Behind the Counter

Where do we go from here? sbuxdrama.com

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 05:56:00 +0000

New on the best-seller list and now on sale at the Starbucks registers! "Trouble Always Comes in Twos: The Adventures of Holly Highwater and Polly Pickamix" - or as I like to call them, the skinny girl and heifer that couldn't make up her mind.
Problem customers seem unable to communicate in any language. Have you ever wondered if Starbucks sells moo juice?
Old people are the bane of several planes of existence. Wheelchair Winnie and her Super-Scooter of Doom are probably the high priestess of planetary evil in at least nine dimensions and working on conquering another as we speak.
The pastries at Starbucks are delicious. Unlike Fresh Fanny, I don't believe that they bake them there. Her muffin top would seem to indicate differently.
Fans of Starbucks Drama were treated to real, live, in-person gathering.
We served as a test audience for the wonder and joy that is Starbucks Via.
The whole jaw-dropping tale that led to the creation of #sbuxdrama was related. Two crazy women and their cell phone and one "very special" meeting. Read it and be inspired.
One day later, the #sbuxdrama gods smiled, for there, out of the blue, as if sprung like Eve from Adam's rib, there appeared more insanity. The Whipped Cream Adventure of 2009 landed on these shores one bright Wednesday and rode off into sunset sated on a cloud of sugar, cinnamon and strangeness and the answer to the eternal question: "Who eats a frappuccino with a spoon?"
Finally, one lovely evening in a coffee shop was shattered by the sounds of two pensioners hopped up on sugar, caffeine and Viagra who decided to share sounds of their affection with the world. What is the sound of two tongues slurping?

Happy Thanksgiving: What am I thankful for?

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 03:50:00 +0000

From the archives: What holiday is complete without a returned turkey?

I have been amazed and overwhelmed by the outpouring of wonderful comments, emails, text messages and the general torrent of support I've received from my readers.

Thank you just doesn't seem adequate, but it really is the only thing I can say. Oh, yeah. Please help control the howler monkey population in L.A. Have your howler spayed and neutered. Also, keep your hands and arms inside the Mart Cart at all times!

Your questions:

1. The "Behind the Counter" archive will remain online.

2. My new project is called "21 Minutes" - and it is available at http://twentyoneminutes.blogspot.com/. I guess some of ya'll had tears in your eyes by the time you got down to that paragraph.

3. The behindthecounter1(at)gmail.com email will remain active.

4. Wal-Mart still does not accept starter checks.

5. White trash still don't quit!

6. Comcast is still a terrible, terrible company.

7. I'm still just amazed that you liked it.

Much love. And Happy Thanksgiving.

PS: Be nice to your cashiers on Black Friday!

How may I help you?

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 08:14:00 +0000

It is with great joy that I announce my departure from the House of Wal.

It is with a far greater amount of sadness that I announce the likely end of regular posting to behindthecounter.com.

You, my faithful readers, deserve to know the rest of the story.

On October 20, 2007, in the year of our Lord, I walked out of the Wal-Mart a free woman. FREE AT LAST LORD, FREE AT LAST. I had spent 1,097 days in bondage to the Lords of Low Prices.

For most of the last year, I have struggled to come to terms with the fact that the only real reason I worked at Wal-Mart was to have material to post. The increasing popularity of Behind the Counter made it harder and harder for me to walk away from something that I had literally poured my heart and soul into over a period of three years.

This is how the argument went in my head. “My life is horrible. What’s good right now? My blog. What’s bad right now? Wal-Mart. What can I do to make my life better? Quit Wal-Mart. But if I quit Wal-Mart, I won’t have a blog.” Yeah. Vicious, please meet my friend Circle.

When I started my blog back in April of 2004, I was searching for myself, happiness and a purpose in life. Five months later, I happened to start working at Wal-Mart and Behind the Counter was born. Writing my blog gave me a purpose and a focus.

When I began writing, I never imagined that the things I put out there would attract such a diverse group of readers, fans and people who generally appreciate my work.

I started working at Wal-Mart for the sole purpose of being able to pay my bills. Over time, my real job began paying me enough so that – with prudent budgeting – I could survive without the House of Wal. I need to break the Starbucks addiction, but we’re working on that.

I cut back to just the weekends at Wal-Mart and tried to stockpile stories for an entire week of posting. One side effect of this was that I never had a day off from work. Ever. Monday-Friday at the office and Saturday-Sunday at Wal-Mart. It was a grinding schedule that I kept up for more than two years.

As Behind the Counter grew in popularity, I felt the pressure to pump out more content. Most weekends, I would come home after a 2-11 shift on Sundays and stay up writing until 5 a.m. – when I would go to sleep for three hours and then get up and get ready for work at my real job by 9 a.m.

Over the past year, I have battled depression, the likely beginnings of diabetes and come face-to-face with the fact that my life is a completely screwed-up mess of my own making.

In all that time, Behind the Counter – and constant stream of comments people leave – has been one of the only things that made me feel like getting out of bed in the morning.

Every time I checked my email, I hoped for a comment. Comments – be they good, bad, hateful or inane – were like little happiness grenades in the dark hours of my days.

If you, my readers, were making an effort to tell me how you felt about my work – I owed it to you to give you fresh content.

Even the haterade. You don’t exist on the Internet until you have haters. For every voice that speaks out, there are ten more that scream in silence.

I made mistakes – lots of them. If I had it to do over again, I would probably try to interact with my readers more. My paranoia over being discovered led early on to me instituting a “zero-contact” policy for all but the most extraordinary requests. In retrospect, I think that only made some people MORE curious about me – including some stalkers who analyzed every single post for clues.

I also wanted to sell merchandise. I had some T-shirt designs in the preliminary stages, but never got around to setting up a store on Zazzle. I really, really wanted to sell T-shirts where someone tries to return a baby.

Over the past year, my responsibilities at my real job have grown enormously. Some weeks, I spent up to 80+ hours at both jobs. Something was going to have to give.

I have always made no bones of the fact that I personally feel that Wal-Mart is not the best steward of its workers. The company as a whole needs to be broken down to its component pieces and completely rebuilt.

The current attitude of the bean-counters in Bentonville – who are issuing directives for the store-level employees without ever having been inside a store – are incredibly damaging to employee morale. So too is the absolute refusal to acknowledge the fact that stores cannot deliver even a minimal level of customer service if confined to the insanely low limits of the Bentonville directives for staffing.

In the time period from March until I left in October, I got a 2-11 p.m. shift nearly every Saturday and a 2-11 p.m. nearly every Sunday. I can count on one hand the number of shifts that were not 2-11. For that entire time, I was the only person scheduled at the Service Desk after the morning people went home at 4 p.m.

Psychologically, I knew that I could handle it. Wal-Martians don’t scare me. I am smarter, better and a thousand times meaner. However, it is immensely draining to go through weekend after weekend after weekend of the same crap, facing down the ghetto trash, the white trash and the dregs of society that only crawl out from under their rocks after dark. Nearly every Sunday, I had to plead for someone to give me my lunch; if I got a second break I sent a silent prayer up to the heavens and Kali’s waiting arms.

Wal-Mart literally does not care about its employees. They will mouth pretty words, but they are as empty as Paris Hilton’s head. The final straw came sometime in early summer. I had a rare 10-7 shift on Sunday and was actually looking forward to getting home in time to do laundry and sleep before going to work on Monday. When did I leave? 10 p.m. TWELVE HOURS AT THE HOUSE OF WAL.

I have had several long talks with the very few people in my life that I trusted with the secret of Behind the Counter. (Thank you all, you know who you are!) Every time they asked me “Why are you still working there?” – the only answer I could give was that I needed material for my blog. Finally, that answer just wasn’t good enough anymore.

I had to make a terrible choice – between my sanity and my blog. To be fair, it took me nearly a year to finally decide to walk away from Behind the Counter. I don’t believe that my writing should make me unhappy – and going to the House of Wal each weekend simply made me miserable.

At the end of the day, I wrote about entitled idiots trying to scam the system and generally acting like they need a beating with whips made of scorpions. I saw a niche in the blog ecosystem and I filled it – maybe not especially well or with great style and verve – but I filled it.

My next project is going to be “21 Minutes” – which is linked in the top right-hand column. (I thought seriously about concentrating on my Howler Monkeys project, but at the end of the day, I don’t think it has real legs. I mean, how much complaining about children can I do?)

What is “21 Minutes?” Well, the premise is that I’m going to go somewhere each day and describe the action for 21 minutes. The same snark, the same fashion critique, the same howler monkeys, the same WOACAs, the same witty wordplay. We may even do a post at the Wal-Mart from time to time. I hope you like it. If not, that’s fine too. This is something I’m doing for myself – and it doesn’t make me hurt inside.

Right now, I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. I’ve had a few weekends to spend reconnecting with my friends, rebuilding my social life and trying to figure out what exactly it is that I’m going to do with the rest of my life.

For the record, I want to personally thank each and every reader of Behind the Counter over the past three years. Thank you for reading. Thank you for leaving comments. Thank you for subscribing via RSS. Thank you sending me your emails. Thank you for clicking on the advertisements. Thank you for putting links on your own personal Web pages and blogrolls. And to the two people who purchased me gifts off my Amazon Wish List – I LOVE YOU!

At the end of the day, all I did was write. Thank you all for appreciating it.

Yes. You all still have questions. No. I’m still not going to tell you my name or the location of my store. I’m not stupid. Anything else you want to know, please leave it in the comments.

In tha dog pound

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 12:58:00 +0000

It has been hella busy lately, so I'm not always at Customer Service right when I go in at 2 p.m. - because that seems to be the only schedule I ever get nowadays - 2-11 p.m.

Saturday I go in and there is a new co-manager running the front end and all the supervisors are on a register. Instead of the service desk, she asks if I can watch the Self Checkouts for a while. OK. Fine. They're theft magnets and people are stupid. Sounds the same to me.

There's a new thing now where we're not supposed to actually stand at the monitoring station - with the cash register and the computer that has the monitor for all four self-checkouts. We're supposed to stand out in the middle of the Self-Checkout aisles and "be available" for customers - which generally means you get pulled four ways at once and don't get anything done.

I'm trying to help this WOACA ring up tomatoes - all the while she's insisting that "TOMATOES CANNOT COST THIS MUCH IN NOVEMBER." Seriously lady. Yes they can.

Then I see the tragedy start to unfold.

There's a hugely fat woman with not one, not two, but three screaming howler monkeys. She's got one of those Wal-Mart kid-carts, with the child seats built into the buggy under the handle. Two crotchlings are seated there; the third is clinging to the side of the buggy like a shipwreck survivor. They are howling fit to raise the dead. They want chips, candy, movies, a soda, their Nintendo DS. What they NEED is a good spanking and a lesson on how to act in public.

The cart is full. Not just full, but overflowing. Either she only shops once a month or there are additional howler monkeys at home. Dear Kali, perish the thought. Underneath the buggy, she's jammed a couple of cases of water and soda and also managed to wedge a sack of Ol' Roy dog food that sits precariously on the edge. The howler clinging to the side is repeatedly bouncing on the sack of Ol' Roy - causing it to lean further out of the buggy.

