I’m not trying to be arrogant, but jeez Louise… I can’t stand GameStop!  As a matter of fact, I’ve found that I have a deep-seated resentment for the entire establishment.

     This afternoon’s visit even more strongly reinforced that resentment.

     I went into several different locations — in several different states — before Christmas looking for a particular gift which was “soon to be released” instead of “in stock now!” as their advertisements said, and that kinda ticked me off, anyway.
     But that’s not what this rant is about.  In fact, it’s far more pointed — and perhaps more personal — than that.

     Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that all GameStop employees are idiots, because that’s not true.  There are Accountants, Franchise Owners and Managers (more on them later) who might be associated with any given location and who may be, by all accounts, “normal.”  I can’t say the same of the Ad people, because Ad people are pretty much abnormal anywhere they’re employed — and they’re not the reason I dislike GameStop.  Even with the “in stock now!” garbage…

     No, the thing I hate about GameStop?

     It’s the regular employees, of which there are at least eight at any given location.

     At first, you think they’re just black-shirted customers, running around the store acting like idiots, hiding behind the displays yelling, “Bee-owp!  Bee-owp!” as they pretend to shoot at each other with invisible implements of destruction.
     “Can I help you find anything?” they’ll eventually ask.
     “No,” you reply.  “This is a pretty small store.”

     Immediately, six of them begin dodging their invisible lasers, screaming, “Bee-owp!  Bee-owp!” again.

     At some point, the seventh employee will run out from the back, ripping the latest firearm-style controller (for the latest mega-cool platform!) from out of its protective box, screaming, “Bee-owp!  Bee-owp!” at his invisibly armed compatriots.

     Upon closer inspection, you’ll notice their tell-tale GameStop employee ID’s, which, instead of being pinned to their shirt, hang from around their necks like they’re roadies guarding the back-stage of a Metallica concert.  Only, they listen to Europop Techno…
     In fact, the only thing they have in common with the “cool” guys they’re trying to emulate is the fact that they’re like … forty.
     The “younger,” eighth employee (a mere thirty-years-old) feverishly slaves away behind the cash register, his penance for being “so much younger” and “less cool” than his elder brethren.

     The Manager is always in the back, pulling his hair out.  Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the balls to control his motley crew — yeah, not the band — of prepubescent middle-agers and attempt to set things right.  Instead, he comes to help customers at the cash register because he just can’t have his employees arguing with customers about those damn ads…
     He leaves the store at 10PM, gets home at 10:15PM, and is drunk by 10:30PM.  His wife screams at him incessantly, and he just can’t handle it any more.
     You just know that at any moment, some proverbial needle will hit the floor, breaking the silence like cannon fire, and our mild-mannered Manager will suddenly become Michael Douglas in “Falling Down.”  (Perks of the job — he scarfed that movie from out of the Used DVD bin last Thursday, and watched it while getting wasted on Peach Schnapps and Mountain Dew.)

     Maybe there are normal GameStop stores in the world.  Maybe all of their counter staff aren’t overgrown, pimply-faced, forty-year-old virgins who are sadly content to live in their grandmother’s basements pretending to be part of Vader’s 501st Stormtrooper Legion, Klingon Commander Haktarr, or Yoric the Hill Giant Slayer.

     I just haven’t met them yet, because I am way too cool for GameStop…

     And don’t even get me started on Starbucks…

     So, Thursday night at around 9PM, I dropped three movies into the outgoing mail slot where I live.  Friday afternoon, after getting back home from a hard day out, I dropped another into the outgoing mail.
A couple of hours later, I got notifications from Netflix that four movies had been received.  I was a little confused, because that’s way quicker than usual to get all the way to Duluth, GA…
“Ok, they must’ve setup a pre-emptive return deal, and scanned the movies at the post office, like Blockbuster tried to do,” I thought.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the mail box today and found four movies! As an entrepreneur, my first though was they must have gotten advice from a top experiential marketing agency. This was awesome!

After ripping the outer label off, I was even more surprised to find that Knoxville now has its own distribution center!

That’s a really unexpected move, and a nice “Happy New Year” gift.  So, if you’re in the Knoxville area and didn’t sign up because of the time it took to send movies back and forth, that’s a non-issue now. 🙂

Netflix – Only $4.99 a month! No Late Fees. Try it for Free!

I have decided on what one of the most annoying occurances in a woman’s life can possibly be.

I was at work and everything was coming up roses. I had an super great hair day. I even woke up early enough to slap on some war-paint. I had a box to pack up for a customer who is in a shit panic to get something done RIGHT NOW, after he had been advised a week ago that he needed to take action.

Whatever. Lack of planning on his dumb ass part, does not constitute a shit panic for me. None the less, I went ahead, as a good colleague would, and got his stuff put together for him and was putting the large part (a 50 pound instrument) into the box when I felt it…. SNAP! The underwire in my most favoritest bra gave out.

