An Open Letter to All Christmas Shoppers...
The season is upon us, dear readers...
That's right, Christmas shopping season is in full swing.
They're coming out of the woodwork now. They're animals. Get in the way, and you're hamburger. Old ladies pushing empty carts will check you out of the way without lifting a cane.
This is an open letter to all of you lovely people out there who make working retail such a joy. Don't get me wrong, I looooove my job, but seriously, come on, would it really hurt that bad if you smiled?
-------------------------------
Dear Christmas Shopper,
Please don't hurt me. What did I ever do to you? (Besides provide extraordinary customer service, that is.)
First, the thank you's.
Thank you for shopping at my store.
Thank you for spending lots of money at my store for your wife, girlfriend, mother, and/or sister, whatever.
Thank you for being in the store all day, this makes my day go fast, which in turn, means I'm that much closer to leaving.
That's it. I'm wiped.
Second.
Fuck you.
Fuck you for not even AKNOWLEDGING my presence. When I say: "Hello, how are you doing today?" and you respond with: "I'm just looking..." and then you turn away from me? Not cool. I didn't ask if you needed help, I asked you how you were. Be nice.
I swear, sometimes, I think I'm the Assistant Manager's invisible friend and only she can see me.
Fuck you for only coming in to my store when I'm on a ladder (With proper supervision of course...) and there're racks and pyjamas all over the place.
How bout you come in when it's nice and clean. And quiet. It gives me something to do.
Fuck you for shopping at my store with your piss poor, woe is me attitude. What happened to "Holiday Spirit"? What about common decency towards man? Did your mother raise you that badly?
I don't care that you lost your list, or that the "other" store is cheaper.
Go there.
It'll fall apart.
A week after Christmas.
Tops.
Don't come running back to me.
Fuck you for getting mad at me when I can't break a hundred dollar bill. Sorry Daddy Warbucks, but Little Orphan Annie's cash register is not stacked. (Unlike herself...)
Fuck you for getting mad at me because I ran out of boxes. You think you're out shopping early? Not a chance.
I've got 110 year old ladies that were done in October.
Of 2005.
For this year.
Fuck you for asking me to show you something that you've been searching for, showing you a dozen of said item, and then complain that it's not "Exactly what you were looking for" and leave without buying something.
Fuck you for getting mad at me because the debit machine is down. It's not my fault. I just work there. I don't run the banks.
Next time, bring cash just in case.
Most of all, Fuck you for being rotten first thing in the morning before I've had my caffeine and sugar dosage. This has to happen before I plant the fake smile on my face for the rest of the day.
That is all.
Merry Chrismukkahwanzaa to all.
That's right, Christmas shopping season is in full swing.
They're coming out of the woodwork now. They're animals. Get in the way, and you're hamburger. Old ladies pushing empty carts will check you out of the way without lifting a cane.
This is an open letter to all of you lovely people out there who make working retail such a joy. Don't get me wrong, I looooove my job, but seriously, come on, would it really hurt that bad if you smiled?
-------------------------------
Dear Christmas Shopper,
Please don't hurt me. What did I ever do to you? (Besides provide extraordinary customer service, that is.)
First, the thank you's.
Thank you for shopping at my store.
Thank you for spending lots of money at my store for your wife, girlfriend, mother, and/or sister, whatever.
Thank you for being in the store all day, this makes my day go fast, which in turn, means I'm that much closer to leaving.
That's it. I'm wiped.
Second.
Fuck you.
Fuck you for not even AKNOWLEDGING my presence. When I say: "Hello, how are you doing today?" and you respond with: "I'm just looking..." and then you turn away from me? Not cool. I didn't ask if you needed help, I asked you how you were. Be nice.
I swear, sometimes, I think I'm the Assistant Manager's invisible friend and only she can see me.
Fuck you for only coming in to my store when I'm on a ladder (With proper supervision of course...) and there're racks and pyjamas all over the place.
How bout you come in when it's nice and clean. And quiet. It gives me something to do.
Fuck you for shopping at my store with your piss poor, woe is me attitude. What happened to "Holiday Spirit"? What about common decency towards man? Did your mother raise you that badly?
I don't care that you lost your list, or that the "other" store is cheaper.
Go there.
It'll fall apart.
A week after Christmas.
Tops.
Don't come running back to me.
Fuck you for getting mad at me when I can't break a hundred dollar bill. Sorry Daddy Warbucks, but Little Orphan Annie's cash register is not stacked. (Unlike herself...)
Fuck you for getting mad at me because I ran out of boxes. You think you're out shopping early? Not a chance.
I've got 110 year old ladies that were done in October.
Of 2005.
For this year.
Fuck you for asking me to show you something that you've been searching for, showing you a dozen of said item, and then complain that it's not "Exactly what you were looking for" and leave without buying something.
Fuck you for getting mad at me because the debit machine is down. It's not my fault. I just work there. I don't run the banks.
Next time, bring cash just in case.
Most of all, Fuck you for being rotten first thing in the morning before I've had my caffeine and sugar dosage. This has to happen before I plant the fake smile on my face for the rest of the day.
That is all.
Merry Chrismukkahwanzaa to all.
3 comments:
I am so glad I no longer work in retail..
One time, many moons ago, I worked part-time in ladies-shoes in a major department store. NEVER AGAIN. What your picture shows is what I would like to do to some of the women who come in, try on every pair in the store (two or three different sizes of the same shoe, too) then say, “No! Not today! I don’t have any money.” Then she would walk out kind of funny after I shoved a shoe (any size – just the first one I could get my hand on) up her ass. Selling women’s shoes is THE WORST job ever created. It adds some credence to me that women should be kept barefoot and…
I would be nice to you Boob Lady...I'm a happy shopper.
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