I am in the warehouse with a bunch of former military engineers. Naturally, the conversation turns to Die Hard, as warehouse conversations are wont to do. This quickly leads me into making an imaginary uzi, and shooting a co-worker.
"Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!" I sound, making the stuttering noise of a semi-automatic rifle that is, if I say so myself, scarily accurate.
Of course, he dodges, because he is a male, and therefore, able to dodge super-sonic bullets. I can't blame him, although really, I should have hit him, because I am a male, and therefore, unable to miss. Anyways, he draws two imaginary desert eagles (I suppose they could be glocks, but if we're gonna deal with imaginary guns, they should probably be cool imaginary guns, right?).
With his deagles, he proceeds to blast at the table I am hiding behind. "Bkchhsss! Bkchssss!" He says, scrunching his face up, Axl Rose style, while he makes the sounds. Of course, he doesn't hit, but that imaginary computer in front of me explodes in a cascade of imaginary sparks.
Another man rushes to my defence with a shotgun, letting out a loud "BOOM!" and then a cocking sound. He covers me while I run to cover, just as two more men rush into the fray on the other side. One sprays the area with AK-47 fire ("ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!") while the other seems to be working on some sort of shoulder-mounted rocket launcher which is sure to blow a hole in that imaginary wall behind me.
I will walk away from that explosion in slow motion.
It's looking bad. That rocket launcher is being loaded up, and I can hear Marc in the next room, supplying the "pings!" and "Chinks!" as imaginary bullets tear up the warehouse. And then, my compatriot comes to the rescue.
Jill comes out from behind cover, standing in the middle of the doorway like an easy target, and has some sort of derringer pistol which seems to consist of her thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker's along with a pointy-finger... the ol' "Finger-Banger". She points this puny pistol at the rocket-man, and begins firing.
"Pew! Pew!"
Silence rains in the warehouse, the only sound being that of imaginary sparks firing off a broken screen and phantasmal flames lapping at spilled diesel on the floor. The combatants all look at each other, and then put down their arms.
"Girls don't know how to make sound effects," Rocket man says.
Another man holsters his desert eagles. "Did anyone watch that football game last night?"
"I miss my kids," the assault rifler says, strolling out of the room, shaking his head as he looks at Jill's pistol, still in her hand.
Jill looks at me, but I'm trying to avoid eye contact. "What'd I do?" She asks.
I shake my head and get back to work.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Strange times.
Two of my co-workers were talking about a guy that works in the meat department. They were singing his praises:
"Julian is such a nice guy. He did my clean-ups for me, without even being asked!"
"I know, he's the best. He's always willing to do favours for you."
"And he's a great conversationalist. Always willing to listen."
"Last week, I left my wallet at home, and he lent me some money so I could pick up a lunch."
And so on, and so forth. I didn't say anything. I just worked over in my side of the deli, slicing turkey and serving customers. I don't deal well with my "serious" co-workers, mostly because they take everything I say too damned seriously. And, like a serial killer who wants it all to end but can't do it, I don't know how to stop myself.
"Hey, Dave, what do you think of Julian?"
I winced. Ask Dave an honest question, and he'll give you a complete bullshit answer, mostly because he's bored. "Well, I'm not a huge fan of him."
"Oh?" I could hear my co-worker's eyebrows raise up - hell, you could hear that shit from space. Saying you don't like Julian is like saying you voted conservative, or that you think Carrottop is actually kind of funny - it's the shitty skid mark in the world of conversational flounders. "Why not?"
I briefly consider fessing up that, actually, I think Julian is a pretty cool guy. But then I realize that would mean I agreed with my serious co-workers. And I'm a firm believer in that old Groucho Marx bit about never joining clubs that would let me in, yadda yadda yadda.
Naturally, when it comes to shit like this, I pull the hipster card. "Would you believe that idiot thinks that The Suburbs is a better Arcade Fire album than Funeral? And he thinks Sheer Heart Attack is a better Queen album than The Game?"
There is a long pause. "I don't think that's a good reason to dislike someone, Dave."
"Have you listened to Sheer Heart Attack? How can you trust someone who has listened to both Queen albums and doesn't think The Game is categorically better? It'd be like trusting an alcoholic to be your designated driver."
There is another long pause. And an awkward silence. "Personal taste can't be judged."
FYI: People who say that have a record collection that is filled with ABBA, Lionel Ritchie, Meat Loaf, and Creed. Personal taste can be judged. Mercilessly.
Naturally, I say the only thing I could in this sort of situation: "That's only what people with crappy taste say."
I have to say... it's fun messing with my serious co-workers.
In unrelated news, my hours got cut back.
Again.
"Julian is such a nice guy. He did my clean-ups for me, without even being asked!"
"I know, he's the best. He's always willing to do favours for you."
"And he's a great conversationalist. Always willing to listen."
"Last week, I left my wallet at home, and he lent me some money so I could pick up a lunch."
And so on, and so forth. I didn't say anything. I just worked over in my side of the deli, slicing turkey and serving customers. I don't deal well with my "serious" co-workers, mostly because they take everything I say too damned seriously. And, like a serial killer who wants it all to end but can't do it, I don't know how to stop myself.
"Hey, Dave, what do you think of Julian?"
I winced. Ask Dave an honest question, and he'll give you a complete bullshit answer, mostly because he's bored. "Well, I'm not a huge fan of him."
"Oh?" I could hear my co-worker's eyebrows raise up - hell, you could hear that shit from space. Saying you don't like Julian is like saying you voted conservative, or that you think Carrottop is actually kind of funny - it's the shitty skid mark in the world of conversational flounders. "Why not?"
I briefly consider fessing up that, actually, I think Julian is a pretty cool guy. But then I realize that would mean I agreed with my serious co-workers. And I'm a firm believer in that old Groucho Marx bit about never joining clubs that would let me in, yadda yadda yadda.
Naturally, when it comes to shit like this, I pull the hipster card. "Would you believe that idiot thinks that The Suburbs is a better Arcade Fire album than Funeral? And he thinks Sheer Heart Attack is a better Queen album than The Game?"
There is a long pause. "I don't think that's a good reason to dislike someone, Dave."
"Have you listened to Sheer Heart Attack? How can you trust someone who has listened to both Queen albums and doesn't think The Game is categorically better? It'd be like trusting an alcoholic to be your designated driver."
There is another long pause. And an awkward silence. "Personal taste can't be judged."
FYI: People who say that have a record collection that is filled with ABBA, Lionel Ritchie, Meat Loaf, and Creed. Personal taste can be judged. Mercilessly.
Naturally, I say the only thing I could in this sort of situation: "That's only what people with crappy taste say."