I see her come by Register 1, bend down and re-adjust the dog food, trying to jam it up under the buggy some more. Then she's distracted by the screaming howlers and yells at them to "Just shut up and wait a minute. Mommy's almost done."

She finally KICKS the dog food and pushes the buggy forward.

Unfortunately for her, those kiddie carts aren't the most maneuverable. Think station wagons - without power steering.

A corner of the sack of dog food hangs on the bottom of one of the shelf displays. I see her having trouble and move to go over, but am caught by this idiot woman who can't find the barcode on a carton of water. See people, it is NOT as simple as "scan and bag."

When I look up again, the woman and her howler monkeys are down by register five.

Unfortunately, so is half a sack of Ol' Roy - marking the trail like some bizarre Hansel and Gretel.

I yell at her "Ma'am. Ma'am Ma'am"

She doesn't here me over her howlers. And she keeps on going. Register 7. More dog food.

I yell at her "Ma'am. Ma'am Ma'am"

Register 9. Register 11. She's trying to find a short line.

She turns in at Register 13. And the woman beside her goes "What the hell is that?"

Yes. Ol'Roy.

All the way from Register 2 down to Register 13.

And it stank. I really do not know who feeds that stuff to their dogs.

Seriously people. You know what Wal-Mart feeds to people. Do you really want to know what they feed to dogs?

I want a red T-shirt

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 04:30:00 +0000

Sunday night is the last time and place to be making "demands" of just about anyone at Wal-Mart. Whatever "help" you get is going to be thinking about the long weekend they just spent helping the other 20,000 people just like you spending the other $1 million dollars our store does every weekend.

So when this elderly gentleman rolls up to Customer Service after 10 p.m. on Sunday night and throws a light blue T-shirt on the counter and started yelling at me, I have to say, I wasn't exactly in the best mood. Nevertheless, I did try to help him. He just didn't want my help.

Him: "I want a T-shirt exactly like this (as he's stabbing his huge finger at the blue one) except that it is red, a size large and has a pocket on it." In other words, you want a totally different shirt!
Me: And I, in retrospect, followed a bad plan, and tried to inject some levity into the situation by saying "And I want a winning Lotto ticket!" And then I laughed.
Him: The man gave one of the nastiest looks I've ever had. And then goes "So that's what you have to do to get service around here, win the d*mn lottery?"
Me: "Sir, it was just a joke. Now, where did you find that shirt? Have you looked over in our menswear section. Do you need directions?"
Him: "No, I've been over there with two girls. They can't find any more for me."
Me: "Sir, if they can't find any, then we must be out of the red shirts."
Him: "That's not what I said."
Me: "What exactly are you asking me for then sir?"
Him: "I want you to go on that computer there — and he stabs his finger at my register — and type in "red shirt" and find me a red shirt."
Me: "It doesn't work that way sir."
Him: "Whaddya mean it don't work that way! I know they've got to have perpetual inventory around here. This is a huge company."
Me: "I understand that sir. But inventory is not done by name of product but by UPC number." And I show him the barcode off the shirt he has. And I explain. "This number will tell me how many of this particular shirt we have in stock, how many are in the warehouse and how many have been ordered. But I can't ask the computer for red shirt, pocket shirt or large shirt. That won't tell me anything."
Him: "So you're telling me that you're not going to help me?"

My supervisor, who happened to be at Customer Service the whole time, finally took over.

Supervisor: "Sir, you've had two people looking through menswear for the shirts. They told you we don't have any more. We've told you that we can't just go into the computer and look for a "red shirt with pocket. What else can we do for you? Do you want someone to go back over to menswear with you?

Him: "This is just not the kind of F****** help I expect from F****** Customer Service."

And the throws the shirt he has in his hands into an unattended buggy and stomps out.

I hope he falls and breaks his hip.

Guest Post: There is no 'back' - only the back of my hand

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 18:08:00 +0000

Another guest post here - and another one from the wilds of Canada. Original material from "Hello Me Ducky" - with editing and rewrites by Behind the Counter.

People. Please. The only "back" in a Wal-Mart is the back of my hand as I slap you across your face when you ask that I "go to the back" and find you something that isn't on the shelf. Comprendez vous?

One more time. Let's go over this. THIS IS NOT A SHOE STORE. WE DO NOT HAVE A MAGICAL DUPLICATING MACHINE IN THE BACK. IF IT DO NOT BE ON THE SHELF, IT DO NOT BE IN THE STORE.

Let's take it from the top. I work in Howler Monkey central, Department 26, otherwise known as Infants. I put things on the shelf. I can help you, but only if you're not to stupid to breathe. Of course, you’re shopping at the House of Wal …

Pop quiz:

There are six pallets of freight out on the floor. All of it needs to go on the shelves by the end of my shelf. Do you:
a) edge around the boxes to do your shopping?
b) dip your head into my aisle, see that I'm busy and move on?
c) start opening boxes and pawing through them looking for a pair of socks for your godforsaken baby that looks like a prune cross-bred with a shar-pei and then laid in the sun for thirty-eight years
d) ask me "Is there any more in the back?"

If I dealt with you last Saturday, you perpetrated BOTH options C & D.

Ma'am, go die in a fire.

If all this stuff is lying in piles around me, what makes you think there is yet MORE in the back?

Please. Do I come to your house and rifle through your drawers looking for a knife to stab you with? Even though the very thought of such murderous violence pleases me mightily!

Do you really know what’s “in the back” of a Wal-Mart? Not much actually.

On the GM (General Merchandise) side, there’s rows and rows of huge shelves about fifteen feet high with four levels each. Each department has so many rows – based on how big the department is.

Theoretically, all the “overstock” – more of the same from the floor – goes into this area. It is supposed to be labeled by the date it was received off the truck and type of merchandise it is. In reality, it is a huge jumbled junk drawer of out-of-season merchandise that a team of trained managers couldn’t wade through with a shovel and a pricing gun. Most stock comes straight off the trucks and onto the sales floor.

On the grocery side, there's a little bit of cold storage for fresh fruit & vegetables and a freezer. The trucks for the grocery side come every day.

ME VS. COMCAST, IN 66 ROUNDS

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 17:24:00 +0000

There’s no “Five Finger Friday” this week. Like I said. I’ve been having “issues.”

Instead, let us break down the stupidity of the Comcastic service and the reason I hope all their phone monkeys die in a fire. People seem wildly interested. You will understand why I wish death on their phone monkeys.

Fair warning. This is long, long, long, long, long. More like 3800 words long.

I really don’t know what to do. I loathe Comcast. I could seriously contemplate doing without TV – except that I would then possess an insanely expensive modded TiVo box with no purpose other than decoration.

I also don’t know what I’d do without reliable high-speed Internet access at home. I NEED to be able to work at home for my real job.

If anyone has experience with aircards, please leave a comment. I’m a little leery of them – but am seriously thinking of going to the Verizon store to at least hear what they have to say. I belong to the cult of Apple – so take that into consideration.

ME VS. COMCAST, IN 66 ROUNDS

Comcast and I have been fighting a war since January. January people. It would be funny if it were not so tragically awful.

Fact the first: Comcast is a local monopoly. There is NO other option for cable television service, other than DISH Network.

Fact the second: The ONLY other option for Internet service is through Embarq – the rebranded Sprint local service – which enjoys a monopoly on the local telephone service.

SPRINT/EMBARQ IS NOT AN OPTION. I WILL CUT OFF BOTH LEGS, ONE ARM AND GOUGE OUT MY EYEBALLS WITH A RUSTY SALAD TONG BEFORE GIVING ANOTHER DOLLAR TO SPRINT.

Fact the third: Of the two, I used to despise Comcast marginally less. I also do not have a landline, which is why I went with Comcast for Internet service.

Fact the fourth: I live in an old building that was converted to apartments in an older area of town. It is quaint, has more charm than five Southern ladies and plays hell with infrastructure. The neighborhood was here before telephones and cable television and fiber-optics and all that jazz. Still, not my problem. That’s what I pay Comcast to deal with. That’s what I pay Comcast a VERY large chunk of money to deal with.

Fact the fifth: In JANUARY I began having problems where my digital cable (HBO/Showtime) and high-speed Internet would go out – but where I still had the basic tier of cable channels. Basic signal strength. I get everything but the digital cable channels. For some reason, it seems like I speak Swahili whenever I try to explain that to Comcast.

Fact the sixth: Highly annoyed that I am paying more than $140 a month for the privilege of not being able to watch “The Sopranos” or post to behindthecounter.com, I call Comcast. This is January 29. I have to schedule a “service call” for Feb. 2. They neglect to tell me that I will get a “confirmation call,” so I am in a phones-off-meeting at work when Comcast calls to “confirm” the appointment and miss the technician. Because of out-of-town obligations, I have to reschedule for Feb. 16 – a two-week time period during which my digital cable and Internet work only intermittently.

Fact the seventh: The “window” for the next service call is “1-5 p.m.” Having learned from the “confirmation call,” I take the afternoon of Feb. 16 off – and find myself unable to work from home because – SURPRISE - the Internet is out again. The “technician” arrives at 5:45 p.m. – at which point everything is working properly. Have I mentioned I hate Comcast? The technician looks at my modem, looks at the cable box, has me sign a sheet saying that he did indeed come to my apartment – and leaves. If he was in my presence for more than 3 minutes, I’ll eat my MacBook without soy sauce.

Fact the eighth: Five hours later, as I’m trying to catch up on the work I didn’t get done during the day, the Internet goes out again. I call Comcast. “Do you want to schedule a service call?” Well I guess so, since you seem incapable of resolving my problem. Maybe this tech will be brighter than the one before. My obvious irritation gets me an appointment on the Feb. 19. My Internet service is working intermittently – but more on than off.

Fact the ninth: The appointment window for Feb. 19 was 5-9 p.m. – I told them I couldn’t miss work just to wait for the “technician” to show up 45 minutes after the window closed. This “technician” walks in, says “It’s not your equipment. It’s a problem with the line,” has me sign the paper stating that he did come to my apartment and leaves. He was inside for less than one minute.

Fact the tenth: Things are good for two days, until I wake up on Feb. 21 and have no Internet service. I sigh and go to work. I come home ten hours later and there’s STILL no Internet service. I say “To hell with it” and go to bed. The next morning, Feb. 22, I wake up and see that I STILL don’t have Internet service. I get on the phone. “Do you want to schedule a service call?” NO! I DO NOT WANT A DAMN SERVICE CALL. IT IS NOT A SERVICE CALL. IT IS AN EXERCISE IN POINTLESS STUPIDITY.

Fact the eleventh: When faced with the third “Do you want to schedule a service call?” question, I detail the pointless service calls I have received so far. And I tell the phone monkey to look at the notes on the account. Her response “Oh. I guess there is a problem. Well, I can get you a service call.” I hung up on her.

Fact the twelfth: I get home on Feb. 22 and the Intarwebz are working again – right up until around 2 a.m.

Fact the thirteenth: Comcast gets another call. The first time I call, I wind through the phone system and wind up at a LOCAL billing facility in Kentucky. This only fills me with more rage. At this point I’ve decided that I’m through playing nice. I have the utmost respect for people in customer service positions, but a “service call” is not going to do it. Money will be refunded. Please note that I had to request a credit. At no point during ANY conversation with ANY Comcast CSR did ANY person EVER offer to compensate me for the outages.

