So it's the new year, and I really need a part time job if i'm gonna be expected to actually go out and meet people and, you know, eat.
I'm somewhat put off due to my past experiences though...
When i was a little 'tron i used to work in a supermarket, and customers would drive me bat-shit. I worked with my best friend for a brief time, before the silly sod got sacked for being in Devon instead of being at work. Anyway:
:: some old dear who regularly came in the shop, one day staggered in looking like she's risen from the fucking grave. She proceeded down aile one, past the fruit and veg, came to a halt by a basket of haribo, sat in it, pissed herself, and jibbered. The manager helped her to get the fuck out before any further madness could occur.
:: Some old bastard came in every fucking day to buy a bottle of rum. One fine day, the rum had increased in price (these things happen, its a fucking supermarket.) and he kicked up a fuss. He wanted to speak to the manager. I quite liked the manager of the time, and expected him to tell the guy that 'no - this isnt a fucking car boot sale - if it's cheaper elsewhere, fuck off there'. but no. he let him keep buying the booze at the old price. An inconvenience, as everybody who operates the tills had to be informed that this asshole had his very own price for that particular item. "It's my life blood, Simon, I come in 'ere every day..." You boozey old fuck.
:: Mrs. Brady would come in every day for a bottle of guiness. A bottle of guiness and a chat. My friend would jump 5 inches into the air, and run away on sight of her. I would deal with her, every day. The Guiness is on a high shelf. One day, she 'assisted' me in reaching for the bottle, by placing a hand on my arse. I was speechless.
:: Two old boys in hawaiian shirts would regular come in. One british, one with an accent I couldn't place. They would regularly cheer us up with their own brand of banal chatter, and desperately poor rascist jokes. Hohoho, those paki's eh? their heads go from side to side to keep their brains warm! of course! ...you senile manics.
:: Another old dear, this one came into the shop only every now and again. She was fairly doddering, you know? So she asks me where the ice-cream is. this took some time, as she seemed to have trouble speaking. I couldnt work out why. So I walk her to the ice cream and say: 'here we are - what sort are you after?' (I didnt want her bending onto the open chest freezer, lest the poor cow fall in and turning my life into an even bigger tragi-comedy than it already fucking is.)
So she starts to explain which one she wants. Again, she's having difficulty telling me. She says: 'sorry...love...stroke,stroke,stroke...' I'm puzzled for a moment, then replied: 'Oh, Neopolitan!'
No. Not neopolitan. She was trying explain to me that she'd suffered a stroke - hence the weird talk. Sigh.
Heh.
So yeah. I'll probably get an office job.
I'm somewhat put off due to my past experiences though...
When i was a little 'tron i used to work in a supermarket, and customers would drive me bat-shit. I worked with my best friend for a brief time, before the silly sod got sacked for being in Devon instead of being at work. Anyway:
:: some old dear who regularly came in the shop, one day staggered in looking like she's risen from the fucking grave. She proceeded down aile one, past the fruit and veg, came to a halt by a basket of haribo, sat in it, pissed herself, and jibbered. The manager helped her to get the fuck out before any further madness could occur.
:: Some old bastard came in every fucking day to buy a bottle of rum. One fine day, the rum had increased in price (these things happen, its a fucking supermarket.) and he kicked up a fuss. He wanted to speak to the manager. I quite liked the manager of the time, and expected him to tell the guy that 'no - this isnt a fucking car boot sale - if it's cheaper elsewhere, fuck off there'. but no. he let him keep buying the booze at the old price. An inconvenience, as everybody who operates the tills had to be informed that this asshole had his very own price for that particular item. "It's my life blood, Simon, I come in 'ere every day..." You boozey old fuck.
:: Mrs. Brady would come in every day for a bottle of guiness. A bottle of guiness and a chat. My friend would jump 5 inches into the air, and run away on sight of her. I would deal with her, every day. The Guiness is on a high shelf. One day, she 'assisted' me in reaching for the bottle, by placing a hand on my arse. I was speechless.
:: Two old boys in hawaiian shirts would regular come in. One british, one with an accent I couldn't place. They would regularly cheer us up with their own brand of banal chatter, and desperately poor rascist jokes. Hohoho, those paki's eh? their heads go from side to side to keep their brains warm! of course! ...you senile manics.
:: Another old dear, this one came into the shop only every now and again. She was fairly doddering, you know? So she asks me where the ice-cream is. this took some time, as she seemed to have trouble speaking. I couldnt work out why. So I walk her to the ice cream and say: 'here we are - what sort are you after?' (I didnt want her bending onto the open chest freezer, lest the poor cow fall in and turning my life into an even bigger tragi-comedy than it already fucking is.)
So she starts to explain which one she wants. Again, she's having difficulty telling me. She says: 'sorry...love...stroke,stroke,stroke...' I'm puzzled for a moment, then replied: 'Oh, Neopolitan!'
No. Not neopolitan. She was trying explain to me that she'd suffered a stroke - hence the weird talk. Sigh.
Heh.
So yeah. I'll probably get an office job.
VIEW 21 of 21 COMMENTS
sounds like quite a story....
but at least mrs Brady was a happy mrs brady! haha