I have to say... it's fun messing with my serious co-workers.
In unrelated news, my hours got cut back.
Again.
Eviscerations...
So I'm at work, rushing around the deli issuing orders like some little sergeant trying to hold off wave after wave of zombie nazis until reinforcements come. In such situations, I revert to a little trick I call "leadership through douchebaggery". It basically consists of playfully insulting my co-workers to keep morale up.
Mainly, it keeps my morale up. I'm not sure about everyone else.
Steff, a co-worker with a toucher of "hipster music nerd" in her, who is therefore my kind of people, is busily trying to help the masses of nazi zombies, er, hungry customers. The two of us are sharing a scale, doing that age old deli trick of "you asked for one hundred grams. Is one hundred and ten grams alright? No? Okay, let me take off a little bit. How's ninety eight grams? No? Okay, let me add this sliver of meat... one hundred two? No? You asked for one hundred? Would you like me to show you how a meat hook works?"
Steff is busily playing this game, and I can see the fantasy in her eyes - in it, she is happily eviscerating her customer set to the music of... some band you've probably never heard of. Knowing that I can't have unscheduled eviscerations on my watch (they're bad for business, see), I decide she needs cheering up. So I start heckling her.
"Steff, you're taking too long at the scale! Oh my god, you're embarrassing yourself! Look! All the customers are staring at you! You must feel so awkward right now." I am saying this in a playful voice while she tries to weigh just the right amount of deli meat, and I can see that she's trying not to laugh. Most of the customers nearby are entertained, and are chuckling quietly to theirselves - it's nice to see people playing with each other while at work, after all.
One customer, however, doesn't realize I'm joking around. With her hands on her hips, she glares at me. "They're not staring at her! They're staring at you! You should be embarrassed."
This causes a few more customers to laugh, and puts me firmly in my place. Steff looks over, and she can see that I'm in the fantasy land of eviscerating this customer, to the music of Pink Mountaintops (you've heard of them, right?).
And that was my last week. You can see why I don't blog much these days, eh?
Mainly, it keeps my morale up. I'm not sure about everyone else.
Steff, a co-worker with a toucher of "hipster music nerd" in her, who is therefore my kind of people, is busily trying to help the masses of nazi zombies, er, hungry customers. The two of us are sharing a scale, doing that age old deli trick of "you asked for one hundred grams. Is one hundred and ten grams alright? No? Okay, let me take off a little bit. How's ninety eight grams? No? Okay, let me add this sliver of meat... one hundred two? No? You asked for one hundred? Would you like me to show you how a meat hook works?"
Steff is busily playing this game, and I can see the fantasy in her eyes - in it, she is happily eviscerating her customer set to the music of... some band you've probably never heard of. Knowing that I can't have unscheduled eviscerations on my watch (they're bad for business, see), I decide she needs cheering up. So I start heckling her.
"Steff, you're taking too long at the scale! Oh my god, you're embarrassing yourself! Look! All the customers are staring at you! You must feel so awkward right now." I am saying this in a playful voice while she tries to weigh just the right amount of deli meat, and I can see that she's trying not to laugh. Most of the customers nearby are entertained, and are chuckling quietly to theirselves - it's nice to see people playing with each other while at work, after all.
One customer, however, doesn't realize I'm joking around. With her hands on her hips, she glares at me. "They're not staring at her! They're staring at you! You should be embarrassed."
This causes a few more customers to laugh, and puts me firmly in my place. Steff looks over, and she can see that I'm in the fantasy land of eviscerating this customer, to the music of Pink Mountaintops (you've heard of them, right?).
And that was my last week. You can see why I don't blog much these days, eh?
First Aid Stuff
I had a first aid call last weekend. It was a pretty hectic one, too - an unconscious patient, maintaining of C-Spine, paramedics, oxygen, and everything else. I spent a good twenty minutes cramped in a cashier booth, doing my best to comfort an unconscious woman while she went through multiple seizures.
That's not the interesting part. Or rather, while it was interesting for me, I can't really go into details anyway, and it's not a particularly funny story worth sharing here.
What is interesting, and maybe just a bit funny, was me, immediately afterwards.
Because, while everyone else was worried that my patient (is that the right word?) might not make it through the night, I was riding an adrenaline high, and felt like I could take on the world.
I didn't do a great job hiding the grin. So I hid in the deli cooler, stacking hams until I came down from the high.
Sometimes, I think there's something really wrong with me.
For what it's worth, the woman is okay, and will return to work within a few days.
That's not the interesting part. Or rather, while it was interesting for me, I can't really go into details anyway, and it's not a particularly funny story worth sharing here.
What is interesting, and maybe just a bit funny, was me, immediately afterwards.
Because, while everyone else was worried that my patient (is that the right word?) might not make it through the night, I was riding an adrenaline high, and felt like I could take on the world.
I didn't do a great job hiding the grin. So I hid in the deli cooler, stacking hams until I came down from the high.
Sometimes, I think there's something really wrong with me.
For what it's worth, the woman is okay, and will return to work within a few days.
More Bad People Stories:
Last year, around this time, I was working at Future Shop, selling headphones to the moderately wealthy. Life was fairly good, because I wasn't too bad at selling headphones to the moderately wealthy. In fact, I was pretty sure I was going to be kept on once the season ended, because I was making a couple hundred dollars of commission every day I worked there.
This translates into "a shitload of headphones", for those at home keeping score. And my technique was pretty simple, too - I'd just talk to the customer about music, find a band we both liked (easy peasy), and then loan the customer my awesome headphones and play him a song on my ipod. It worked like a charm... and my return rates were lower than most any other salesman in my department.
But then, at the end of the season, my hours were cut short and I was told I would not be permanently hired. Basically, they kicked me out the door.
I wasn't too bummed by this, because, well, it wasn't the best job in the world or anything. And also, they kicked me out the door just before people traditionally return christmas purchases, meaning I got to keep much more of my commission from boxing day sales than those that were kept on.
But I was perplexed, as a few of the people that were kept on made considerably less than me, including one guy who only made one or two sales during boxing day. This guy was allergic to making sales, and actually at one point started telling a random customer about Milton Berle's over-large penis because he got nervous during his sales pitch.
I wish I were making this up.
This begs the question. Why the hell did they keep that guy, and can me?
I found out a while later. Apparently, I was anti-semitic, and made several anti-semitic comments to a jewish co-worker. And, as far as these things go, this is entirely true. And my jewish co-worker was canned because he made anti-native comments to one of his co-workers.
