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Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Caution: Rudeness Ahead

Well, hello there. Welcome to another installment of 'Life in Zombistan' where you can catch up to the minute reports on what's currently pissing Zombie off and other random shit no one cares about. Shall we proceed?

I have several things to complain about today. Let's get started.

1) Snow. Okay, don't get me wrong. I like snow. For about five minutes. I also like to watch the snow fall from safely inside my (not-so) insulated and (not-so) warm apartment, preferably curled up by the boyf and snoogling a blanket.

However, today I ventured forth into the snow to acquire some cold meds. We're having a winter weather warning/advisory thing today. Snow's been bucketing down since early this morning. And I went a-trudging. My ears froze off after about 5 minutes of walking, so I made a point to grab one of those ear warmy headband things when I arrived at Wally-World. Riding the bus in the snow so sucks. Everything inside the bus is wet, people fling snow all over you when they get on the bus, everyone's coughing and hacking all over you, and all the college kids look fresh-faced and cheerful. Anyway, after lots of walking in the snow and bus riding in the snow, I hate snow, today.

2) People Commenting on the Obvious. 'Sure is cold out.' 'You must be cold.' 'Hey, you're not wearing a coat.' Okay, folks. I realize I'm not wearing a coat. I don't OWN a coat, and I haven't owned one for years. Nothing to be done about that, shut the fuck up, leave me alone.

3) Wally-World. Okay, I take that back. I do own a jacket now, but I went through hell to get it. While I was looking for an ear warmy headband thing, I saw a cute jacket. Fake leather thing, you know, fitted. Cute jacket. I grabbed it off the rack and it was my size. Sweet. I looked for a tag, expecting it to be a lot. There was no tag. At all. I looked around for more of the same jackets, so I could see how much it was. No more. This was the last one. After ten minutes of prowling the overcrowded redneck smelling aisles of that bastion of retail centers known as Wally-World, I finally discover, shock of shocks and miracle of miracles, a person that actually works in the store. I flag her down and explain my lack of tags problem. She stares blankly and says, 'This isn't my department.'

'Okay, fine. Find me someone who does work in this department. Please.'

She grumbles at me but wanders off to find another employee. Turns out they're all congregating at the fitting rooms, hiding from the customers. Can't say as I blame them, but still.

Anyway, I am handed over to a woman that does work in the women's clothing section, or whatever. I explain to her my lack of tags on the jacket dilemma. She says she can't let me have it.

I ask how that works. An item hanging on the rack, in a store, presumably a store that sells things...and I can't have it? She says since there's no tags, she could get in trouble if she sells it to me for less than it's supposed to be for. She wanders off with the jacket. I fume. I stroll around for a bit, still fuming, until I spy a manager type person. You know, button down, tie, nametag on the hip, radio thing.

I flag him down, and explain I'm pissed about the no tags jacket and how the employee handled my problem. After much hemming and hawing, we get the jacket back from the woman with no brain, and he says I can have it for 15 bucks. Good. I know it's worth more than that, and thusly, I am pleased. He tells me to tell the cashier at checkout to ring it up under department 34, for 15 dollars.

Skip to Zombie Waiting in Line:

I finally get to the register, and explain to yet another braindead Wally employee what the manager guy said. Department 34, for 15 dollars. She looks at me blankly. That seems to be a recurring theme today in Wally-Land.

Anyway, I say, 'No, really. It was the last one, with no tags. Some manager dude said I could have it for 15 bucks. Department 34. Go on. I want to get out of here.'

She says, 'My manager is female,' in this tone of voice like she thought I was trying to lie or something. 'We'll just have to see about this. I don't know why anyone would tell you something like that. It's not how we handle things.'

I said, 'Fine, maybe he wasn't a manager. Whoever he was, he had a nice white shirt and a tie and a nametag on his hip and he was yammering into a little radio like your manager type people carry around to communicate with each other, and he mentioned he was going to his office. He has brown hair, a moustache, and a slight southern accent. If he's not, in fact, a manager at this store, or some other form of higher up, I suggest you alert the authorities to the fact that you have some asshole masquerading as a higher up in the grand scheme of Wal-Mart, parading around with a phony name tag and selling items to angry women with snow all over them at less than cost.'

(that was the gist of it, anyway)

She stared for a minute, then started calling people. Every time someone came over, I said 'That's not the guy.' After this happened five times, I said, 'Look, either find the guy with the moustache and the southern accent, or give me the goddamned jacket. I want out of here now.'

Eventually, some woman with big hair arrived and she said, 'Oh, yeah, I was told about this. Edward the manager approved it.'


The dumb cow at the register stared some more. She began ringing up the jacket. Moustache Man wanders by, and I say loudly, 'LOOK, THAT'S THE GUY.'

He looks over, says 'Everything going okay with the jacket?'

Gee, I dunno. Ask the freak working the register. Christ.

Anyway, now I have a nice new black jacket for probably half of what it was worth. I also got a cute burgundy shirt and black skirt so I have something nice to wear to the interview for this job at U of M I'm going for. Wish me luck on that one. I won't look like a total incompetent, because I have a new shirt.

Thanks to you know who for helping out with that one. Love you, dollface. =)

4) Poets. I write poetry. Most of you know that. It's maybe not good, but it's maybe not terrible. I like to read poetry, too. I've some favorite poets, like Margaret Atwood, Pablo Neruda, Rainer Maria Rilke, Matsuo Basho, et cetera, et cetera.

Unfortunately, so much poetry out there is such utter crap, it gives poetry itself a bad name. Why do people insist on writing poetry? I think it's because most people think it's easy. Writing a good poem is not easy. Throwing 85 random words together in random chopped up lines so you think you look profound is not poetry. Whining incessantly about how alone you are, how much everyone hates you, how mean your parents are, how bleak and dark your life is, how black the blacky black night is, how deep your deepy deep despair is, how dirty your dirty dirty soul is, how much you loathe the fat kid sitting next to you in Spanish class because one time he spit on your shoe, or how exquisitely excruciating the dark darky dark pit of despair, woe, death, and destruction that is your worthless life not poetry.

Please have a little consideration for your fellow man, people that write crap like this. Please, I beg of you. Actually, what prompted this is that I came across this blog and had a hard time not wrenching my eyeballs from their very sockets. I'm presuming the kid is probably only 15 or so, he's got that Teen Angst, I Must Rhyme Everything in Sight groove thing going on, but even so.

I admit to writing Teen Angst Rhyming Nonsense when I was 13 or so, but I grew up after that. And I did not show it to anyone. And I especially did not post it on the internet every day to potentially assault millions of people all over the world with my trite shit.

So you see my pain. My dark darky dark woeful pain.


I think I'm done for now...stay tuned.

link | posted by Zombie at 3:43 PM |


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