Work Sux!

“Do I have to do this shit again?” is the defeatist mantra I mutter every day I have to trudge into this soul murdering retail nightmare.

My failure to follow through with a college degree or apply myself in any credible way lead me down this path of misery. I don’t remember raping a baby, because that’s the only act that would justify the karmic backhand I tolerate every day I work at a toy store.

Being face fucked at knife point by a clown is a worthwhile analogy. Imagine a bright, colorful clown raping your mouth hole, spraying jizz all over your face, then tossing glitter all over your tear stained, cum splattered mug. That’s what a day in the toy store is like.

I get through my daily rigor in different ways. For instance, when the frustration reaches a fevered pitch, I’ll grab a random stuffed animal off the plush aisle and rend it asunder, replacing the eviscerated critter back with his peers who are still in tact. No one has discovered who the mystery plush toy murderer might be. They have their suspicions though.

Murder is a fantasy I indulge. My disdain for all humans is palpable at the job. Sometimes I’ll imagine launching myself across the counter, wrapping my clawing digits around the throat of the first cunt who behaves as if they’re royalty instead of botched anal sex at a drunken high school prom.

I imagine coming to work with a razor-sharp machete, rampaging up and down the aisles as I separate little heads from shoulders in an incredible ballet of homicide. The daydream is so visceral and complete that I can feel the warm spray of childrens’ plasma as it coats Barbie dolls, stipples Monopoly board games and soaks bargain action figures of popular super heroes.

My imagined spree would continue into the food court, where patrons would be struck silent with the horror of a blood marbled grim reaper in a red polo shirt and name tag, his eyes pinholes of insanity, his face a twisted joker’s mask of kill-crazy euphoria.

I fathom the gunshots as a distant sound, hardly associated with the sociopath who’s currently bathing in the life fluid of fuckable teenagers and morbidly obese consumers. My skull would explode under the concussive shells of multiple high powered rifles, my body slumping onto the boot scuffed tiles, a pool of crimson that matches my red shirt perfectly in tone. The machete would still be gripped in my fist as rigor mortis sets in.

But alas, I never carry out my hateful vengeance on the mall. I’ll know it’s time to make a lateral career move the minute I find myself actually shopping for the machete.

Hungover Like a Mother F$#*er!

I feel like a leaking bag of shit today. The staccato drum of pain in my temple feels alarmingly like a series of mild stroke. Acidic bile is percolating at the back of my throat as waves of nausea threaten to blanket retail customers in a column of vomit.

Calling in sick to a month old job is probably a bad idea. Fuck it. One of the few benefits to a shitty, minimum wage retail job is the freedom that comes with not giving a fuck.

So, staying loyal to my apathy, I decided to go to work anyway, hung over, smelling like fetid garbage left in the hot Atlanta sun, and openly unpleasant to the customers.

“Do you have any black Barbies?” some disembodied voice cuts through my muddled thoughts like the sudden rattle of a jackhammer.


“BLACK Barbie dolls!” the fat woman snorts, her forehead wrinkling in annoyance. “All the dolls here are white. Do you have any dolls of color?”

“No,” I sneer, fighting back the mouthful of yesterdays toaster pizza. “This store is run by white supremacists. They think black people are inferior.”

Her outrage renders the woman blissfully silent, allowing me the opportunity to stumble to the bathroom and retch violently.

Last night was a transient slur of booze fueled rage. Blake and I decided to practice, something I was convinced would improve our less-than-stellar live performance. I queued up a drum beat I liked and we got to it. Inevitably, things quickly degraded into bong hits, chopping up lines of prescription drugs, alcohol binging, then fist fighting as a nightcap.

Thankfully, Blake’s roundhouse jab missed my face, striking me on the side of the head. A painful lump the size of a small walnut is concealed by my hair, which is convenient. It’s important to maintain a professional level of presentation when working a shitty job you hate. It just won’t do to have a black eye or split lip when you’re selling action figures to spoiled children.

Despite my state of walking death, I’m glad I came to work today. Shit, I’m typing this blog on my phone while children turn the aisles into complete bedlam. I need the cash. Since this isn’t a full time gig, sick days are unpaid. As we all know, narcotics cost money.

An eight ball on payday is looking mighty tempting. Fuck rent.

A Career in Freefall

Making the proclamation that you hate your job is often a queue to the universe. It’s a prompt for the universe to demonstrate just how big its cock is and just how painful it is for said cock to bury itself in your ass.

I got fired from my horrible job at the vitamin store. I was fired on Friday, of all days. What regional director of sadism came up with the policy to shit can an employee on Friday? That’s totally fucked up. There are few things that sully a perfectly acceptable weekend like unexpected unemployment.

It was a drug test, or my refusal to take one to be more accurate, that sealed my fate. As I arrived at the store, I was greeted by several senior members of management. The fact that I was fifteen minutes late and noticeably hung over was grounds enough for dismissal. Since they had taken great effort to bring a drug test with them, why not use it?

Apparently, some customers had complained about yours truly. Several scandalous phone calls were placed to the head office, claiming that the sole employee in the store was rude, disheveled and reeking of marijuana. If I knew which customer had ratted me out, I would be tempted to burn their fucking house down to the foundation.

To make a long story short, an official looking man in a slate gray suit presented me with a cup to urinate into. I countered his request with a wad of spittle in his right eye and a shrill yelp of “Suck your father’s wrinkled ball bag you butt fucking corporate cock sleeve!”

I was dragged, thrashing and shouting, out of the mall. The patrons of the food court seemed to be quite amused watching the sad episode unfold.

One of the fortunate (or unfortunate) facts surrounding shitty jobs is that they’re plentiful. The sun had barely set on my recent exodus from the working world before I found another awful job.

I hate this one even more than the last. I’m working at a fucking toy store of all places – a god-fucking-damn-loud-as-fuck-with-screaming-children-mother-cock-sucking toy store!