Netflix killed the video star
Worked at the video store with the manager tonight, which meant listening to hours of the Beatles (whom I despise), Frank, Dean, and Bruuuuuuce on repeat shuffle. After the fifth time of hearing "Born to Run," it occurred to me that I kept expecting Bruuuuuuuuce to follow "tramps like us, baby" with "they want to have fun," thereby mashing two '80s icons. Fuck you, disc jockeys, I can do it subconsciously.
The store is really in need of euthanasia, which will probably occur (if Terry Schiavo's parents don't get involved) in the next few months, having already received a stay of mercy killing (which is just cruel, no?) while I was in North Carolina. I expected to return from Steven's family finding myself without a job and lacking all of the dvds I meant to steal from the tasteless customers (seriously, Norbit, of which we have five copies, is currently rented out). But, to my surprise, I discovered that, yes, I would be biting my tongue while the twentieth customer asked me if I knew of any good movies, along the lines of the hi-larious Norbit. Anyway, the manager bitched about his situation which, admittedly, does suck, so, when the phone rang, interrupting his diatribe, I answered it with the mandatory "Front Row Video," supplemented by "yes, we are still open. How weird is that?" For some reason, the manager found that as hi-larious as many of our patrons found Norbit, guffawing embarrassingly loudly, and far louder than he laughs at this own jokes (which he relays constantly--here's one: "What's the difference between 'test' and 'ice?' Answer? I never asked a woman to grab my icicles!" Now, I know he didn't make that one up, but he certainly feels justified in taking credit for it, and really, who else wants to claim that one? The sad thing is that I want to tell him that there are millions of differences between "test" and "ice," as the two are not synonymous, so his response is far too selective to be clever.) In any case, it was validating to know that the manager was rapidly approaching his employees' level of apathy, so that I can technically do anything I want to, short of stealing money (what money?) from the till and pulling a move learned from Oz, say branding a swastika into someone's ass or shitting on someone's face. Which is a shame, as I have a particular recipient picked out for each action.
And, yes, I can, and probably will relay some of my nastiest attempts at customer service, but every so often, it's nice to get the customer that actually cheer one up a tad. Like my favorite leather daddy, sashaying in with a black leather vest (no shirt) and black assless chaps over a ripped pair of daisy dukes, all topped off with his leather cap stolen from the gay(er) Captain, having abandoned Tennille (and really, who wouldn't?). To complete the stereotype, he was walking a miniature toy poodle with a spiked leather collar from Hot Topic or some such. And he was returning one of my all-time top ten top movie entry Save the Green Planet!. I'm going to miss that when we fold.
The store is really in need of euthanasia, which will probably occur (if Terry Schiavo's parents don't get involved) in the next few months, having already received a stay of mercy killing (which is just cruel, no?) while I was in North Carolina. I expected to return from Steven's family finding myself without a job and lacking all of the dvds I meant to steal from the tasteless customers (seriously, Norbit, of which we have five copies, is currently rented out). But, to my surprise, I discovered that, yes, I would be biting my tongue while the twentieth customer asked me if I knew of any good movies, along the lines of the hi-larious Norbit. Anyway, the manager bitched about his situation which, admittedly, does suck, so, when the phone rang, interrupting his diatribe, I answered it with the mandatory "Front Row Video," supplemented by "yes, we are still open. How weird is that?" For some reason, the manager found that as hi-larious as many of our patrons found Norbit, guffawing embarrassingly loudly, and far louder than he laughs at this own jokes (which he relays constantly--here's one: "What's the difference between 'test' and 'ice?' Answer? I never asked a woman to grab my icicles!" Now, I know he didn't make that one up, but he certainly feels justified in taking credit for it, and really, who else wants to claim that one? The sad thing is that I want to tell him that there are millions of differences between "test" and "ice," as the two are not synonymous, so his response is far too selective to be clever.) In any case, it was validating to know that the manager was rapidly approaching his employees' level of apathy, so that I can technically do anything I want to, short of stealing money (what money?) from the till and pulling a move learned from Oz, say branding a swastika into someone's ass or shitting on someone's face. Which is a shame, as I have a particular recipient picked out for each action.
And, yes, I can, and probably will relay some of my nastiest attempts at customer service, but every so often, it's nice to get the customer that actually cheer one up a tad. Like my favorite leather daddy, sashaying in with a black leather vest (no shirt) and black assless chaps over a ripped pair of daisy dukes, all topped off with his leather cap stolen from the gay(er) Captain, having abandoned Tennille (and really, who wouldn't?). To complete the stereotype, he was walking a miniature toy poodle with a spiked leather collar from Hot Topic or some such. And he was returning one of my all-time top ten top movie entry Save the Green Planet!. I'm going to miss that when we fold.