That native co-worker? That would be me. I'm part native, and he knew it. And I knew he was jewish. See, one day, we were sitting in the break room, having our lunch and shooting the shit. We started swapping insults, that got progressively worse. We shared the same sense of humour, and we just let it go away. I told him that his nose was so goddamn huge because air was free. He told me that he locked his bicycle up so that it would force a chug such as myself to do an honest day's work rather than steal shit. I told him that if things had gone right, he'd be living in a ghetto in warsaw with a number tattooed across his forehead. He told me that if things had gone right, my blankets would still have small pox.
And so on, and so forth.
Yeah, harsh words, but if you were there, those words translated more into "hey, look at all this racist shit people say about our ethnic groups. Isn't that bullshit? Let's poke fun at that!"
Of course, whitey got involved, and decided that since we weren't insulted, she was going to have to step in and get insulted for us. She got so insulted, in fact, that she went to the managers and complained. After all, how dare two of us make inappropriate comments in a break room at a quiet level, out of ear shot of customers? How dare we make jokes?
So, I got canned, as did he.
Naturally, I went on welfare payments and stole her bike. I traded it to my new jew friend for some firewater and smoked salmon. He sold the bike at his cousin's brother's deli for far too much and spent the money on a nice brisket.
Apparently, neither of us learned anything from the incident. Which is as it should be.
This translates into "a shitload of headphones", for those at home keeping score. And my technique was pretty simple, too - I'd just talk to the customer about music, find a band we both liked (easy peasy), and then loan the customer my awesome headphones and play him a song on my ipod. It worked like a charm... and my return rates were lower than most any other salesman in my department.
But then, at the end of the season, my hours were cut short and I was told I would not be permanently hired. Basically, they kicked me out the door.
I wasn't too bummed by this, because, well, it wasn't the best job in the world or anything. And also, they kicked me out the door just before people traditionally return christmas purchases, meaning I got to keep much more of my commission from boxing day sales than those that were kept on.
But I was perplexed, as a few of the people that were kept on made considerably less than me, including one guy who only made one or two sales during boxing day. This guy was allergic to making sales, and actually at one point started telling a random customer about Milton Berle's over-large penis because he got nervous during his sales pitch.
I wish I were making this up.
This begs the question. Why the hell did they keep that guy, and can me?
I found out a while later. Apparently, I was anti-semitic, and made several anti-semitic comments to a jewish co-worker. And, as far as these things go, this is entirely true. And my jewish co-worker was canned because he made anti-native comments to one of his co-workers.
That native co-worker? That would be me. I'm part native, and he knew it. And I knew he was jewish. See, one day, we were sitting in the break room, having our lunch and shooting the shit. We started swapping insults, that got progressively worse. We shared the same sense of humour, and we just let it go away. I told him that his nose was so goddamn huge because air was free. He told me that he locked his bicycle up so that it would force a chug such as myself to do an honest day's work rather than steal shit. I told him that if things had gone right, he'd be living in a ghetto in warsaw with a number tattooed across his forehead. He told me that if things had gone right, my blankets would still have small pox.
And so on, and so forth.
Yeah, harsh words, but if you were there, those words translated more into "hey, look at all this racist shit people say about our ethnic groups. Isn't that bullshit? Let's poke fun at that!"
Of course, whitey got involved, and decided that since we weren't insulted, she was going to have to step in and get insulted for us. She got so insulted, in fact, that she went to the managers and complained. After all, how dare two of us make inappropriate comments in a break room at a quiet level, out of ear shot of customers? How dare we make jokes?
So, I got canned, as did he.
Naturally, I went on welfare payments and stole her bike. I traded it to my new jew friend for some firewater and smoked salmon. He sold the bike at his cousin's brother's deli for far too much and spent the money on a nice brisket.
Apparently, neither of us learned anything from the incident. Which is as it should be.
I am bad people
I love making fun of people. Especially when they're in on the joke. Unfortunately, sometimes uninvolved witnesses don't understand it's all fake, and think I'm just being an asshole. I mean, I am an asshole, but I hate it when I blow my cover.
Observe.
DAVE: Hey! I'm working with Jean today!
JEAN: Hey Dave. It's gonna be a fun night,. We're going to rock this place.
DAVE: Jean, did you know that you're my second favourite person named 'Jean' to work in this deli?
JEAN: (Rolls eyes)
RANDOM CO-WORKER: "Second Favourite"? Dave, she's the only person named Jean that works here.
DAVE: I know. But she's just not 'number one' material, wouldn't you agree?
JEAN: I hate you, Dave.
See? It's funny. Two of the three of us had fun, pretending to hate each other. But the third person didn't get the joke... and went to the managers about my "attitude".
Another exchange between "jean" and I:
JEAN: Hey Dave. You know how Hitler died, right?
DAVE: Well, actually, he died of a cyan-
JEAN: Quit being a smartass for a second. Hitler died of a heart attack.
DAVE: No, he died of Cyan-
JEAN: Shut up. He died of a heart attack. You know, when he saw his gas bill?
DAVE: (Pause, and then) BWAAAA HAAA HAA HAAA!
JEAN: Thought you'd like that. We're bad people.
DAVE: Yeah. We are bad people. Don't know why I'm laughing... I just found out last month that my grandfather died in a concentration camp, after all.
JEAN: Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I said that! I'm so so so sorry!
DAVE: Yeah.... he fell out of a guard tower.
JEAN: (Pause, and then) BWAAAAA HAAA HAA HAAA!
RANDOM CO-WORKER: You're both bad people.
Moral of the story? I only hang out with the fun people at work. And then get in shit.
Observe.
DAVE: Hey! I'm working with Jean today!
JEAN: Hey Dave. It's gonna be a fun night,. We're going to rock this place.
DAVE: Jean, did you know that you're my second favourite person named 'Jean' to work in this deli?
JEAN: (Rolls eyes)
RANDOM CO-WORKER: "Second Favourite"? Dave, she's the only person named Jean that works here.
DAVE: I know. But she's just not 'number one' material, wouldn't you agree?
JEAN: I hate you, Dave.
See? It's funny. Two of the three of us had fun, pretending to hate each other. But the third person didn't get the joke... and went to the managers about my "attitude".
Another exchange between "jean" and I:
JEAN: Hey Dave. You know how Hitler died, right?
DAVE: Well, actually, he died of a cyan-
JEAN: Quit being a smartass for a second. Hitler died of a heart attack.
DAVE: No, he died of Cyan-
JEAN: Shut up. He died of a heart attack. You know, when he saw his gas bill?
DAVE: (Pause, and then) BWAAAA HAAA HAA HAAA!
JEAN: Thought you'd like that. We're bad people.
DAVE: Yeah. We are bad people. Don't know why I'm laughing... I just found out last month that my grandfather died in a concentration camp, after all.
