How To Be A Douche In Stores

It's amazingly easy to not be a douche in a store: Common politeness and courtesy.

Unfortunately, some people lack one or both.

More often, it's both. Sad.

I recently went to the wonderful land of Target. I love Target. I could browse for days in Target and be happy. If I had it all to myself, I could die happy.

Going down the main aisle, on my way to the make-up section because I desperately needed some new mascara. Because when you pull the stick/brush out and it's one large clump, it's time to let the tube rest in peace.

However, I had to take a detour.

Why?

Because evidently several people shopping ran into other shoppers they knew and promptly took up the entire main aisle. Not kidding. The entire aisle. Shopping carts. People. Just taking up important space. They were laughing, talking, and having a grand ol' time.

Shoppers of all kinds were trying to get around them. Trying to sneak through.

And these people were completely oblivious.

Even with other shoppers saying, "Excuse me" all polite-like.

Anybody with a cart had to divert down a side aisle. Like I did, because I had cat litter to buy so I needed a cart.

I hope these people are proud of their douchiness. Hope they enjoyed catching up with friends. And I hope they enjoyed their shopping experience at Target.

So, next time you want to aspire to be like them, just create a Flash Mob or have a family reunion at your favorite store and make sure everyone is in other customer's way.

 

An Open Letter to Disrepectful DVD Renters

Dear Prior DVD Renter from Netflix:

After having a movie from Netflix waiting by my TV ever so patiently for a few weeks, I finally had an afternoon to watch it. Uninterrupted. Being that it's about 28 degrees all day long (that's roughly -2* C for my international friends), I decided I'd cuddle with Miss Harriet (my cat for my new followers) under three blankets, and watch my movie.

I have my old Toshiba DVD player, which I got probably ten years ago now, and I can tell it's on its last legs because it makes all kinds of noise. Last year for my birthday, my parents bought me a Blu-Ray DVD player. I use that one most often as it doesn't make the odd sounds the old one does. However, I keep the Toshiba handy and ready to use in case I have a DVD that has a minor scratch and the Blu-Ray can't handle the pressure. More often than not, the Toshiba can save the day and get me through my movie.

Not today, Prior DVD Renter, not today.

The Toshiba fought the good fight. The Blu-Ray couldn't even load the DVD. The Toshiba, though it kept stopping, got me just over half way through my movie. And then I got the gray screen of death. I knew the disc was scratched, and that's why I switched from new to old DVD player. I'm not mad at either disc player - please make note of that.

I'm mad at every other Netflix user (aka YOU) who can't handle a DVD properly to save their own lives. And it's not just those who use Netflix. I once had a DVD I rented from a Blockbuster down the street from me in Sacramento. I didn't check the disc until after the fact, but about 3/4 through a movie, it just stopped playing. When I check the back of the disc it looked like someone had taken said disc to a rough surface (read: sandpaper) and tried the whole "wax on wax off" trick. I had to go to Blockbuster and show them the disc and suggested that maybe they check the condition of each disc once returned (I was agitated, but civil. Mostly agitated.).

I know minor scratches happen over time. Even some of my own DVD's that I'm very careful with manage to get something. But I take care of my discs. And yes, I'm aware that things happen during shipment and sometimes, maybe (just maybe), that's where some of the damage is from. What is it about renting something that makes people (like you, Prior DVD Renter) think they can do whatever the hell they want with the stupid thing? What, just leave that huge 3 inch scratch for the next sucker?

If you're old enough - if you remember VHS, do you remember that old corny logo that was stickered onto to every rented video? "Be Kind, Please Rewind". Yeah, that one. How badly did it irk you when you rented a movie and were all ready to watch it (all comfy on your couch or recliner with the popcorn ready and lights out) only to find out that the jerk who rented it before you "forgot" to be kind and rewind? And I'll age myself here, but did you have one of those VCR's that did not have a remote you had to pry yourself out of your comfy pose, cursing the whole way to the VCR to press "rewind", and then wait (still cursing, of course) until it stopped so you could hit "play". Or you had a remote, but it had to be plugged into the VCR and the cord was only 3 feet long, and your living room was 10 feet long? Yeah. How much did you love the previous renter of that movie, then?

Seriously. You're not the only one renting these movies. Netflix, as much as I've enjoyed it, doesn't allow you to watch just any movie online. And not all of us are so fortunate enough to have those really expensive game consoles (that we'd never use because we don't play video games), just for the purpose of streaming movies directly to our TV's.