Fact the fourteenth: In the early morning hours of Feb. 23, I get another stupid phone monkey – who seems to share the trait of being unable to listen and COMPREHEND what the customer is saying to her. As soon as she asks “Do you want to schedule a service call,” I tell her NO and tell her exactly why. The problem is NOT with my line, my equipment or anything else under my control. A “service call” isn’t going to fix any of that. What I need is for Comcast to fix their bad infrastructure. My irritation was mighty. It had been two weeks of essentially no Internet at home – even though I was paying Comcast an enormous sum each month. Her response? “Well, I can schedule a service call and put a note to send a supervisor or a ‘super technical’ person out there.”

Fact the fifteenth: We set up a service call for Feb. 28. I get a 3-7 p.m. window and a substantial credit.

Fact the sixteenth: My Internet manages to stay on until Feb. 28. It manages to go out an hour before the technician arrives. I actually thank the entire pantheon of gods in the heavens, because I can now demonstrate what is happening with words and pictures – because it is my considered opinion that the Comcast “technicians” are as dumb as a sack of hammers.

Fact the seventeenth: This turns out to be just another ‘service call.’ The ‘super technical’ person turns out to be just another technician – albeit one with a slightly higher degree of competence. This one actually LISTENS when I explain what is going on – and says “It’s a problem with the line – you’re losing signal strength.” WELL I COULD HAVE TOLD YOU THAT. I TOLD EVERY SINGLE PERSON I EVER TALKED TO AT COMCAST THAT I GOT BASIC CABLE BUT NOT DIGITAL AND HIGH-SPEED INTERNET. COMPLETE EFFING MORONS WHO DO NOT AND CANNOT LISTEN TO THEIR CUSTOMERS.

Fact the eighteenth: This technician actually makes the effort to go out and root around in the yard behind my apartment building and test the wires coming into my apartment. He replaces the connections on my apartment’s specific wire and shows me a device that measures the signal strength. It clearly shows that I’m not getting enough ‘oomph’ for premium cable and high-speed Internet.

Fact the nineteenth: I sign yet another “Tech wuz here” form, and the technician promises to report back and have a line crew sent out to “look at the lines in the area.”

Fact the twentieth: We’re good until the early morning hours of March 13, when I again experience withdrawal of Internet service. Comcast gets another phone call.

Fact the twenty-first: This time around, I get a phone monkey who offers a “service call,” gets my NO AND HERE’S WHY reply and only then looks at the notes. She tells me that the technician never requested any follow up action. I wanted to throw the phone through a window.

Fact the twenty-second: I get yet ANOTHER service call for March 22 – “because we’re just really busy.” Damn. I wonder why? Could it be you have craptastic service? This service call is double-promised to be the ever-elusive line crew and I confirm with the phone monkey that I do not need to be at my apartment for this. I also get a credit for a week of service.

Fact the twenty-third: Flash-forward to March 22. I have working Internet at home. I’m in a meeting at work when I get a phone call from Comcast to confirm my “service call.” I wanted to physically beat someone until they were bloody, then continue to reduce the meatbag to its component parts – using just my hands.

Fact the twenty-fourth: I tell the tech that I don’t want a service call, and that I want a line crew. I also tell him that I’m not driving home just for him to say “Yup. It’s a problem with the line.” The tech asks if I am canceling the call. I tell him that he can do whatever he wants, but I’m not wasting any more time with Comcast.

Fact the twenty-fifth: I get home around 6 p.m. on March 22 only to find that – SHOCKER – my Internet is out again. Comcast gets another call.

Fact the twenty-sixth: This phone monkey informs me that I canceled a service call that afternoon and should not be complaining – because calls can take like eight days to get set up. I demand the phone monkey read the notes on the account. “Oh.” More promises of a line crew.

Fact the twenty-seventh: Sometime after midnight on April 3, my service, which has been off-and-on, but more on than off, conks out entirely.

Fact the twenty-eight: April 4, an entire day with no service.

Fact the twenty-ninth: April 5, an entire day with no service.

Fact the thirtieth: April 6, an entire day with no service.

Fact the thirty-first: April 7 dawns and I have Internet service – right up to the point I go out to get lunch and come back. It’s out again. I have become used to such “comcastic” service by now. I just sacrifice another floppy disk at the altar of the modem and pray it comes back on. Soon. Please. Must have LOLcatz.

Fact the thirty-second: Some time after midnight on April 9, I decide that I have had enough of Comcast’s shitty service. I call, get the “Do you want to schedule a service call?” spiel and demand to speak with a supervisor.

Fact the thirty-third: This complete and utter tool of a human being and I spend more than 40 minutes on the telephone arguing about why I “HAVE” to have a service call in order for me to get a credit. I detail the entire list of issues I have had with Comcast – including the multiple time-wasting “service calls.” Allegedly, it is Comcast policy to not issue a credit until the problem is “resolved.” WELL MOTHER-F*****. I WANT A CREDIT FOR EVERY SINGLE DAY SINCE FEBRUARY 9 BECAUSE MY PROBLEM IS STILL NOT RESOLVED. Apparently, because I did not call to report the outage on the first day I did not have service – April 3, I can’t get a credit for any day prior to today. And battle is joined. Note to Comcast: Whoever this CSR is, you need to promote them, or pay them more. They have drunk the Comcastic Kool-Aid and will defend your slutty Comcastic honor to their last breath.

Fact the thirty-fourth: After 40 minutes of me refusing a service call and ComTool refusing to give me a credit unless I agreed to a time-wasting service call, I capitulated. I sold my honor for a $35 credit. I got a service call for April 10 – with a 1-5 p.m. window.

Fact the thirth-fifth: I told ComTool that I was completely disgusted with the way Comcast was treating me – an that I felt like I was being ignored every time I called – even though there were pages of notes on my account. Moreover, I felt that I was not getting good value for my money. ComTool – probably because he was as sick of talking to me as I was talking to him – told me to call every time my service was out to request a credit - which is a DIRECT contradiction to how things are ALLEGED to work.

Fact the thirty-sixth: The morning of April 10 dawns and I have Internet service. I get a queasy feeling, because morning service usually means no afternoon service and vice versa. I sacrifice another floppy disk to the altar of the modem in the hope that if it does go out, it will be out when this latest idiot technician is here.

Fact the thirty-seventh: I take ANOTHER afternoon off work and come home to wait for ComTech. Five o’clock rolls around and there is nothing. Six o’clock and nothing. Seven o’clock and nothing. At least I still have Internet service. At 7:30 p.m., the technician calls and says he is “running late.” REALLY!

Fact the thirty-eighth: This technician comes, says “It’s a problem with the line,” pokes around the box that has the lines going up to my apartment, sees that another tech replaced the connection and tests the signal strength. I’ve still got Internet, so of course it is bumping. He tells me “I don’t know.” I AM TELLING YOU WHAT THE PROBLEM IS. It is NOT the line into my apartment. It is NOT my equipment. It is the MAIN LINE FOR THE NEIGHBORHOOD. HOW HARD IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND?

Fact the thirty-ninth: I sign yet another “Tech wuz here” form and go back upstairs to my apartment. The Internet is out. I debate my options: drink, drugs or a chainsaw. Maybe a hammer like that crazy woman in Pennsylvania.

Fact the fortieth: I immediately call Comcast and demand they confirm I just had a service call and yet still do not have service. “Do you want to schedule another service call?” Only the fact that I knew getting angry at this stupid cow would solve NOTHING prevented me from going into a fit which would have rivaled any white trash throwdown at any Wal-Mart anywhere in America.

Fact the forty-first: I demand a credit. “Well, we don’t do that.” I’m sorry, but you are unable to provide me with service. I want a credit. “Okay.”

Fact the forty-second: My Internet service resumes a day later and manages to bump along for a couple months. April, May, June. July. August. It looks like they finally fixed whatever needed fixing. There are intermittent outages, but these usually occur sometime around 3 a.m. and are usually over by the time I wake up and leave for work. Given the balance of how bad it WAS, I’m happy to have service 95% of the time.

Fact the forty-third: On August 11, the Internet starts burping again. My service goes out for the entire day on the August 11. I’m not around much on a Saturday, so I don’t really let it bother me. I figure it will come back Sunday.

Fact the forty-fourth: I wake up Sunday morning and the service is still out. I come home from the House of Wal at 11:30 p.m. and the service is still out. I’m angry, but don’t feel like picking at the scab of my Comcastic wounds just right then.

Fact the forty-fifth: I wake up Monday, August 13 and see that I have service again. I chalk it up to a momentary interruption and forget about it.

Fact the forty-sixth: August 15, my service goes out again around 10 p.m. I take it as a sign and go to bed.

Fact the forty-seventh: August 16 dawns and service is still not restored. I call Comcast and argue with them for a while. “Do you want to schedule a service call?” NO.

Fact the forty-eighth: Comcast’s phone monkeys and I, we do a little pas de deux while arguing over a credit for the past week. “I can’t give you a credit if you don’t have a service call.” I DON’T WANT A SERVICE CALL. IT IS A WASTE OF MY TIME AND YOURS. “I can’t give you a credit if you don’t have a service call. We don’t give a credit until the problem is ‘resolved.’” This would have been cute if I had not gotten at least three credits without a “resolution” to my problem.

Fact the forty-ninth: I allow them to schedule a service call. I pick a day at random and ask for the latest possible block. When the technician calls to confirm the appointment, I press IGNORE on my phone. If you waste my time with your vast reservoir of stupidity and unhelpfulness, I will waste yours.

Fact the fiftieth: The problem sorts itself out by August 21. A credit for about $10 later shows up on my September bill.

Fact the fifty-first: Throughout late summer and into fall, I experience only brief outages – usually late at night and nearly always gone by the time I wake up.

Fact the fifty-second: Some time around 11 p.m. on November 1 I lose Internet service. Seeing as how this is the first time in at least a month I’ve had an outage, I chalk this one up to bad luck and move on. I’m back online the next morning.

Fact the fifty-third: Some time after midnight on November 3 I lose service again. I sigh and move on. I’m back online the next morning.

Fact the fifty-fourth: I am without service when I get home around midnight on November 4. I’m NOT back up the next morning but appear to be OK by late afternoon.

Fact the fifty-fifth: Depressingly, I am without service when I arrive home around 10 p.m. on Nov. 5. I can’t deal and just go to bed. Repeat on November 6.

Fact the fifty-sixth: I’m trying to write on Wednesday night (Nov. 7) when I lose Internet service around 1 a.m. I am in a really evil mood, so I pick up the phone and call Comcast. “Do you want to schedule a service call?”

Fact the fifty-seventh: Phone monkey is unimpressed by the litany of issues documented on my account and repeatedly demands that I take a service call – or else she can’t help me. I refuse, ask that my outages be documented on my account and request a transfer to Billing for credits.

Fact the fifty-eighth: The phone monkey in Billing is even worse. “I can’t give you a credit without a service call. We don’t give a credit until the problem is resolved.” EVEN THOUGH A ‘SERVICE CALL’ IS NOT GOING TO RESOLVE MY PROBLEM?