JEAN: Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I said that! I'm so so so sorry!
DAVE: Yeah.... he fell out of a guard tower.
JEAN: (Pause, and then) BWAAAAA HAAA HAA HAAA!
RANDOM CO-WORKER: You're both bad people.
Moral of the story? I only hang out with the fun people at work. And then get in shit.
How to Annoy Dave:
I work with some very "interesting" people. This is a conversation I had a few days with a co-worker, pretty much verbatim. He was talking about crappy movies, and the conversation went from there:
DAVE: Um, I don't really watch too many movies these days. I mostly read.
CO-WORKER: I'm reading a good series right now.
DAVE (Not really interested): Oh?
CO-WORKER: I'm reading the Earth's Children series. It's good.
DAVE: I've never heard of them.
CO-WORKER: The first book is called "Clan of the Cave Bear". It's -
DAVE: Oh, right. I've heard of that. It's by that girl-
CO-WORKER: Her name is Jean Auel. The first book is Clan of the Cave Bear. It was written in 1980. The second book is called The Valley of Horses. It was written in 1982. The third book is called The Mammoth Hunters. It was written in 1985. The fourth is called The Plains of Passage. It was written in 1990. The fifth book is called The Shelters of Stone. It was written in 2002. The sixth book is called The Land of Painted Caves. It was written in 2011.
DAVE: Um. Wow. That sounds like, uh, quite the production run.
CO-WORKER: Yes.
DAVE: Um.
CO-WORKER: The story starts with a young cro-magnon woman, named Ayla, who is split with her tribe. She doesn't eat for a week, and nearly dies of exposure, but she is able to stay hydrated during this time. She comes along a tribe of neanderthals, who adopt her. They don't seem to use language, but (this continues for a few minutes that felt like hours, where he goes into Neanderthal custom and whatnot before I interrupt)
DAVE: Oh, wow. So, it's someone's story about what neanderthals were like.
CO-WORKER: Yes.
DAVE: It's funny, though. A lot of those theories no longer work - there are different theories on neanderthals than there were years ago.
CO-WORKER: Oh, it's just fiction. Everyone knows cavemen didn't exist.
DAVE: Wait, what?
CO-WORKER: I don't believe in Evolution.
DAVE: Ah. I see.
He then proceeded to try and sell me herbal vitamins that he pimps on the side, in an Amway-esque pyramid scheme, and told me he had stuff that would help fix up my diabetes. I told him I only bought herbal vitamins from people who believed we descended from apes. Stony silence ruled my workplace.
And no, I don't feel bad mocking someone with obvious mental issues. Not one iota.
DAVE: Um, I don't really watch too many movies these days. I mostly read.
CO-WORKER: I'm reading a good series right now.
DAVE (Not really interested): Oh?
CO-WORKER: I'm reading the Earth's Children series. It's good.
DAVE: I've never heard of them.
CO-WORKER: The first book is called "Clan of the Cave Bear". It's -
DAVE: Oh, right. I've heard of that. It's by that girl-
CO-WORKER: Her name is Jean Auel. The first book is Clan of the Cave Bear. It was written in 1980. The second book is called The Valley of Horses. It was written in 1982. The third book is called The Mammoth Hunters. It was written in 1985. The fourth is called The Plains of Passage. It was written in 1990. The fifth book is called The Shelters of Stone. It was written in 2002. The sixth book is called The Land of Painted Caves. It was written in 2011.
DAVE: Um. Wow. That sounds like, uh, quite the production run.
CO-WORKER: Yes.
DAVE: Um.
CO-WORKER: The story starts with a young cro-magnon woman, named Ayla, who is split with her tribe. She doesn't eat for a week, and nearly dies of exposure, but she is able to stay hydrated during this time. She comes along a tribe of neanderthals, who adopt her. They don't seem to use language, but (this continues for a few minutes that felt like hours, where he goes into Neanderthal custom and whatnot before I interrupt)
DAVE: Oh, wow. So, it's someone's story about what neanderthals were like.
CO-WORKER: Yes.
DAVE: It's funny, though. A lot of those theories no longer work - there are different theories on neanderthals than there were years ago.
CO-WORKER: Oh, it's just fiction. Everyone knows cavemen didn't exist.
DAVE: Wait, what?
CO-WORKER: I don't believe in Evolution.
DAVE: Ah. I see.
He then proceeded to try and sell me herbal vitamins that he pimps on the side, in an Amway-esque pyramid scheme, and told me he had stuff that would help fix up my diabetes. I told him I only bought herbal vitamins from people who believed we descended from apes. Stony silence ruled my workplace.
And no, I don't feel bad mocking someone with obvious mental issues. Not one iota.
I would have proposed
We have an old boombox in our deli at work. We're only allowed to play it when there are no customers in the store, so it gets turned on from 5 am until 7 am, every morning.
Most days, it gets turned to the radio, where it plays the exact same top 40 music that is heard on the overhead speakers. There have been days where, I swear, both the in-store music and the radio were playing the same damn Christina Aguilera song at the same time. It was as if the radio and the digital satellite shared some sort of weird hive mind, set towards the goal of driving Dave slowly insane through ridiculously stupid pop music.
Luckily, the first person who opens is usually the one who gets to pick the music. And last week, I had the good luck of being the opener. While most people would scowl at a 4 am shift (and for me, this means getting up at 2 am!), I jump at it. Not only because I get off work from an eight hour shift at 12:30, but also because I get to be the keeper of the ipod.
No Aguilera on my watch.
Day one was a combination of the Beatles and The Fleet Foxes. Day two was The Flaming Lips and Dan Mangan. Day three was The Cold War Kids and The Cave Singers. Except for the Beatles, it was three days of indie paradise.
And then day four came around, and it was back to the radio, and Miss Aguilera trying to show everyone how many notes she can hit in three seconds. Some people call that talent. I call it indecisiveness.
But I digress.
Best part, though, was when one of the bakery girls came over to me, while I was making sandwiches, and whispered "I wish they'd stop playing this radio shit and put that other music on. The ipod music was so much better."
I would've proposed, then and there, but she was forty.
Most days, it gets turned to the radio, where it plays the exact same top 40 music that is heard on the overhead speakers. There have been days where, I swear, both the in-store music and the radio were playing the same damn Christina Aguilera song at the same time. It was as if the radio and the digital satellite shared some sort of weird hive mind, set towards the goal of driving Dave slowly insane through ridiculously stupid pop music.