Just in case, Prior DVD Renter, that you are unsure, here is a list of what the discs should not be used for:

~ Frisbee

~ Coasters

~ Litter box cleaning

~ Cat toys

~ Dog toys

~ Cutting boards

~ Cat scratching post

~ It should not come anywhere near sandpaper

~ Getting things from high places

~ Nail file

~ Ice skates

~ Dartboard

~ A place to test your pens to see if they still have ink

~ Smacking people or other objects

~ A TV tray

~ An ash try

~ Ninja style fighting tool

So, if you're one of those precious few who still has to rent the physical DVD (which I'm guessing you are by the shape of the innocent DVD), please, for the love of all things Holy, please be kind and treat the DVD's with some respect. Have some mercy on the next poor soul who has to rent the physical DVD (like me).

Because let me tell you, there is nothing more aggravating than thinking, "Yay! Movie time!" and finding out two and a half hours later when you're only an hour and a half into said movie that you've received the gray screen of death and your DVD player is flashing "ERROR". And you're forced to wonder if the Decepticons finally won, or if the Autobots kicked their robotic asses again (I'm quite sure it's the latter, but hey, you never know).

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pick from my own collection that I've seen hundreds of times for something to watch because the snow has blocked out my satellite dish and I can barely reach it with a broom and jumping like an idiot. Oh and because some rude DVD renter prior to me had the audacity to treat the disc like crap.

Thanks a lot Pior DVD Renter. You suck.

Sincerely,

Me.

Seriously?

Dear Internet Connection:

 

I just wanted to tell you how much I love it when I try to leave a comment on a fellow blogger's post you reset my connection once I've hit the "post comment" button. After I've typed a small novel.

 

Excuse me? What the hell did you need to reset, you retard? I was already connected, browsing at my will. And then you decide to "reset" my connection so that after all my hard work, my comment is possibly lost? Into the black void of computer-land? Screw you.  And the horse you rode in on.

 

Love, Kisses, and the Finger,

JDay

 

 

To Jewels, if you read this, here is the comment I attempted to post on your latest post regarding your open auditions for friends (since at the moment, I have no way of knowing if it actually went through . . . if it did, I'm sure it's slightly changed as I re-typed it):

 

If I didn't live 3000 miles away, I would sign myself up. But alas, long distance relationships never work, so I will take myself out of the running. Besides, I hate getting called on my shit (not that I'm crazy about calling others on theirs either), and I don't drink. Plus, it seems that we have a similar taste in men, therefore I could see us killing each other over said men, which would make it all a moot point if we actually did kill each other. However, I insist that you write your stories on here, so that I may live vicariously through you. Don't forget to include your dark twisted sense of humor, as I'm pretty sure we share that, too. I wish you the best of luck on your friend search endeavor.  :o)

Seriously, I hit "post comment", I get a notice on my browser saying the connection was reset, and I click on your link and I'm taken to GoDaddy.com. That shit is so random, it's just freaky. One day I can click your link and be taken to you, other days, it takes me to GoDaddy. That's just some weird shit. Oh, please don't think I'm mad at you, for I'm pretty sure the fault of the linkage issues isn't actually your doing. Next time I will copy/paste my comment before hitting any buttons just in case my browser pulls it's random idiocracy again. It's like the third time my browser did something retarded. Annoying. As. Hell. I had to restart my computer like three times to get stuff to work right.

Man, how I love technology.

How To Annoy Me 101

I consider myself somewhat laid back. Yes, I can get worked up over stupid little things, just like everyone else. But overall, it's hard to really piss me off. However, it's fairly easy to annoy me. And unfortunately, I could possibly be charged with assault for beating the snot out of those that do annoy me. Whether or not they realize they're doing it.

Referring to me as "special". I've recently written about my issue with eczema on my hands due to an allergic reaction to a new brand of gloves at work. Due to this reaction, I can no longer wear that type of glove, especially that brand. I have taken to wearing vinyl gloves, which seem to be doing okay. Unfortunately, they are clear and therefore are clearly different than all the pretty colored gloves we have. Several people have taken notice of my "special" gloves and have somehow attached the word "special" to me. On several occasions in the last couple weeks, people will say to me, "You're so special, you get special gloves." Or, "Why do you get special gloves?" Things like that. It technically does not offend me, but it annoys the shit out of me, as I've already told folks why I can no longer where the normal gloves. Singling me out as "special" will do you no favors with me. All of my co-workers are aware of the issue, so is my boss, and that's why I no longer touch the other gloves. It is not my fault that our company has decided to be cheap bastards and therefore change to a cheaper brand of glove that has a different additive that I'm apparently allergic to. It is not my fault that I am now forced to wear the "special" gloves. I don't want to be "special", I just want to do my job without my hands itching so bad I want to scratch the skin off. So, quit referring to me as "special" with "special" gloves. You make me sound and feel like I'm the paste-eating kid in the fucking corner.