Fact the fifty-ninth: The ComBill wench and I go round-and-round for at least twenty minutes. Apparently, their history of bad service is my fault, because I have placed any “potential” credit in danger by not reporting the problem immediately. “If you want a credit for Nov. 2, why didn’t you call on Nov. 2.” I straight up told her – “I have better things to do than stay on the phone with Comcast all day, every day.”

Fact the sixtieth: We agree to disagree – and to submit my account for “research” to determine if I really had an outage. I PAY YOU $144 EVERY MONTH AND YOU ARE ARGUING WITH ME OVER A HALF-DAY CREDIT FOR FIVE DAYS? I hope every single one of your diseased howler monkey loin fruit dies a horrible death – except the one who lives long enough to abandon you in a nursing home.

Fact the sixty-first: About 1 a.m. on November 9, as I am writing this history of my travails with Comcast, I lose Internet service yet again.

Fact the sixty-second: I call Comcast. “Do you want to schedule a service call?” NO! I DO NOT WANT A SERVICE CALL.

Fact the sixty-third: Phone monkey starts muttering “Let me look at your modem.” I tell him “There is no problem with my equipment, the line into my apartment or my connection. Please check the notes and confirm what I am saying.” Phone monkey goes “Oh.”

Fact the sixty-fourth: This phone monkey looks at the notes on the account and pretends to listen when I say that having a ‘service call’ is a waste of time. I request a line crew. I now allegedly have a line crew.

Fact the sixty-fifth: Phone monkey asks how long I’ve been having an outage, even though this was allegedly documented last night. I tell him. He “checks” something and tells me “Yeah. I can see where the modem has been going offline overnight all week.” I wanted to scream at him.

Fact the sixty-sixth: I bite my tongue and ask him to put all this into my file. I will have ammo the next time I go into battle with the wenches in Comcast Billing.

Have I mentioned I hate Comcast?

Hair today, gone tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 13:23:00 +0000

I’m sorry. There have been *issues.* Posts have been eaten. Phones have been thrown across the room. People have been cursed. Supervisors have been requested. I'm sure that I'm on "customers_suck" on LiveJournal at this point. Comcast is the worst company in the free world when it comes to customer service. Also the worst when it comes to actually keeping their product, I don't know, WORKING! I hope every single one of their local, regional and corporate offices burn down and all their phone monkey slaves die with their idiotic, condescending and unhelpful tails tied to their chairs.

Anywhoo.

I’m slaving away, as per usual. It’s a Sunday. My feet hurt and I regret mightily eating that leftover Olive Garden takeout for my lunch because it is just causing *issues.*

Every 20 minutes I’m praying the customers leave me alone and screaming “Dequetta (my supervisor, name changed to protect the innocent, but she IS a ghettolicious superstar), can you watch Customer Service for a minute? I got to go.” That’s what kind of a day it is.

In the midst of all this fun comes one of my regulars, a hot-blooded twenty-something who seems to make a pastime out of buying and returning clothes. She’s the type of upscale consumer Wal-Mart would love to attract more of – but hates to try on clothes in the store. And she buys four sizes of everything and returns three of them.

Mizz Thing is working it today. I guess she visited the new bebe store in town. She’s rocking a pink and white bebe sport outfit today – sweatpants, tee and hoodie. Of course, the letters hit RIGHT where it would do the most good – right across the boobs and the buns. Not that this sister needs any more attention. She’s got just enough curves in all the right places.

What I do notice is that she’s rocking a new ‘do. She’s added some purple highlights to the black shag on either side of her face. Dramatic, but cute.

Today she’s returning a hair-dryer. We’re talking heavy-duty hair-dryer here. Leaves would tremble in terror at mere mention of this thing. Seriously. She slammed it up on the counter and at first I thought it was something from hardware until I looked at the receipt.

Cue the fun:

ME: “Can I help you? How are you doing today?” If I know you, I'm friendly. At least until you try to run game.
HER: “Good. I just need to return this hair dryer.”
ME: “OK. Do you have your receipt?” Almost always does. She knows the score.
HER: “It’s right here.”
ME: “OK.” Receipt is a month old.
ME: “Uh. Was there a problem with it?”
HER: “Oh. I didn’t use it. I bought it for my sister and she looked at it and said she didn’t want it because it was too big.”

ME: Looking at the box. It’s one of those clear plastic case things, and there is something bothering me.
HER: “So how have you been? It is so busy today.”
ME: Distractedly. “Fine.” Something about this box and the hairdryer is tickling my admittedly tiny brain.
HER: “That’s good. Is it always this busy on Sundays?”
ME: Still looking at the box. “Yeah. It was real busy earlier.” I finally figure out what is bothering me. Something is missing from the box. There's actually an empty space where something should be and that something isn't there.

HER: “I came in and didn’t see you earlier. I guess you were on your lunch or something.”
ME: “Um. Did this come with an attachment or something? Because it looks like there is supposed to be something here.”
HER: “Oh. It did. It had a diffuser attachment. I took that out because it fits on my other hair dryer. I decided to keep it and just bring the hair dryer back.”

ME: “Um. Um. I …” Houston, we have a problem.
HER: “I don’t want this hair dryer though. I just wanted the attachment. That’s all I bought it for.”
ME: “Yeah. I kind of need the attachment if I’m going to give you the money back for the whole hair dryer.”
HER: “But the whole hair dryer is there. Just not the attachment.”

ME: “Yeah. It’s kind of not. It comes with an attachment. And you still have the attachment.”
HER: “I want to keep the attachment.”
ME: “If you keep the attachment, you can keep the hair dryer.”
HER: “I don’t want the hair dryer.”
ME: “You can’t return it without the attachment.”
HER: “Why not?”
ME: “Because you bought it with the attachment – and you have to return it with the attachment.”
HER: “That’s not fair. I only want to keep the parts I want and return the rest.”

ME: “But they’re sold as a set.”
HER: “I think I should get to keep the attachment. I shop here all the time.”
ME: “No.”
HER: “That’s not fair.”
ME: “Well, you can’t get something for free.”
HER: “I don’t want something for free. I bought a hair dryer and I’m returning a hair dryer.”
ME: “But you’re keeping the attachment. You’re not returning everything you purchased.”

HER: “That’s what I said. I want to return the hair dryer.”
ME: “If you bring the attachment.”
HER: “But I want to keep the attachment.”
ME: “No. Hair dryer and attachment, I’ll return it. Otherwise, no return.”
HER: “That’s just not fair.”
ME: “Well, I’m sorry, but that’s how it’s going to be.”

Finally, she pouts some more and walks off. As she leaves, I notice she has bebe written in pink over her rump. It ought to be "baby."

Sheesh.

I lost my paycheck and my mind inside the House of Wal

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 02:30:00 +0000

“I lost my fifty-two thousand dollar paycheck and you’re gonna help me find it.”

Crazy people and Sunday mornings seem to go together like a horse and carriage – or like a straightjacket and a mental patient – or like bitchy comments and “in the style of” posts.

I drag in Sunday morning after a hard day’s night spent praying to Ralph on the big porcelain phone. Thank you, bad Chinese food. I will never eat crab rangoon at a strange Chinese buffet again – as long as I live. I’m sucking down the Gatorade and the water and feeling like my stomach is playing host to the Mexican Jumping Bean Olympics of 2020.

The absolute last thing I want to get is a briefing from the overnight supervisor about “this crazy man.”

OK. There’s a crazy man. Par for usual at the Wal-Mart. Here’s the story so far, from the overnight supervisor, who is Haitian, and English is her third language, and she had been dealing with the man for three hours and was completely fed up with him.

“This man, he crazy. He come in at 4 a.m. He say he lose a paycheck for $52,000 in the store. I tell him I not find it. I tell him to call de cops. He tell me he have to have it and to close de doors and not let anyone out. I tell him it not my fault he lose things.”

“He tell me he a doctor and this his check for just one week. I look at him and he look drunk, like he not right in the head. I tell him I look for de check, but I not find de check and he need to go where he was in the store and look for the check.”

She is basically in tears at this point, because apparently the man kept coming up to her every half-hour all night and asking “Did you find my check? Did you find my check? Did you find my check?”

All she could tell him was “No” and all the while she is thinking “It is not my fault you can’t keep up with a check allegedly for $52,000.”

So I ask her “Where did he go?” Here’s the kicker. HE’S STILL HERE. HE HAS BEEN HERE FOR THREE HOURS WANTING US TO PRODUCE THIS HUGE PAYCHECK.

The overnight girl goes home. About fifteen minutes later, I get my first look at what all the fuss is about. So help me Shiva it looks like something that escaped from an insane asylum.

A man in scrubs and dirty tennis shoes comes around the corner, followed by a woman in one of those wheelchair carts. He had bloodshot eyes that had seen the bottom of many a bottle of Jim Beam and was likely on a first-name basis with Captain Morgan, Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker. He had an odor that came from no emergency room. It came from sleeping in the clothes you wore to bed again and again and again and again. I don’t even get time for a “How can I help you?” before he blurts out “DID YOU FIND MY CHECK YET?”

ME: “No sir. Why don’t you write your name down and we can call you if we do find it?”
HIM: “I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “Okay. Well, you can call or come back tomorrow.”
HIM: “I WANT MY MONEY. MY MOTHER NEEDS THIS STUFF.” What did Mommy Dearest having her cart? Some white bread, some skim milk and some strawberries.
ME: “OK. Like I said. You can write down your info, call, or come back.” Because I for one already think you’re crazy.
HIM: “I’m a doctor. That’s my paycheck for A WHOLE WEEK.” Seriously. $52,000. That’s a lot of scratch. And he really wanted me to know that it was his check for a WHOLE week.
ME: “OK.” Not giving him anything to work with.”
HIM: “I’m going to go walk around some more.” Because if walking around looking for this mythical check for three hours hasn’t turned it up, walking around some more will surely help.

And he rolls off.

At 7:45 a.m. he’s back. With Mommy Dearest in tow. She’s added a five-pound bag of potatoes to the mix – totally crushing the bread.

HIM: “DID YOU FIND MY CHECK YET?”
ME: “No.” Probably because this check only exists in your mind. Your fevered, deluded, drug-addled mind.
HIM: “Oh. Because I thought someone might have turned it in.”
ME: “Not yet.”

Off he goes again.

Repeat two more times until about 9 a.m.

At at the 8 o’clock check-in, Mommy Dearest has added a package of marshmallows and a jar of peanut butter. Oh, and I forgot to mention she’s wearing a gigantic floral muumuu the likes of which could keep any botanical garden in business for five years and which would make Alan Titchmarch and Charlie Dimmock blush with shame for the flowers that died in vain for that piece of fabric.

At the 8:30 a.m. check-in, there's a package of sliced cheese, a box of tampons and some adult diapers. LOVELY!

He also manages to bug the morning supervisor, the cashier on Register 14, the girl in Jewelry, the morning accounting associate and most of the morning sales associates. People keep coming up to Customer Service and asking “Is that man crazy?” Well, yes. But he’s not threatened anyone yet, so management won’t throw him out. Nor has he tried to steal. He’s just wandering around like a lunatic.

Around 9:15 a.m., I go out for my break and I see this man haranguing the girl at the self-checkouts down by Register 20. I’m thinking. “Geez man. You seriously need to give it up. And it would really help your cause if you didn’t look like a patient instead of a doctor!”