Luckily, the first person who opens is usually the one who gets to pick the music. And last week, I had the good luck of being the opener. While most people would scowl at a 4 am shift (and for me, this means getting up at 2 am!), I jump at it. Not only because I get off work from an eight hour shift at 12:30, but also because I get to be the keeper of the ipod.
No Aguilera on my watch.
Day one was a combination of the Beatles and The Fleet Foxes. Day two was The Flaming Lips and Dan Mangan. Day three was The Cold War Kids and The Cave Singers. Except for the Beatles, it was three days of indie paradise.
And then day four came around, and it was back to the radio, and Miss Aguilera trying to show everyone how many notes she can hit in three seconds. Some people call that talent. I call it indecisiveness.
But I digress.
Best part, though, was when one of the bakery girls came over to me, while I was making sandwiches, and whispered "I wish they'd stop playing this radio shit and put that other music on. The ipod music was so much better."
I would've proposed, then and there, but she was forty.
Are You Calling Me Crazy!?
We were at work, shooting the shit while putting together pizzas, assembly-line style. My boss, a guy in his thirties who should probably watch what he says a bit more but thankfully doesn't, was talking about women.
In a deli. Staffed primarily by women.
So, the two of us are chatting about girls. Every time an attractive customer walks by, which is fairly frequently, he'd point to her and say "hey, she looks good. Ask her out. Give her our usual thrifty's customer service!" or some other dirty comment to that effect. Which was, really, pretty hilarious.
And then we started talking about weird dates we've both been on. After swapping a few, we conclude, rather loudly, that "all women are crazy". We said it jokingly, with that sort of fond affection that is usually reserved for a well-loved poodle that can't stop pooping on the rug.
One of my co-workers, doing the dishes, turns to us, holding a long knife in one hand.
"Are.... you.... calling... me.... crazy!?" she said, her eyes wild and this weird sneer on her face.
Funniest thing I've seen all week.
In a deli. Staffed primarily by women.
So, the two of us are chatting about girls. Every time an attractive customer walks by, which is fairly frequently, he'd point to her and say "hey, she looks good. Ask her out. Give her our usual thrifty's customer service!" or some other dirty comment to that effect. Which was, really, pretty hilarious.
And then we started talking about weird dates we've both been on. After swapping a few, we conclude, rather loudly, that "all women are crazy". We said it jokingly, with that sort of fond affection that is usually reserved for a well-loved poodle that can't stop pooping on the rug.
One of my co-workers, doing the dishes, turns to us, holding a long knife in one hand.
"Are.... you.... calling... me.... crazy!?" she said, her eyes wild and this weird sneer on her face.
Funniest thing I've seen all week.
True Story:
I've decided that "hipster" shouldn't just apply to music. And it shouldn't just apply to douchebags in their mid twenties. Case in point, at my deli. I'm dealing with a customer who has to be in her sixties.
"I love Edamame."
"Yes, I know, it's really good. How much would you like?"
"I've been eating Edamame for years."
"That's great. So, a medium....?"
"When I first started eating Edamame, you couldn't get it in the grocery store. Nobody had ever heard of it. That's when I first had it. I was probably one of the first people in this city who ate Edamame...."
"...or a large....?"
"You couldn't get it a grocery store. You'd ask for Edamame, and they'd just look at you. But now it's popular, and everyone's eating it."
"Well, it is good."
"Yes, yes it is."
"So, how much Edamame can I get for you?"
"Oh, I don't eat Edamame anymore."
*walks away*
"I love Edamame."
"Yes, I know, it's really good. How much would you like?"
"I've been eating Edamame for years."
"That's great. So, a medium....?"
"When I first started eating Edamame, you couldn't get it in the grocery store. Nobody had ever heard of it. That's when I first had it. I was probably one of the first people in this city who ate Edamame...."
"...or a large....?"
"You couldn't get it a grocery store. You'd ask for Edamame, and they'd just look at you. But now it's popular, and everyone's eating it."
"Well, it is good."
"Yes, yes it is."
"So, how much Edamame can I get for you?"
"Oh, I don't eat Edamame anymore."
*walks away*
Scene from a job:
DAVE: (talking to a supervisor about a different co-worker) Go easy on her. You're only nineteen once, and I'm sure you were just as bad.
EAVESDROPPING COWORKER: That's not true.
DAVE: Hunh?
COWORKER: You're not only nineteen once.
DAVE: Um. Yeah you are. You're nineteen for exactly one year.
COWORKER: Not true. You can be as old as you want to be.
DAVE: Uh...
COWORKER: For example, I never stopped being twelve.
DAVE: You never stopped being.... twelve?
COWORKER: I've been a twelve year old boy for more than fifteen years.
(Long pause)
DAVE: Stay away from my kids.
Yeah, this pretty much happened, word for word. My supervisor roared with laughter, and we proceeded to good-naturedly tease my co-worker.
EAVESDROPPING COWORKER: That's not true.
DAVE: Hunh?
COWORKER: You're not only nineteen once.
DAVE: Um. Yeah you are. You're nineteen for exactly one year.
COWORKER: Not true. You can be as old as you want to be.
DAVE: Uh...
COWORKER: For example, I never stopped being twelve.
DAVE: You never stopped being.... twelve?
COWORKER: I've been a twelve year old boy for more than fifteen years.
(Long pause)
DAVE: Stay away from my kids.
Yeah, this pretty much happened, word for word. My supervisor roared with laughter, and we proceeded to good-naturedly tease my co-worker.
New Religion:
I was at work the other day, with a co-worker I genuinely enjoy working with. He's from the Phillipines, and rather devoutly religious. At one point, he turned and asked me, point blank, my religion.
He meant nothing rude about it, so I answered him directly. Though it was rather difficult explaining to him exactly what an "atheist" was. When he finally did get what I was saying, he seemed almost a bit shocked, as if I had confessed to him that I was some sort of demon, intent on destroying his children and doing all of those other things that demons, atheists, abortionists, and telecommunicators are apt to do.
We worked in silence, each more mindful than ever of the gap between us. I am firm believer that religion's primary function is to further subdivide the collective "us" into divided "thems". But I digress.
The stereo played in that sweltering kitchen, until it came time for the Beatles to start singing. "All You Need is Love", John Lennon sang, and I looked over at my co-worker, who was singing along. So was I. We caught each others' eyes, and smiled.
Completely seriously, I l pointed at the stereo.
"You know what? That's my religion. And it's a damned fine one, if you ask me."
He smiled, nodded in agreement, and got back to work. The kitchen was peaceful once more as John Lennon preached.
He meant nothing rude about it, so I answered him directly. Though it was rather difficult explaining to him exactly what an "atheist" was. When he finally did get what I was saying, he seemed almost a bit shocked, as if I had confessed to him that I was some sort of demon, intent on destroying his children and doing all of those other things that demons, atheists, abortionists, and telecommunicators are apt to do.
