: The Undead Zombie Tree dropped limbs in the yard a couple of weeks ago, which mysteriously missed a.) the house, b.) the street, and c.) the power lines. We were without power for about 45 minutes, but didn't have the phone back up until about a week and a half ago. I had allergies. Whee.
Haven't really felt like being around much or doing anything; have been depressed, not getting better, finally bit the bullet and made initial appointment a week from Tuesday. There will be no therapy filter, and I likely won't be discussing it in any detail; I already use some of you as my unpaid therapists. (augustuscaesar, you can stop being on retainer now!)
Further bulletins as events warrant.