When I get back from my break – he’s back at Customer Service raising a racket with the girl who replaced me, telling this same old tired story for what has to be the 70th time since about 4 o’clock this morning. “I had a check, a paycheck for $52,000, it was everything I made for this week. I need to cash it.” The girl is looking at him like he’s crazy.

Which. You know, BECAUSE HE IS CRAZY!

He finally gives up and starts piling the stuff from Mommy Dearest’s wheelchair cart onto the counter. “Can you check us out? I guess I’ll just pay with my credit card.” You know, because you HAD TO CASH THAT CHECK!

Seriously. We sell scrubs at Wal-Mart. Anyone can claim to be a doctor. And if you seriously make $52,000 in one week, what the hell are you and your crippled mother doing shopping at the House of Wal?

Chalk another one up in the insane lunatic column at the House of Wal!

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Behind the Counter

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 04:15:00 +0000

You asked for it … you know you wanted it ... now you got it.

It’s one of the rare Friday nights that I work – because we all know that I can’t get enough of the House of Wal – and I’ve yet to find a man wealthy enough to keep me in the style to which I could become accustomed.

I’m alone at Customer Service – of course – trying not to think about how much my feet hurt. I’m sorting through a cart of returns and cataloguing the stuff that’s been stolen and already hating the fact that Christmas carols are playing on the speakers.

Suddenly Customer Service is mobbed with people. Old people. Young people. WOACAs. Tall people. Short people. Skinny people. Fat people. I think I even saw some Canadians. Not too much in the way of white trash though.

They are obviously all together, because they have the same T-shirt on, but I can’t quite make out the connection. Orange and white T-shirts don’t ring a bell with me for anything other than Tennessee football – and somehow, I don’t think that’s it for this group that is wandering around in the bowels of Florida.

ME: “Can I help ya’ll?”
THEM: “Yeah. We want to return these posts.”
ME: “Fence posts? We don’t sell fence posts.”
THEM: “No. Your stories.” Oh. You mean the ones I wrote? The ones you didn’t write? The ones you didn’t create? The ones you didn’t put out there?
ME: “What’s wrong with them?”
THEM: “We don’t like them.” Cause nobody like nothing they get for free.

ME: “Oh.”
THEM: “Yeah.”
ME: “What specifically was wrong with them?” Other than the fact that no one likes change?
THEM: “Did you really intend to regurgitate this same story all week long, but in a different style each time?” Yep. That’s pretty much what I said I was going to do. Yeah. One story, five times.

ME: Speechless. Realizing at this point that I have never misjudged something so badly in all my life. My first boyfriend. My second girlfriend. Any decision. Ever. In the entire history of time. This ranks right up there with Little Bighorn or the decision to invade Russia in the winter.

THEM: “Well, when we first started reading, you were kinda funny. We liked you then. The first few posts were fine. But the last ones in our RSS reader really sucked. They sucked hard. They sucked like a Lewinsky-bot. We want to return them. We didn’t hardly read them. They have the html tags on them and everything.”
ME: “But see, you did read them. I can’t give you money back on something you already read.” And you read it for free. Didn’t even click on my ads now did you?

THEM: “The posts didn’t look good – especially that Jane Austen mess. And don’t get us started on Gabriel Garcia Marquez and that priestess wench. We want some cash back. Right now.”
ME: “Well, do you got a receipt.”
THEM: “Naw man. We read it online. Books are so like last century.”
ME: “Well, you can’t have cash back without a receipt.”
THEM: “No. That is not acceptable. These posts were NOT ACCEPTABLE. It crashed my browser and I DEMAND MY CASH BACK!”

ME: “Look. Ya'll got them for free. On the Internet. And you don’t have a receipt.” Why are you complaining? If you hated it, wait a week. It changes, like the weather.
THEM: “I demand to speak with an editor immediately.”
ME: “I write it. I edit it. And you’re going to have to deal with it.”
THEM: “I still want a refund. And some free hosting for my trouble.”

ME: “Like I said. It was free. I can’t refund something you got for free.” This isn’t Wal-Mart. I’m not a spineless jellyfish of a manager. You can and will be getting the big N-O as an answer.
THEM: “Do you realize how long I’ve been reading here?”
ME: “And?” I realize you care. You care enough about me to leave hateful troll comments imploring me to stop even though I was clearer than glass about the fact that this was a five-day experiment.

THEM: “If you won’t refund these crappy posts, I’m going to take you off my RSS feed.”
ME: “Thank you for your feedback. Would you like a comment card?” When you’re done, drop them in that round can with the plastic Hefty bag inside. Please. Yes. Do take me off your RSS. If you're reading me on RSS, you’re not giving me ad impressions. And if you really dislike my writing enough to leave me a venomous comment, I’m not so sure I want you around anyway.
THEM: “This is stupid. If you want to keep your readers, stop it.” Don't drink too much of that there haterade now!
ME: “Thank you for your feedback, would you also like a comment card?”

THEM: “But we’re important. We are your readers. We demand to be heard.”
ME: “That’s right. I’m listening. I’ll never do anything like this again.” I SWEAR BY THE MANY ARMS OF SHIVA THAT I WILL NEVER DO ANOTHER TRIBUTE POST AS LONG AS I AM ALIVE. McDonald’s could take a lesson from me. Stick to what you know.

THEM: “I'll be back next week when things have hopefully gotten back to normal.”
ME: “You do that.”
THEM: “So we’re cool then? Can we get back to normal now?”
ME: “I guess so.”
THEM: “Good. But let that be a warning. Don’t stray from the path again.”
ME: “I can't deny the fact that you hate me, right now, you hate me.”

Regular posting resumes Sunday or Monday. And we have another guest post this week. Thank you for all your comments, emails and diatribes. Even if you hated it. ☺

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Hollywood

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 04:01:00 +0000

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Stephen King

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Thu, 01 Nov 2007 04:09:00 +0000

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as if written by Stephen King.
Previously: Jane Austen | Old Testament | Gabriel Garcia Marquez | What's going on

The last thin rays of the feeble winter sunlight shone off the gleaming glass doors of the suburban mega-store. The black asphalt parking lot seemed to stretch on for miles.

George Wilson shuddered, pulled the edges of his leather bomber jacket closer and tried not to think how the thousands of rows of straight lines of painted parking spaces resembled teeth in the mouth of a giant parking lot monster – and how far he was going to have to walk right down the middle of those rows of teeth to reach the doors.

“Nothing to do but start walking,” he thought.

“MISTER, HEY MISTER, LOOK OUT.” George could hear the screaming somewhere behind him. He broke from his reverie and looked back just in time to lunge to the side and avoid a whole line of shopping carts that had broken free of their machine and taken off, as if with a mind of their own, across the lot toward him. CRASH

Someone with a black Honda Accord was going to be very unhappy very soon.

“Hey, are you OK Mister? Them carts get loose sometimes. We tie a rope around them but sometimes it comes loose.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I just need to return something.”

“OK then. I’m real sorry Mister.”

George considered his narrow escape, gritted his teeth and continued walking.

Upon reaching the entrance, George was struck by how monolithic the building was, how it dominated the landscape around it, how it seemed to exert an inexorable pull on the shoppers to enter the maw of the sliding doors and spend, spend, spend.

Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. George watched in fascination as the automatic doors slid open, then closed. Open. Closed. Three of them side by side by side – like the triple heads of hell hound Cerberus – devouring the livelihoods of all those who dared enter.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

Once inside the triple doors, George saw that it was yet a few more yards to the actual entrance, where a blue-smock-clad worker stood guard over the store, murmuring to the oncoming swarm, tagging the people coming in and verifying the paper of the few able to scrape together the cripplingly penurious fees required to exit the mega-store.

It’s like the gullet on a creature from the deepest hells, George thought, you pass through the mouth and slide down right through to the stomach.

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG. George nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of yet more carts coming into the store. The sound brought to mind the gnashing of teeth, or the grinding of jaws of some inhuman monster of the dark gnawing the bones of the unwary.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

George lurches forward, drawing his jacket tighter about him. The blue-smocked worker begins to speak and George decides to strike first, before any destructive spell can be cast. “I JUST WANT TO RETURN THIS.”

The worker looks taken aback, but nods and shoots a sticker from her gun onto the pack of playing cards in George’s hand and points toward the Customer Service counter further down the store.

Taking a deep breath, George steps onto the shiny white tile surface and into the cacophony of aural, visual and olfactory pollution that is a suburban mega-store.

The assault on his senses was deafening in every way.

The bright florescent lights shone down from above, from points perched somewhere in the cavernous ceiling and only slightly less strong beams splashed back up again from below, reflected off the shining white floor.

The noise threatened to deafen him. A thousand beeps from dozens of cash registers. Shrieks from babies, screams from wronged customers, cries of hapless employees and the endless drone of buggies sliding across the floor combined to dull the senses and cloud the mind.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

George jerked himself forward with effort, lunging toward the Customer Service counter. It was a predictable chaos. A double wedge of buggies sat like stone gargoyles guarding (or confining, George wondered) a single harried clerk.

There was a rogue’s gallery of customers with a white elephant selection of merchandise waiting for a return. Dead rosebushes. A watermelon. A live chicken.

One of the buggies standing guard reared up on its back two wheels and edged closer to the chicken, causing the crone with the chicken to deliver a hard smack with her staff.

George wondered if he had slipped past sanity into a waking dream. Surely he had not seen a live chicken nearly be devoured by a shopping cart – only to be fought off by a witch.

He shook his head and looked again. There was an old woman in a cornflower-blue pants suit holding a cane and white sweater folded over one arm. George could see that she had craft supplies, likely skeins of wool – in her shopping bag.

The line edged forward. George could hear the clerk talking to customers now. “Return or exchange?” “Sign here. PLEASE HELP ME! DELIVER THIS MESSAGE TO SOMEONE OUT ON THE FLOOR.”

George looked up, but a middle-aged woman returning some shoes was only signing her return receipt. It must be the ventilators causing George to hear things. “That’s it,” George thought. “I bet a place like this has huge air ducts. I’m just hearing the pipes rattling.”

The line inched forward. The man at the counter was arguing about returning a pack of pinochle cards. Although old, he appeared to George’s eyes to be perfectly healthy. He wasn’t in a wheelchair and had obviously walked from the parking lot to the store and into Customer Service without the aid of so much as a cane.

The clerk was becoming visibly frustrated. “Sir, I can’t go out and look for you a new pack of cards just because you want me to. There are many other people in line. It isn’t fair to make them wait because you don’t want to walk thirty feet over to Register 15 to get a new pack.”

The old man was resolute. “I’m not moving. I’m old and I’m tired.”

In his eagerness to hear the unfolding drama, George did not notice store employees adding more carts to the dozens already lining the walls of the Customer Service bay. The harried clerk finally snapped in his argument with the crotchety old man, slapped his hands down on the counter and said, “Look. You’re just going to have to wait. I’ve got to call someone to come help me out. I can’t make all these people wait because you’re old and stupid.”

Inwardly, George cheered. He saw the clerk pick up the telephone to dial for assistance and then saw a look of sheer terror mask the features of the clerk’s face. George turned and saw only three more employees adding yet more carts to the area surrounding Customer Service.