Make me tell you the same thing ten times. Really? It's one thing if there's something loud in your ear and you can't hear me. It's another if I've already told you five times in the last 30 minutes. I don't care what it is I told you. If you're new to a bench and ask questions, even the same ones, I understand. You need time for it to sink in, to fully understand it all. When you've been doing the bench for several months to several years, I shouldn't have to tell you shit ten times. Don't make me send out "friendly reminder" e-mails to everyone just because you're a damned idiot and refuse to do it right. When you've been somewhere long enough, I shouldn't have to tell you what it is, what to do with it, and why. Put on your big girl panties and fucking do it. I'm not your mother and they don't pay me to be your nanny.

Invade my personal bubble. I fully understand and comprehend that everyone is different when it comes to this idea. Everyone is raised a little differently - different family dynamics or cultures. But y'all need to understand that, too. If we're telling secrets, yes, it's okay to be near me to tell me said secret. But in general, keep in mind the average person likes to have their own personal space. Some elbow room. Don't be standing so close to me that when I move, I do an accidental boob graze. Don't make me feel claustrophobic.  If you don't move away when I ask nicely, I get rude. Because you're in my fucking space. If you get upset that I'm getting rude, it's your own damn fault. I asked you nicely to start with. Your inability to move away from me will not induce me to be nicer. In fact, after rude, comes bitch. After that, I become  tattle tail and go to the boss. Respect the bubble.

Make me attend a training session where I learn nothing. Waste. Of. Time. Seriously, I could have slept another hour under my wonderful electric blanky. Instead I had to get up earlier than usual to make sure I was early to attend this uber-important training session. Once there, I'm plopped into a chair in a cold office, watching a boring Powerpoint presentation while on a conference call with half a dozen other night shift members from other labs across the country. Where I am forced to hear roll call of every lab in the country, and mine is at the end of the list because it's at the end of the fucking alphabet. Then I'm forced to listen to the creators of this wonderous Powerpoint as they read it verbatim to me over the phone. Really? I couldn't have just clicked through it myself? I had to have it narrated? What the Hell? And may I remind you, I learned nothing I didn't already know. So, what was the point?

Eating food that is not yours. And no you didn't receive an invitation. This has only happened to me once, but it happens to others. And it annoys me to no end that someone felt they that the right to take what's not theirs and eat it. Makes all of us who have had lunches disappear think about bringing a special lunch for that jackwagon, all laced with laxatives. Notice it's plural. It's a simple rule: If you didn't bring, don't eat it. Unless someone says, "Hey, I brought lots of food, so if you'd like some, please, help yourself." If you're not sure that you brought it, perhaps you shouldn't eat it. I mean, you take your lunch fours hours into your shift . . . if you can't remember what you brought, perhaps you should put your name on it. And start taking that Ginko-What-The-Fuck.

Saying my full name repeatedly; or even my nickname. I'm going to change my name. To Olga Hergensfeldt-Zolnerowich. Yeah. Doesn't roll off the tongue so pretty now does it? I know my name, don't wear it out. Don't sing it over and over.  I don't say yours, so please, don't say mine. Because when you say my name, I think you need something. When you don't, yet you keep saying my name, I place you in the "cry wolf" pile and I stop paying attention to you. And the next time you really need me and say my name, I'm going to assume that you're just saying it because it's apparently fun for you. Don't say my name just to say my name. It may be fun for you, but it's not fun for me to hear my damn name over and over.

Create drama just to create drama. I don't care where or why. It's one thing to create a scene if you found glass/fingernails/insects/band-aids/phalanges in your soup. It's one thing if someone ate your lunch. Otherwise, nobody cares. We all have complaints or issues, and we will listen to each other in turn, but we know when to stop. Creating drama at every turn just to get attention drives me batshit crazy. When you're attitude walks into the room five minutes before you actually do, it's time to see a professional. When no one wants to speak to you, it's time to re-evaluate. Don't throw a hissy fit about what you're assigned to only to be okay with it when the boss says someone else can do it. Don't have a conniption fit over something not working the way it should, meaning you're life just got harder for the rest of the day. Don't complain that no one helps you when you never ask for help. Don't one-up every story or complaint someone has so that you look like you're always better or worse off. Get a shrink, take a happy pill, and shut the hell up before I find a familial connection to the Mafia.