We worked in silence, each more mindful than ever of the gap between us. I am firm believer that religion's primary function is to further subdivide the collective "us" into divided "thems". But I digress.
The stereo played in that sweltering kitchen, until it came time for the Beatles to start singing. "All You Need is Love", John Lennon sang, and I looked over at my co-worker, who was singing along. So was I. We caught each others' eyes, and smiled.
Completely seriously, I l pointed at the stereo.
"You know what? That's my religion. And it's a damned fine one, if you ask me."
He smiled, nodded in agreement, and got back to work. The kitchen was peaceful once more as John Lennon preached.
I'm a bad person
Legally, my last name is "Steeves", because my mother was not married when I was born (gasp!). So, for all legal purposes, I go by "David Steeves". However, outside of legalities, I use my step father's last name, Percival.
This is quite often a pain in the ass, because I have some older documents under that name, and others under my legal name. However, sometimes it works in my favour.
A few months ago, I worked with my mother at H&R Block. She was, in fact, my supervisor.
On a whim, while dropping off resumes, I put down "Sally Percival" as a reference. After all, anyone who hired me would see my name as "David Steeves", and would have no idea that the person who was giving me such a glowing recommendation was, in fact, my mother.
I feel almost guilty. Almost.
This is quite often a pain in the ass, because I have some older documents under that name, and others under my legal name. However, sometimes it works in my favour.
A few months ago, I worked with my mother at H&R Block. She was, in fact, my supervisor.
On a whim, while dropping off resumes, I put down "Sally Percival" as a reference. After all, anyone who hired me would see my name as "David Steeves", and would have no idea that the person who was giving me such a glowing recommendation was, in fact, my mother.
I feel almost guilty. Almost.
Last Day at H&R Block:
"It's 3:15"
"Yes. What seems to be the problem?"
"I had an appointment for three o'clock."
"Right. But as you can see, her previous client is taking a bit longer. And it is the last day of the tax season, so you can imagine it's been a little hairy. I apologize for the wait."
"This is bullshit."
"I'm sorry. But she'll see you as soon as she can, and I guarantee it'll be only a few minutes once you get in there to get your papers signed."
"This is bullshit!"
"Well, it's the last day of the tax season, so everyone's leaving it to the last minute and we've been rushed. We booked your appointment so you could get your papers signed. You're the only person who's had an appointment booked for today, we're not supposed to book any on the last day of the season, but we figured we'd do you a favour. Like I said, it'll only be a few minutes."
"Bullshit. I have to be at the bank before 4:00, because I have to make my payment, and my bank closes at four."
"Your tax payment?"
"Yes."
"You owe money to the government?"
"Yes."
"...And you booked your appointment to get your taxes done only an hour before your bank closes, on the last day of the tax season?"
"Yes."
"um. Ok."
"What?"
"Nothing."
(pause)
"This is bullshit."
"I couldn't agree more."
"Yes. What seems to be the problem?"
"I had an appointment for three o'clock."
"Right. But as you can see, her previous client is taking a bit longer. And it is the last day of the tax season, so you can imagine it's been a little hairy. I apologize for the wait."
"This is bullshit."
"I'm sorry. But she'll see you as soon as she can, and I guarantee it'll be only a few minutes once you get in there to get your papers signed."
"This is bullshit!"
"Well, it's the last day of the tax season, so everyone's leaving it to the last minute and we've been rushed. We booked your appointment so you could get your papers signed. You're the only person who's had an appointment booked for today, we're not supposed to book any on the last day of the season, but we figured we'd do you a favour. Like I said, it'll only be a few minutes."
"Bullshit. I have to be at the bank before 4:00, because I have to make my payment, and my bank closes at four."
"Your tax payment?"
"Yes."
"You owe money to the government?"
"Yes."
"...And you booked your appointment to get your taxes done only an hour before your bank closes, on the last day of the tax season?"
"Yes."
"um. Ok."
"What?"
"Nothing."
(pause)
"This is bullshit."
"I couldn't agree more."
Wolverine
Lately, I've been working in a mall.
It's a temporary job, working a front desk, arranging appointments, and handling cash transactions for a tax-based company whose name shall remain Hidden and Restricted... Um, block.
Anyways, I get to sit a lot. Sometimes, I write emails. And sometimes, I people watch. And the best place to people watch is the lotto centre, because there are always so many interesting people to observe.
For example, the other day, I saw a guy with dark hair spiked up above the ears, cracking his knuckles while he played Keno. He was, in the fact, the spitting image of Wolverine from the x-men, only about a hundred pounds heavier and lacking in the claws department - at least, as far a I could tell.
Quietly, and without taking my eyes off him (lest he sneak up on me and skewer me with adamantium-fueled rage), I shot off a quick email to Happy Apple:
"There's a guy that looks like wolverine here, only with a beer belly. He's playing Keno. I don't think it's wolverine, but I'm not sure."
Within two minutes, I had a response.
"Well Dave, Wolverine IS Canadian, after all. So it could be him. Maybe wolverine just let himself go."
Happy Apple's awesome.
It's a temporary job, working a front desk, arranging appointments, and handling cash transactions for a tax-based company whose name shall remain Hidden and Restricted... Um, block.
Anyways, I get to sit a lot. Sometimes, I write emails. And sometimes, I people watch. And the best place to people watch is the lotto centre, because there are always so many interesting people to observe.
For example, the other day, I saw a guy with dark hair spiked up above the ears, cracking his knuckles while he played Keno. He was, in the fact, the spitting image of Wolverine from the x-men, only about a hundred pounds heavier and lacking in the claws department - at least, as far a I could tell.
Quietly, and without taking my eyes off him (lest he sneak up on me and skewer me with adamantium-fueled rage), I shot off a quick email to Happy Apple:
"There's a guy that looks like wolverine here, only with a beer belly. He's playing Keno. I don't think it's wolverine, but I'm not sure."
Within two minutes, I had a response.
"Well Dave, Wolverine IS Canadian, after all. So it could be him. Maybe wolverine just let himself go."
Happy Apple's awesome.
"Obama's A Liar"
I am a Canadian. I have lived in Canada for the entirety of my life, excluding the time my parents took a shortcut through Maine during a family vacation - I spent the entirety of that trip asleep in the back of the car. The point is, I have very little involvement with the United States, with the possible exception of my preferred hockey team.
And really, that's generally the way it is up here. As a rule, Canadians generally don't worry about American Politics, or U.S. Medicare, or any of those hot button issues. We have our own problems to worry about. Like Polar Bears, or getting enough Maple Syrup for our pancakes. Or Maple Syrup-crazed French Canadian Polar Bears.