Carts now surrounded customers on all sides. Anyone wanting to return something had to pick their way through shopping buggies with all the care taken by soldiers picking their way through a minefield.

George thought this was rather careless and inconsiderate of the employees, but realized this was a low-wage, low-training dumping ground for the least well able to function of society’s wage slaves. He renewed his resolve never to shop here again after returning the items in his hand.

The line edged forward. A young mother with a toddler in an infant stroller and shopping bags hung off the handles rolled up to the counter. “I’d like to return my daughter, please.”

The harried clerk nodded unhappily.

George recoils in shock and shakes his head sure that he’s heard wrong. He looks again sees only that the woman has taken the child out of its stroller because it is crying and sat it on the counter. She is fishing for something in a shopping bag. “That must be her return,” thought George. “I really need to get my ears checked.”

The child began to howl louder. The screams covered up the sounds of the grinding of wheels as the buggies in the area began to push closer, trying to completely encircle the area around Customer Service.

Customers in the main store area were completely oblivious. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. THAT RANG UP WRONG. SCAN. BAG. DISCOUNT. COUPON. SCREAM. YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. YOU SQUASHED MY BREAD. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. I WANT A MANAGER.

George swept his gaze side to side. The entire Customer Service bay was a mass of buggies. It seemed like half the merchandise of the store was here instead of on the shelves.

Were the buggies edging closer? George didn’t want to believe it, but he didn’t remember that rusty cart with the wonky wheel from five minutes ago. It must be the heat. These big box stores never have good heating systems he told himself.

Up ahead, George could hear the clerk asking “Ma’am, do you have a receipt for this baby?” George dug his finger into ears in an effort to clear a non-existent blockage, desperate to believe that he simply didn’t hear the word “outfit” on the edge of that sentence. The child was starting to calm down now, although the mother seemed to be getting more emotional.

“We just can’t afford it,” George heard her tell the clerk. “We work all day and still can’t afford another one. Can I return the stroller and the diapers too?”

“If you have a receipt,” George heard the clerk say begrudgingly.

George thought to himself, “I hope I’m never that poor that I have to return baby clothes.

“Ma’am. This receipt is from last July. The return period on babies is 15 days. You’ve had little Carrie here for eight months. I’m sorry, but we can’t take her back.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WON’T TAKE HER BACK. I’VE GOT A RECEIPT. SHE’S IN GOOD CONDITION. YOU WILL TAKE HER BACK. I WANT A MANAGER RIGHT NOW.”

The clerk leaned over the counter. “Ma’am. Seriously. You need to calm down. Bad things will happen.”

“I’M NOT GOING TO CALM DOWN. I WANT MY MONEY BACK FOR THIS SHITTY BABY THAT SHITS ALL THE DAMN TIME AND DOESN’T EVEN TALK YET AND YOU’RE GOING TO GIVE IT TO ME.”

George couldn’t believe he was hearing this. He looked straight ahead, transfixed by the scene that was playing out. Then he heard a cluck-cluck. It was a chicken. The old woman in front of him really DID have a chicken.

She was talking to George. “Dearie. Dearie. I say dearie. You need to pay more attention. We need to back up. There’s about to be a scene here. Can’t you see the buggy-horde getting ready to attack? Dearie? You don’t’ look so well.”

The buggy-horde. It was real. It was very real. What was once a pack of purchase conveyances was now a metal mass of grinding wheels and razor-sharp teeth transformed instantly into a living, breathing killing machine.

“But …” George sputtered. “But what about …”

“Come dearie. We’ll go over to the café and have a coffee. The old man and the mother are history. Once they start to make a scene they’re a goner. There’s nothing you can do. Those are the rules of the returns at the House of the Wahl. Satan is a manager. Hitler works in grocery. Now. Can you hold my chicken? I need to clear a path through the buggy-horde.”

Wordlessly George reached out to grab the chicken’s feet. The old woman brandished her cane with the skill of a hockey pro, sweeping a path through the ravenous metal creatures.

Behind him, George began to hear screams. First a loud wail from the mother, then a high, thin scream from the old man with the pinochle cards. The screams continued for a while, then nothing.

The next thing George heard was the tired, oh-so-tired voice of the clerk “Maintenance to Customer Service with a blow torch and a mop. Maintenance to Customer Service with a blow torch and a mop.”

Welcome to the House of the Wahl. Do you have your receipt?

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Gabriel Garcia Marquez

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 04:01:00 +0000

Dirty Old Man: In the style of the Old Testament

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 05:40:00 +0000

So nobody liked Jane Austen. Seventy-four percent of poll respondents (92 of the 124 voters) hated it. Would it have been any better if I said "In the style of a Harlequin Romance?" Moving on.

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as written in the style of the Old Testament. (what's going on this week)

IN THE BEGINNING ...... Sam Walton saw that Wal-Mart was good. He created the florescent lighting. He created the hard tile floors. He created the Chinese laborers to create the poisonous merchandise. He created the Tire, the Lube and the Express. Finally, he created Man, for without man (and woman), the cash registers could not ring and bring bountiful tithes into the great and glorious temples that were the House of the Wal.

And unto Sam Walton was born Wal-Mart #1.

And Wal-Mart #1 lived for many years and begat Wal-Mart #2.

Wal-Mart was fruitful and multiplied.

Wal-Mart #2903 begat Sam's Club #1, which fed Egypt, Syria and Nubia throughout the lean years of the plague.

Wal-Mart was faithful to the teaching of their lord Sam. Once, during the battle of Piggly-Wiggly, Sam Walton prayed "My lord, I beg of you, lower thine prices so that we may continue to discount yet another day." The Lord of Low Prices complied and the Wal-Mart warriors slaughtered a host of cashiers from the retailer-states of Piggly-Wiggly, Freds and Kmart.

Wal-Mart was fruitful and multiplied.

Wal-Mart #3906 begat the Wal-Mart Supercenter, which in turn begat poisoned meat, shoddy Chinese goods and poor customer service to the masses.

The setting? Jerusalem, specifically a trading post in a marketplace in Old City.

MAN RETURNING CARDS: “And it be told thee, and thou hast heard [of it], and enquired diligently, and, behold, [it be] true, [and] the thing certain, [that] such abomination is wrought in the Wal-Mart.” Deuteronomy 17:14 I NEED HELP

WORKER: "Have all the gifts of healing? do all speak with tongues? do all interpret?" 1 Corinthians 12:30 WHAT DO YOU WANT?

CARD MAN: "I have therefore brought an oblation for the Lord, what every man hath gotten, of jewels of gold, chains, and bracelets, rings, earrings, and tablets, to make an atonement for our souls before the Lord." Numbers 31:50 I GOT SOME STUFF HERE!

WORKER: "Then let him count the years of the sale thereof, and restore the overplus unto the man to whom he sold it; that he may return unto his possession." Leviticus 25:27 DO YOU WANT TO RETURN IT?

CARD MAN: "Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but [there is] no judgment." Job 19:7 I GOT THE WRONG THING.

WORKER: "Then shalt thou enquire, and make search, and ask diligently; and, behold, [if it be] truth, [and] the thing certain, [that] such abomination is wrought among you;" Deuteronomy 13:14 GO TO REGISTER 15 AND LOOK FOR IT!

CARD MAN: "I beseech thee, O Clerk, remember now how I have walked before thee in truth and with a perfect heart, and have done [that which is] good in thy sight." 2 Kings, 20:3 I DON'T WANT TO GO. I WALKED A LONG WAY. DO IT FOR ME!

WORKER: "And your strength shall be spent in vain: for your land shall not yield her increase, neither shall the trees of the land yield their fruits." Leviticus 26:20 YOU WALKED IN HERE. CAN’T YOU WALK 15 MORE FEET?

CARD MAN: "That the aged men be sober, grave, temperate, sound in faith, in charity, in patience." Letters to Titus 2:2 OLD PEOPLE DESERVE RESPECT

WORKER: "Great men are not [always] wise: neither do the aged understand judgment." Job 32:9 OLD PEOPLE SUCK HARDER

CARD MAN: "And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that ye may look upon it, and remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them; and that ye seek not after your own heart and your own eyes, after which ye use to go a whoring:" Numbers 15:39 I WANT IT. GO GET IT. NOW. OR I’M GOING TO GET A MANAGER UP IN HERE.

WORKER: "So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness, and found no water." Exodus 15:22 I WALKED 26 STEPS TO REGISTER 15 AND PICKED UP A PACK OF PLAYING CARDS.

CARD MAN: "Therefore I will give thanks unto thee, O Lord, among the heathen, and I will sing praises unto thy name." 2 Samuel 22:50 THAT’S RIGHT. GET IT. GET IT. GET IT. I WILL OFFER INSINCERE THANKS.

WORKER: "But even after that we had suffered before, and were shamefully entreated, as ye know, at Philippi, we were bold in our God to speak unto you the gospel of God with much contention." 1 Thessalonians 2:2 UH HUH. YOU TREAT ME BAD OLD MAN AND IT DON'T MATTER TO YOU!

CARD MAN: "And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more." Genesis 8:12 IS THAT ALL? I BEEN HERE ALL DAY

WORKER: "And the Lord said unto Moses, Write thou these words: for after the tenor of these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel." Exodus 34:27 SIGN THE REFUND SLIP YOU OLD CUSS

CARD MAN: "But bade them farewell, saying, I must by all means keep this feast that cometh in Jerusalem: but I will return again unto you, if God will. And he sailed from Ephesus." Acts 18:21 I’M GOING TO LEAVE NOW.

WORKER: "And if he smite him with an instrument of iron, so that he die, he [is] a murderer: the murderer shall surely be put to death." Numbers 35:15 I FEEL SOME SMITING COMING ON!

Much credit goes to biblelookup.com. Your source for verses on the go!

Yesterday's post, the much-maligned Jane Austen.

In the style of: What's going on

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 04:13:00 +0000

We're continuing to shake things up this week. I'm going to write one post five times - each time in the style of a famous writer or a famous style of writing. And no, one of them will not be LOLcat. We're kicking things off with Jane Austen.

I've also added a video comment area over on the right sidebar. Those of you with webcams can leave me a video comment.

I've also decided to start accepting submissions for guest posts. You can EMAIL ME or or click the "send me an email" link over on the right to send your literary genius my way. Wal-Mart workers much preferred. Further details available upon submission. Please be aware that no guest posts will go live until at least next week.

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Jane Austen

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 04:10:00 +0000

Five Finger Fridays, V.13.0

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 16:46:00 +0000

Because the Wal-martians got to steal to stay alive! Why pay when it is free for the taking? Sorry this week's theft report is late. I got issues too, you know.

