Interesting Times

I got sick of interesting customer of the week. As you may have noticed. As much as I find the people who come along to my place of business a largely fascinating breed of cock-mops, they are still cock-mops and remain destined to be labelled so forever. Tossers the lot of 'em.

So, on with a rant.

About the same scrotum-sucking bags of pus, shit and crusted over ejaculate mentioned in the first paragraph. Having finished uni for the year, I've been entertaining myself by working overtime, to my eternal regret. The preferable alternative to facing full-time retail work, as I've recently discovered, is to walk naked into the meeting place of a group of violent feminists, and hand out the kitchen utensils. But as all of you pricks would sorely miss me if I stopped writing for this semi-regular foul-mouthed psychosis, I shan't do that.

There are three types of customer in this horrible thing we call a world. The first is the awkward bugger, who wants the item from the top shelf, or wants us to head to the stockroom to find whatever garment they are questing for. This is about the best sort of customer we get. The second is the middle-aged female, having given up on life and now floating through existance with a trackie (Tracky? Trackee? How do ya spell that?) a screaming brat that she's looking after for the mother who's just started her GCSE's and a husband who's so pissed off at his shitty job and total impotance that he gets his kicks from throwing empty Stella cans at those near to him. This broken women are normally haunting the womenswear or underwear sections (Trying to convince themselves that they can be physically attractive, goddammit!) so I don't see them too much. Until they venture into menswear, and ask me if we do tracksuit trousers that would be suitable for a formal occasion. Jesus Christ I wish I was joking about that.

Then, looming over the piss-stained horizon, are the gold medallist scrotum-suckers. If Bruce Springsteen had recorded "Born to Suck Scrotum" then these guys would be on the front cover. (Yes it's a Pratchett joke.) The type of individual who comes along just to be fucking annoying. By pulling apart stands, knocking over displays that I know through experience take about half an hour to tidy. And then they depart, with a smile on their miserable little fucking faces.

Fuckers. All of them.

-Az