Because man, those fuckers are a pain in the ASS.
It is always a surprise when American issues creep up into everyday life. And quite often, I have no idea how to deal with them. I suppose I should just learn to run for "dem dere hills" or something stupid like that.
For example, yesterday. I was sitting at the front desk at my little mall kiosk, reading up on tax law (no, seriously), when I realized there was an ancient old man hovering over me. He had that look that said "while I am harmless now, in my younger days I used to murder hitchhikers and I still keep their ears in an old crackerjack box at the old folks' home"
His T-Shirt said the same thing. In an old english font, to make it look classy.
"Um, can I help you?" I said, immediately after my heart had stopped and jumped up somewhere between my mouth and throat.
"When did Hawaii join the United States?" He asked me, intently.
This was it! My moment to shine! As a lifelong Jeopardy fanatic, this was the chance to show off my mad skills! I tried to think of an answer - it must have been in the 1930s, right? But then I realized this was one of those cases where being a brainiac was a bad idea. I mean, I didn't want to engage this crazy old coot in a historical converation, so I just shrugged.
"1959" he said, proudly. It didn't sound right to me (I mean, Pearl Harbour was attacked in the 40s? How does that work?) but it turns out that, yeah, he's right. At the time, I just smiled and said "That's nice" or something to that effect.
I then went back to my reading, hoping the crazy old bastard would leave. But no. He just kept hovering.
"Obama's a liar".
"Hm?"
"Obama. He's a liar. He doesn't have the birth certificate to prove it."
I'd heard of a lot of Americans saying this. I imagine it's pretty common to hear, down there. But up here, it was my first time actually encountering it. And then, following on the footsteps of that crazy announcement, was this gem:
"I don't like a lying black muslim leading the country."
Crazy little fucker, I thought to myself. "Um. Okay."
"Look it up, on your computer. He's a lying black muslim."
"Um. Sir, this computer is for tax purposes. It, uh, has nothing to do with Obama."
"You could look it up... right now."
"I could, but that's not my job. My job is to do taxes. If you'd like help with your taxes..."
Please God, no, please don't let this man need help with his taxes, I thought.
"But, Obama..."
"...Is not paying Canadian taxes this year. Because he's not a Canadian citizen."
And really, that's generally the way it is up here. As a rule, Canadians generally don't worry about American Politics, or U.S. Medicare, or any of those hot button issues. We have our own problems to worry about. Like Polar Bears, or getting enough Maple Syrup for our pancakes. Or Maple Syrup-crazed French Canadian Polar Bears.
Because man, those fuckers are a pain in the ASS.
It is always a surprise when American issues creep up into everyday life. And quite often, I have no idea how to deal with them. I suppose I should just learn to run for "dem dere hills" or something stupid like that.
For example, yesterday. I was sitting at the front desk at my little mall kiosk, reading up on tax law (no, seriously), when I realized there was an ancient old man hovering over me. He had that look that said "while I am harmless now, in my younger days I used to murder hitchhikers and I still keep their ears in an old crackerjack box at the old folks' home"
His T-Shirt said the same thing. In an old english font, to make it look classy.
"Um, can I help you?" I said, immediately after my heart had stopped and jumped up somewhere between my mouth and throat.
"When did Hawaii join the United States?" He asked me, intently.
This was it! My moment to shine! As a lifelong Jeopardy fanatic, this was the chance to show off my mad skills! I tried to think of an answer - it must have been in the 1930s, right? But then I realized this was one of those cases where being a brainiac was a bad idea. I mean, I didn't want to engage this crazy old coot in a historical converation, so I just shrugged.
"1959" he said, proudly. It didn't sound right to me (I mean, Pearl Harbour was attacked in the 40s? How does that work?) but it turns out that, yeah, he's right. At the time, I just smiled and said "That's nice" or something to that effect.
I then went back to my reading, hoping the crazy old bastard would leave. But no. He just kept hovering.
"Obama's a liar".
"Hm?"
"Obama. He's a liar. He doesn't have the birth certificate to prove it."
I'd heard of a lot of Americans saying this. I imagine it's pretty common to hear, down there. But up here, it was my first time actually encountering it. And then, following on the footsteps of that crazy announcement, was this gem:
"I don't like a lying black muslim leading the country."
Crazy little fucker, I thought to myself. "Um. Okay."
"Look it up, on your computer. He's a lying black muslim."
"Um. Sir, this computer is for tax purposes. It, uh, has nothing to do with Obama."
"You could look it up... right now."
"I could, but that's not my job. My job is to do taxes. If you'd like help with your taxes..."
Please God, no, please don't let this man need help with his taxes, I thought.
"But, Obama..."
"...Is not paying Canadian taxes this year. Because he's not a Canadian citizen."
True Story:
I'm sitting at the front desk at my new, temporary job. I'm talking to the girl training me, and she starts talking about hockey. I casually ask her a question about the Canucks, and she looks at me, surprised.
"You watch hockey?"
"Yeah. I like watching it, from time to time."
"Oh, I just assumed..."
I smiled. I knew what she had assumed. As a ginger, with glasses, I look like a dork. Hell, even before I worked at Future Shop, I'd go in there and have people ask me questions about their computer.
"You just assumed because I'm a nerd."
"Well...." she was awkward. I had to put her at ease.
"It's okay. I am a nerd. I mean, look at me. I'm a ginger. I have glasses. I had absolutely no hope of avoiding it. May as well embrace it."
She laughed. "You are a ginger...."
"Still, I'm totally putting this in my blog."
She paused, and then took a long, dramatic sigh. "Of course you'd have a blog."
I slumped my shoulders in defeat. "...yeah..."
"You watch hockey?"
"Yeah. I like watching it, from time to time."
"Oh, I just assumed..."
I smiled. I knew what she had assumed. As a ginger, with glasses, I look like a dork. Hell, even before I worked at Future Shop, I'd go in there and have people ask me questions about their computer.
"You just assumed because I'm a nerd."
"Well...." she was awkward. I had to put her at ease.
"It's okay. I am a nerd. I mean, look at me. I'm a ginger. I have glasses. I had absolutely no hope of avoiding it. May as well embrace it."
She laughed. "You are a ginger...."
"Still, I'm totally putting this in my blog."
She paused, and then took a long, dramatic sigh. "Of course you'd have a blog."
I slumped my shoulders in defeat. "...yeah..."