-- a package of Head-On migraine relief pills
-- four weightlifting gloves
-- a three-watt LED flashlight
-- a pair of craft scissors
-- three packages of iron-on letters
-- "Dogz" for the GameBoy Advance
-- a 1 gig Kodak memory card (lordy, do the white trash even know what TO DO with a memory card? It ain't to help you pass a test!)
-- a package of Midol
-- four Chain Reactions key rings
-- a box of the Shania Twain perfume
-- a "Rainbow Adventure" DVD (for the budding homosexual shoplifter)
-- a Sony 2 gig memory stick (again, do you EVEN KNOW what to do with these?)
-- two "Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer" DVDs
-- the hottest CD of the season - "Salsa and Cumbia Party Fuente All-Stars"
-- a tube of Neutrogena Blemish treatment (oh, but how will you treat the blemish on your SOUL!)
-- Rohto redness relief (file under random, WTF, are you crazy?)
-- a SkilSaw blade
-- a tube of Vicks VapoRub
-- four, count 'em four tubes of ScarZone with Green Tea extract (is there a hot market for this?)
-- an Ana Barbara CD
-- a pack of Advil Liquigels (no doubt to soothe the pain of standing on your feet shoplifting all day.)
-- a pack of titanium drill bits
-- a weight belt (this is big. And it just walked right out of the store. Our people are as dumb as sh**.)
-- a whole damn tube of Monistat3 (Seriously girlfriend. If you got the issues *down there* - you need to get to a clinic or something. Stolen goods from the House of Wal might not clear up your little problem. And do you really trust pharmaceuticals from a place that sells lead-lined toys to children? Didn't think so.)
-- a package of X-Large men's briefs
-- a pack of Revlon Colorstay lip gloss in Timeless Nude (color is better girls. Trust me. Save the nude for the bedroom. Or Playboy.)
-- a bottle of Robitussin DM

Cheetah Cheeto Momma and the computer that wouldn't turn on

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 19:50:00 +0000

We're changing things up today. The raw material for today's story of unacceptable customer stupidity, fashion tragedies, howler monkey mayhem and Wal-Martian managerial prowess comes from a reader and fellow Wal-Mart associate - Blue-Vested Canary - who sends dispatches from the frozen northlands of Canada. Many thanks.

As originally told to bbcamerican by Blue-Vested Canary. All flights of fancy, literary inventions and mistakes herein and forthwith are mine.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My job thrills me. Seriously. Like how taking plunging your hand into a vat of boiling oil is “thrilling.” Me? I’d rather shove bamboo skewers laced with the toxins of a thousand blowfish under my fingernails than deal with the morons that waddle through the doors of the Wal-Mart.

My jobs today included running a regular register, trying to stop the rampant theft at the self-checkouts and covering breaks at the Service Desk – which is where all the fun began.

L’il Miss Fashion Tragedy Wal-Mart Barbie rolls up wearing a giraffe-print shirt paired with a cheetah print blazer. That’s too much print for a newspaper. Let alone the African savannah! Whole herds of bushmen would run in horror.

She’s got the Wal-Mart howler monkey special shopping cart – built with two child seats behind the buggy – and her version comes complete with two clinging howler monkeys. Now available at walmart.com and Wal-Mart stores nationwide!

Cheetah Cheeto Momma has a computer she wants to return, allegedly because it won’t turn on. Probably because your bratty monsters spilled a cup of juice, some cereal and a gallon of aquarium water on it.

She clunks the computer up on the desk and I ask for a receipt.

Cheetah Cheeto Momma looks right at me and bluntly says “I ain’t got none of my receipts for here.”

I look back, trying mightily not to make a comment on her furry fashion faux pas, and inform her that we’re not taking the computer back without a receipt.

She growls with a scream worthy of any predator. Maybe that’s how she landed a babydaddy? There’s a grunting vocalization of some sort and then “What kind of f****** place don’t take returns?” My guess? Any place you ~~steal~~ shop at on a regular basis.

Anywho. I ask if maybe she’s got the receipt at home or in the car or secreted in a hidden pocket on her handbag. (Thank God the handbag wasn’t in a zebra print or twenty-seven outraged Luo tribesmen would have jumped out and speared her to death right then and there.)

She said she'd go check. And she left.

WITHOUT HER FREAKING HOWLER MONKEYS.

This insane Cheetah Cheeto Momma just walked away from Customer Service for four minutes (which felt like forever) and left her children running around inside the House of Wal.

I should have called the police.

When she gets back, she’s waving a piece of paper that – MY STARS – resembles a receipt.

Turns out the receipts is from last December. Eleven months ago. This woman’s computer pre-dates the Britney Spears meltdown, resurrection and post-resurrection VMA meltdown.

I calmly explain (while trying not to be distracted by the cheetah spots) that Wal-Mart will not be taking the computer back. It was after the 15-day return period (well after) and the manufacturer would be able to assist her on repairing her machine.

That, of course, was unacceptable to Cheetah Cheeto Momma. She wants a manager (and some fashion sense).

Management orders me to take it back. Before I do, I open the box, inspect the computer and decide to plug it in – because she said it wouldn’t even turn on.

Whir lights powers on Lord love a duck, it powered on. Windows XP opened up and right there, on her desktop, staring back at me with their grubby little faces, were her two little demon spawn.

The terror in her eyes was magnificent.

I packed it back up and sent her on her way.

Thank you for our attempted scamming at the House of Wal. K thx bai.

This man, he returned a lot of shirts

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 04:40:00 +0000

Generally, I'm pretty much down with people returning clothes. It's the Wal-Mart. It is not a high-fashion type of place where you can send sales clerks out for twenty-seven different variations of a pink blouse in a large and then ask "Does this make me look fat." Chances are, if you're shopping for fashion at the House of Wal, you're not a discriminating shopper in the first place. Grab and go. That's the motto.

Anyway. Probably 4 out of five of the clothing returns we get come back with the tags still attached. Most of the rest at least come back with the tags after they've been cut off to try on, or because they were given as gifts. The one in ten that don't come back with any sort of tags usually look like they've been through wreck on the turnpike and then used to make a tourniquet. And then worn out to a rave with a Zombie Bloodbath Bash theme the next night.

Every now and again, we get back used undergarments and ladies intimates. I've actually taken back swim trucks that made me think I was at the beach - they smelled so strongly of ocean water, beach sand and salt. I swear to Kali we were about thirty seconds from hanging ten with Kelly Slater up at my counter.

My point. I had one. Somewhere. Right.

This man brings up a buggy full of white. At first I thought it was sheets or maybe a comforter, because people do that - unpack sheets and are then completely unable to get the stuff back in the package. Oh no, it was shirts. Lots and lots of shirts.

White cotton button-down dress shirts. The ultra-cheap Wal-Mart $17.64 type. FIFTEEN OF THEM. Not one. Not two. FIFTEEN. QUINCE.

These shirts are sold in sealed plastic packages. None of these shirts had packages. None of them. He throws the wad of shirts up on the counter and I start counting. I ask him "Are all these the same?" The answer is the affirmative. I start counting. We get up to fifteen and my mind boggles.

And he has a receipt. A receipt from a week ago no less. I'm screaming to ask "What the hell do you do with fifteen white cheap faux cotton dress shirts in a week? What the hell?"

Thankfully, he supplies the answer without me having to ask.

"I bought all of these and took them straight to the dry cleaner. I didn't notice they were long-sleeved. I wanted short sleeves."

I'm pressing [REPEAT LAST ITEM] and then [ENTER] on my touchscreen fourteen times while he's talking. When he says dry cleaner I pause. Surely this man is not taking Wal-Mart shirts to the dry cleaner.

But then he confirms my worst fears.

"I dry clean all my clothes before I wear them. When I picked them up from the cleaners, that was when I noticed the long sleeves." You sir, have too much money.

So, load them up into the car and drive all fifteen freshly chemically treated shirts straight back to the House of Wal for your $280.48 (complete with tax) back.

I can understand cleaning your clothes.

I can understand buying the wrong shirt - maybe not FIFTEEN of them, but I can understand buying the wrong shirt.

I can certainly understand washing anything you buy at Wal-Mart before wearing it.

I can MAYBE understand dry cleaning your House of Wal garments. I mean, they DO come from the House of Wal.

This man, I do not get. Not in any way, shape or form.

A new low

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 01:46:00 +0000

We have now reached a new low. Someone manage to BREAK one of the toilet seats in the mens' loo. Not the hinge. One of the arms.

Either fat or force. Either is terrifying. Why Kali why? Was it then taken as a token of the destruction?

My porcelain. Let me show you it.

Black Thumb the Pirate

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 01:31:00 +0000

By the power of Grayskull, I have now seen it all. All. There is no more to see. Removeth mine eyes and fill the empty sockets with tulip bulbs.

I cringe at the sight of dead plants. In the first place, I hate the fact that people are supporting Wal-Mart instead of a proper nursery, one that might actually help them keep the poor things alive. Then, I dread the inevitable collection of dirt, dead leaves and sometimes bugs that will soon be scattered across my counter. Or the hunt for a UPC if they don't have a receipt.

This woman Sunday took the cake. Not only did she return nine - count 'em, NINE - plants, she returned everything she used to ~~grow~~ kill the plants as well.

It boggles the mind.

I'm returning four pairs of shoes for a woman (all the wrong size) when I look up and see a buggy of dead plants. Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I probably groaned too, because the Carrie Bradshaw-wannabe I was helping turned around, looked and then turned back and around and went "Oh, wow. They're dead." to her totally-not-Samantha-but-still-a-ho friend.

Dead doesn't even begin to describe these plants. Think last week's salad - with a dash of the Sahara thrown in for good measure. The woman was the basic Midwestern retiree type that flocks to Florida. Yellow shorts, blue T-shirt, sun visor. Spotless white shoes. Right there, that was a clue. How many gardeners have you ever seen with even one pair of white shoes? Much less clean ones.

Not-Carrie and Samantha-bot leave. Black Thumb pulls up to the counter and begins unloading her cargo of slain chlorophyll. I grab a metaphorical pair of hedge clippers and wade in.

She's got five, six, seven, eight, NINE clods of very dry dirt - roughly the size of a pot - attached to a stem and some leaves (Dieffenbachia, for those interested). These, she starts clunking down on the counter. "THESE" *clunk* dirt flies, "DIDN'T GROW" *clunk* more dirt "FOR ME." *clunk, clunk, clunk*

After the first three, when I realize she's intent on *clunking* out the entire litany of her failed botany experiment, I grab some Wal-mart bags and get her to put the science fair rejects in there instead. Hey, I care about the planet. I recycle!

Then, when I didn't think it was possible, it gets worse. UNDER the plants in her buggy, she's got the tools of the torturer. A half a bag of fertilizer, a hand-held spade, a hand-held trowel, a garden hose and a bottle of MiracleGro. ALL USED!

"You want to return all that?"

Of course you do.

The date on the receipt? September 29, 2007. Yes folks. Deader than Britney's career after the VMA's in just over three weeks. Impressive isn't it?

Want to play gardener? Come right on in to the House of Wal. We don't have any trained gardeners or people who know anything about plants. But we'll let you return your toys when you break them.

Five Finger Fridays: V.12.0

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 23:29:00 +0000

Faster than speeding Loss Prevention officer, able to leap Mart Carts in single bound, sworn to lie, cheat, steal and thieve with the audacity of any Enron official - THAT'S RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT! It's time for another edition of Five Finger Friday ya'll!