Commission Tricks
I had this little trick when I was selling crap at Future Shop. It was a spiel I would use when trying to convince a customer into buying the service plan for an ipod or something. Because, while it's generally a good deal, a lot of customers don't like the idea of putting down extra money for an extended warranty.
But the salesmen like pushing for it, because it's where the bulk of their commission profit comes from. And so, they push. Everyone pushes for it differently. I did it with humour.
I'm pretty sure I stole my joke from somewhere, but I can't remember where. Oh well.
It'd go like this:
But at least a few times, I'd get a customer who'd hear that spiel and say something like, "A free subway sub? Can they even do that? Aren't they owned by seperate companies?"
And then I'd have to say "Um, it was a joke" and they'd scratch their heads in complete confusion.
Another guy in my department had a much better - if totally unethical - way of getting theseidiots people to buy the warranty.
I'm not.
But the salesmen like pushing for it, because it's where the bulk of their commission profit comes from. And so, they push. Everyone pushes for it differently. I did it with humour.
I'm pretty sure I stole my joke from somewhere, but I can't remember where. Oh well.
It'd go like this:
You know, these ipods are great. About the only complaint I'd have is the batteries. You can go with our service plan, or trust in the ipod warranty. Ours will cover the battery, no questions asked. Theirs, you have to pay shipping and handling, but they give you a little ipod stamp and a card. When you get eight little ipod stamps, apple will generously give you... a free subway sub.It'd get a laugh, usually. And about half the time, I'd sell the warranty, which is kind of the point. While Future Shop kind of sucks, they do have a good ipod warranty, and I really do recommend it.
But at least a few times, I'd get a customer who'd hear that spiel and say something like, "A free subway sub? Can they even do that? Aren't they owned by seperate companies?"
And then I'd have to say "Um, it was a joke" and they'd scratch their heads in complete confusion.
Another guy in my department had a much better - if totally unethical - way of getting these
You have to buy the warranty. Otherwise, the battery won't work.And they'd unquestioningly put down the ninety bucks for the warranty. Personally, I say he's selling his soul for a couple of bucks, but whatever. He's still working there.
I'm not.
Chump Change
My friends and I usually make it a goal to show up at my place for New Year's Day, watch the winter classic, and have a few drinks (read as: leftovers). There's nothing quite like yelling at hockey players while eating home-made chili.
It's strangely therapeutic. Sort of like listening to Radiohead.
This year, though, I'm stuck working. Which seems very, very wrong. In fact, I can't even think of a new year's day in the past in which I've done anything resembling working. I mean, there was that time I helped move a couch, but that was only so I could get the bottle opener that somebody had dropped underneath it.
New Year's Day is about lazing about while simultaneously making false promises about how you're going to be "More active this year, I swear." It's not about selling electronics to people.
Seriously, who comes in to Future Shop on New Year's Day? Who is so hard up for electronics that they're going to spend the laziest day of the year trying to save five dollars on a frigging iPod?
My point it, only chumps would be in Future Shop on New Year's Day. Unfortunately, I'm one of those chumps.
At least I'm not one of those chumps who's celebrating his 500th post on his blog.
Oh, wait.
It's strangely therapeutic. Sort of like listening to Radiohead.
This year, though, I'm stuck working. Which seems very, very wrong. In fact, I can't even think of a new year's day in the past in which I've done anything resembling working. I mean, there was that time I helped move a couch, but that was only so I could get the bottle opener that somebody had dropped underneath it.
New Year's Day is about lazing about while simultaneously making false promises about how you're going to be "More active this year, I swear." It's not about selling electronics to people.
Seriously, who comes in to Future Shop on New Year's Day? Who is so hard up for electronics that they're going to spend the laziest day of the year trying to save five dollars on a frigging iPod?
My point it, only chumps would be in Future Shop on New Year's Day. Unfortunately, I'm one of those chumps.
At least I'm not one of those chumps who's celebrating his 500th post on his blog.
Oh, wait.
People are stupid. Exhibit A:
(Scene: DAVE, a stunningly good-looking salesman, is in the headphone aisle of a box store, trying to sell overpriced headphones to a weasel-faced CUSTOMER.)
CUSTOMER: Man, I really want these headphones.
DAVE: Yeah. They're a great pair of headphones.
CUSTOMER: But they're kind of expensive.
DAVE: Well, they're quality headphones. You're paying for top of the line headphones.
CUSTOMER: You're right. I'll take them.
DAVE: Awesome! If you'll follow me to the till...
CUSTOMER: Yeah, cool. I didn't know what to spend my money on, an ipod or headphones...
DAVE (innocently): Oh, you don't have an ipod?
CUSTOMER: No. I broke my last one.
DAVE: That's cool. I guess you're using the headphones on your computer, then?
CUSTOMER: Don't have one. It's my roommate's computer.
DAVE: Oh. Um.... the TV?
CUSTOMER: Nah. I have great surround sound.
DAVE: So, um.... What're you hooking the headphones up to, then?
CUSTOMER (A Long pause): Hm. Good point. I guess I don't need them, hunh?
After some back-pedalling, I wound up selling him an iPod touch and a cheaper pair of headphones. I made less money on the purchase, but I imagine he would've figured out those expensive headphones would be absolutely useless when he got home, and I'd be stuck with the return.
He also lost his receipt for a Wii he was returning, and blamed it on me. Turned out he had dropped it, but was convinced that was "impossible". I found it only after having searched through our trash for him.
Gah.
CUSTOMER: Man, I really want these headphones.
DAVE: Yeah. They're a great pair of headphones.
CUSTOMER: But they're kind of expensive.
DAVE: Well, they're quality headphones. You're paying for top of the line headphones.
CUSTOMER: You're right. I'll take them.
DAVE: Awesome! If you'll follow me to the till...
CUSTOMER: Yeah, cool. I didn't know what to spend my money on, an ipod or headphones...
DAVE (innocently): Oh, you don't have an ipod?
CUSTOMER: No. I broke my last one.
DAVE: That's cool. I guess you're using the headphones on your computer, then?
CUSTOMER: Don't have one. It's my roommate's computer.
DAVE: Oh. Um.... the TV?
CUSTOMER: Nah. I have great surround sound.
DAVE: So, um.... What're you hooking the headphones up to, then?
CUSTOMER (A Long pause): Hm. Good point. I guess I don't need them, hunh?
After some back-pedalling, I wound up selling him an iPod touch and a cheaper pair of headphones. I made less money on the purchase, but I imagine he would've figured out those expensive headphones would be absolutely useless when he got home, and I'd be stuck with the return.
He also lost his receipt for a Wii he was returning, and blamed it on me. Turned out he had dropped it, but was convinced that was "impossible". I found it only after having searched through our trash for him.
Gah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