-- a "Grand Theft Auto San Andreas" video game (How effing appropriate!)
-- a SeaSense Bowlight
-- a 1 gig flash drive
-- a Dr. Scholl's Swedish file
-- four packages of Glade plug-ins (Why Kali why? Can your house possibly be that stinky?)
-- a pack of Koss ear buds
-- two pairs of earrings
-- a "Fantastic 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer" DVD
-- a set of Barbie Princess walkie talkies
-- a stick of Mitchum deodorant (found the wrapping in the bathroom)
-- a "28 Weeks Later" DVD
-- a HP 2 megapixel Webcam
-- a pack of OFF Deep Woods towelettes
-- a "Luxor 2" CD game (I hope these mummies be cursing these thieves.)
-- a bottle of ANTONIO by Antonio Banderas cologne (Um. OK. Whatever. I love the smell of pilfer in the morning.)
-- a copy of "The Reaping" on DVD. (No taste in cinema. NONE AT ALL!)
-- a Los Grey's "Linea de Oro" CD
-- a two-bagger of Vicente Fernandez CD's; "Living Legend" and "El Hijo de Pueblo"
-- a godforsaken Spongebob Squarepants Wii game, "Kreature from the Krusty Krab" - Someone please harvest this sponge, dry it, soak it in dish detergent and use it to wash a sink full of crusty pots and pans. Please!
-- Jamie Foxx's alleged return to serious acting, "Redemption" on DVD
-- National Lampoon's "Pucked" on DVD (Hands up if you knew this even existed. Jon Bon Jovi was in this hot mess! For reals.)
-- "Transformers" on DVD. I'm an AutoBots girl all the way, but I still love the scene from the cartoon where Megatron turns into a big honking pistol.
-- some more Alli (must be time for refill. Don't forget the toilet paper and adult diapers.)
-- some more Glade Plug-Ins, in lavender and vanilla flavors
-- a big box of Queen Anne cordial cherries
-- a combination lock (the better to guard your stolen stuff, I presume?)
-- a package of Fashion Express fake nails and nail art
-- a Disney Magical Light-Up neclkace and matching bracelet
-- and finally, some piece of probably deserved-to-be-stolen, direct-to-DVD movie, "Da Block Party 2" - (Who in Chaka Khan's name watch's this stuff? For real. At least there's a character named Kanisha. You know she can sling the ghetto up in here. Don't mess wid Kanisha. Dat heffa wul cut you up!)

I let my man sleep with another woman

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 04:02:00 +0000

What I love more than anything else about working at the House of Wal is the fascinating peek I get behind the socio-economic curtain of the lives of the people who shop there. And who really seem to live there.

Case in point. This female (not yet a woman) comes up to Customer Service on Saturday morning. Thankfully it was fairly quiet at the time. She’s wearing a pair of pajama bottoms with flaming eight-balls blazoned all over them and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. Her shirt reads “So Much Work To Do – So Few People To Do It For Me.” She is in such desperate need of a bra that I seriously consider going to buy her one out of my pocket. I just can’t handle the distraction of those gigantic deflated soccer balls banging around in my face.

She’s toting a tiny baby in filthy romper. No shoes and the diaper looks to be full. Very full. sniff, sniff Yep. Very, very full.

She needs the phone book.

Apparently, she was having the battery replaced on her car and “accidentally” left her purse, wallet and credit cards at home when she decided to run out to Wal-Mart for a new battery. Uh-huh. Because I always go to Wal-Mart with a eight-month-old baby, no diapers and no purse.

So now she’s got to call someone (never did hear who) at their work to bring her some money so she can get the car out of hock so SHE can go to work. Because she’s already late for work. Because the car wouldn’t start. And she’s got to go home and take a shower. And drop the baby off at somebody’s.

She hollers on the phone for a while. I hear the phrase “Well, can’t you just ride the bike over here?” Kali on a crutch – don’t they have any working cars?

She seems satisfied, because she bangs the phone down and settles down on the bench to wait. Of course, she turns out to be a talker and the baby turns out to be a howler, so she winds up wandering around Customer Service trying to keep the child quiet.

During the twenty minute wait, while I’m trying to clean out buggies of returns left me by the overnight staff – and listening to her howler screech with glee at Halloween costumes – she drops all these nuggets.

1. “Yeah. My baby dirty. She had a banana for dinner last night. It was kind of black, but she ate it anyway.” Good parenting never goes out of style.
2. “It was never the same after I let my man sleep with that other girl.” She repeated this one several times. It was clearly an issue, even if she protested that it wasn't. It kept finding its way back into the not-conversation we were NOT having.
3. “We had other women in our life, but not like that.” HOW WERE THEY IN YOUR LIFE BEFORE? As occasional furniture? Brunette coffee tables perhaps? Personally, I thought blonde was the IT color for lamps at PEOPLEKEA!
4. “I’m friends with both of them now.” Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.
5. “That other woman, she 18 now. I can’t get mad at my man for running off with her. He’s good to my baby now. We all live together.” What the hell? Is this a commune or just some seriously screwed up mess?
6. “We had this doll, about a foot tall. My baby likes to hump it. She love to hump that doll.” This baby gonna be trouble.
7. “We had to burn the doll. My man thought it was like Chucky or something. It would move around the house. When we burned it, it smelled like meat. And it didn’t look like plastic.” There was more - details about the "Chucky" doll and its adventures. I kept looking for Jennifer Tilly to show up or something.
8. “That doll, we got it from a homeless shelter. Some dude give it to us. Here, you want a doll?” Because accepting items from men at homeless shelters is ALWAYS a good plan.
9. “I’m late for work. But I’m not going to call them. I’m going to show them the receipt and tell them I was having car trouble.” Receipts from Wal-Mart. Your Get Out of Jail Free card for life!
10. “My baby love French fries, hash browns, tater tots, mashed potatoes. She don’t like baked potato. She like peas. Sweet peas. And beans. Whooo. She fart a lot too.”
11. “I give her milk, chocolate milk, juice and tea. She don’t get no soda.”
12. “I like Oprah.” Oprah. Her power extends even to the white trash masses.
13. “I got put in jail once. The police put me in because I threatened to kill myself when I was pregnant. You tell me. My man leaving me for some seventeen year old hooker and I’m all pregnant and stuff. You gonna be upset too.”
14. “My man leaves and I call the police. You better get over here or I’m gonna start cutting. So they locked me up for a week. I take pills now.” Can I have some? Please Shiva can I have some?

It was like staring into a gaping maw of meaningless mundanity. She wasn't really mean or evil or even particularly scammy - except for the fact that she somehow managed to forget her purse and the baby's diaper bag on a trip to Wal-Mart. (Found out later she offered to leave her house key as "collateral" if they'd let her drive home for the money. Uh huh.)

I don't really know how to describe her - other than .... sad. About twenty years old, uneducated, saddled with a child she clearly loves but is in no way prepared to deal with and going nowhere with her life.

Eventually, someone showed up with money. They went back to TLE. I never heard a call for management, so they must have paid and left. Vaya con dios flaming eight-ball pants lady. I hope your baby doesn't grow up to be a Vegas hooker.

The hills are alive with the sounds of white trash scamming

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 19:02:00 +0000

What with the economy being in the toilet and the construction industry in Florida being the toilet paper circling the drain of said toilet, the herds of free range white trash without educations or marketable job skills that extend beyond wielding a hammer are again roving the great Wal-prairies looking to scam.

The new thing seems to be buying items at thrift stores, charity shops or maybe pawn shops, then trying to return them at Wal-Mart. Not just clothes, but sometimes electronics. For all I know, they're rifling through the trash. Of course, this only works if you and the corn-fed sow in Daisy Dukes with her hands in your back pockets can keep the story straight.

OK. So I get a particularly lurvley white trash couple straight out of Central Casting. He's got on faded T-shirt that reads "The South Shall Rise Again" - with the sleaves ripped off and the sides cut off except for about an inch around the bottom hem - and jeans with about eight colors of paint and some motor oil thrown in for good measure. Boots that were made for mucking out a stable and the requisite Bud Light hat. From the neck down, maybe if I was slipped a roofie. From the neck up, *shudder* - alls I'm saying is - Future Proactive Spokesmodel-In-Training. Either way, he wasn't too bright.

The girlfriend had packed her considerable girth into a pair of cutoffs that would have made Daisy Duck, Daisy Buchanan, certainly Miss Daisy and probably Daisy Duke herself (Lord, Catherine Bach sure did pack on the pounds later in life) cry with shame and run for a cover-up. I forget what kind of top she had on. I just kept waiting for that one sad, overstressed button on the front of her pants to go and was trying to stay out of the way of it.
Anyway. They roll in with a SanDisk Sansa music player. JUST the player. No box, no cables, no headphones. Nothing. And of course no receipt.

I don't know what it is yet, so I ask them "That's how it came? No headphones?"

She says yes, he says no. "Well which is it?" I'm not very polite when it comes to scammers here lately. What are they gonna do? Call the cops? And apparently it magically doesn't come with headphones or any other accessories. What's that I smell? Scam? Or maybe weed. It was hard to tell over the B.O.

So I'm like "Exchange it, but no refund, no store credit, no nothing." And we're not even supposed to return MP3 players without a receipt period. That's actually one of the policies posted on the wall. But they'll whine and moan and get a manager .... which they eventually did ...

So an electronics associate walks a new one back up to Customer Service and asks me "Is this what you need? You know it's $148 right?" And then I notice it comes with a whole list of stuff: namely - AC charger/adaptor; USB cable; earphones; case; install CD and user guides.

I bust their "no headphones" story like a DUI cop with a quota on a Saturday night. It don't even make a difference because the shield of ignorance is so thick.

"Well this is how we got it." At the pawn shop, maybe. Or digging through the trash. But you ain't bought it like that at at no Wal-Mart on this continent.

I'm like "No. This is how we sell them."

"Well this is how we got ours. I want a manager." And I want birth control to be delivered in the water system.

Management didn't even bother with making the unsavory types "exchange" their "defective" player. They just refunded it onto a gift card and wished them on their merry way.

Which was probably the right wrong call in the end - give away the $148 plus tax and don't let them have another perfectly good unit to go pull the same stunt with again. Still, that's another few shekels down the tube tops. After a while, it starts to add up.

Wal-Mart - saving you zero cents every day!

noreply@blogger.com (sbuxdrama) — Sun, 14 Oct 2007 01:14:00 +0000

So the Consumerist has (rightfully) been all over the House of Wal for continually screwing up those ROLLBACK signs - you know, the ones that give a "before" and "after" price?

As you can see - the price of Fanta has dropped dramatically! A whole no cents! How's that whole Save Money! Live Better! thing working out for you? (on a side note, who does not love the Fantantas? Kiki, Lola, Capri, Sophia!)

Well, I was night-owling it this week because I was bored and actually broke one of my cardinal rules (Thou shalt not visit the Wal-Mart unless on the schedule!). Imagine my giddiness to see one a perfect Consumerist-ready photo - just waiting to happen!

And then there was the overnight assistant manager standing right behind the Fanta display just yapping up a storm to the overnight support manager - oblivious to the fact that their sign was very, very wrong.

I had to wait for them to move, then grab a quick photo with my phone.

I know how these things happen. Someone is totally not paying attention - and either prints out the wrong ROLLBACK price or puts the wrong actual price in the sign. Still. Even for our non-English-speaking workforce, I would have thought that numbers would be fundamental. How many episodes of "Pinball Number Count" do we need to recognize basic numbers here?