That kids, is annoying. My boob popped out of said bra into my shirt, making my the girls look all awkward and crooked. Needless to say, the bra came off and I wore my sweatshirt for the rest of the day.

---

I made an attempt to be stealth like a ninja this weekend. I did, really. I waited for Big T to get up and go to work, acting totally and convincingly asleep. He was out the door and I jumped up to take a shower. I hi-jacked the truck and snuck all the way to Pigeon Forge to the Music Outlet.

I cried on the sales fella’s shoulder about how I had to have the camo Morgan Monroe guitar case, of which they only had one and was already half paid for by some psycho woman.

Being the spoiled brat I am, I tried to talk him into giving me that one and ordering her another one, but to no avail. Kids, I haggled this dude for 20 minutes before his son said, “Dad, I think there might be one upstairs in the storage room.”

The waters parted and the heavens opened when I saw the boy coming back down the stairs a mere 30 minutes later carrying the last one they would ever have.

I am such a good wife that I pay attention to all the stuff Big T says. And I specifically remember him making a mental note that he was going to go back and get that case one day. Check. I made a mental note too. I was sure it would get me a free pass for a wicked roll in the hay. Woo!

Anyhoo, I get home and try to get in the house before Big T can come help me in with the stuff. But, I didn’t make it. He was out the door before I could fart and run from it.

He asked obviously annoyed that I would have enough nerve to put something back there when he had specifically told me not to. “What’s that in the back of the seats? I thought I told you not to put anything back there, baby.”

“I know you did. It’s for Natalie (my kid) and it’s lightweight. I was afraid it would blow out of the bed if I put it back there.” I protested.

He rolled his eyes and said “Unlock the door, let’s get it out and take it in the house.”

What could I do. I handed him the key. Mind you, he’s had a hard-on for this particular item for a little over a year.

He pulls the box out and looks in it. I swear, I thought he was gonna cry. The look of horror on his face that he had found one of his Christmas presents.

Oh well, his bad. He ain’t gettin it until Christmas day. I’ll wrap that bitch up and put in under the tree anyway. He better act surprised and he better still give me some major league nookie.

So much for being a ninja.

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Taco Bell gets a stay of execution for now.

As promised to Ms. P, I went ahead forewent my diet in order to keep Taco Bell in business. I have had a burrito and large Diet Dew two days in a row. There is no need for anybody so sweet to die of hunger because of my vanity. What the hell was I thinkin anyway? Maybe that is why I broke bitch in like 1.3 seconds… maybe it wasn’t PMS… maybe it was lack of bean burritos with extra red sauce.

Thank you, Puddin, you saved me from myself.

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What is a school zone? A school zone is a place where flashing lights, crossing guards and cops all come together with one goal in mind… to slow folks down in order to avoid mowing down of any munchkins.

I respect the school zone and all of its components. However, some asshat in an SUV, who apparently woke up a little late, doesn’t.

I drive my kids to school every single day, as she is too much of a princess to ride the damn bus. Which is fine. I too was a princess. I take into consideration that I might just run into traffic in the school zones, and allow this into my alotted time for the AM commute. Generally I take it for what it is and am a mellow driver. I don’t suffer from road rage very often… until today. Today was the day I finally snapped.

Anyway, the forementioned asshat decided that he was in a hurry and as a result his SUV was raping my poor little car he was riding so close… like right up the tailpipe raping. Not like I could go anywhere any faster with the half mile of folks trying to do the same thing I was.

I didn’t think about my daughter (16) sitting next to me when I finally got pissed off. I rolled down the window and yelled back at him “If you’re gonna ride my ass, at least pull my hair, asshole!”

Ooops. Of course, my kid busted out laughing and looking back at him. He must’ve been humiliated cuz his boy was laughing his ass off as his dad yelled at him. Good. Back off and don’t ride other people’s bumper. It’s just consideration.

There are some things that you just expect when you are on a 3am-after-party-food expedition. Granted at 3am, choice are limited to few establishments.

After partaking in my fair share of cold brew and closing down Catscratch Jane’s on Wednesday night, the whole load of us decided food was in order as it was late & we were packing a cool buzz. Never mind that my ass had to get up at 7:00am to finish broccoli casserole. So, personally, I was in need of coffee.

Where else would ya go at 3am on Thanksgiving morning for a little sobriety effort? Why, Waffle House, of course.

We wandered in giggling and cackling about anything and everything. All it takes for me to get tickled is enough beer and somebody else starting to laugh. No shit, laughing & yawning are contagious around me.

We finally played musical chairs long enough, got seated and our waitress came over. She was obviously annoyed that she was working and she was obviously even more annoyed that she was dealing with us. If you have to work that shift, at least make an effort to enjoy it.

Whatevers. This poor chick had the personality of a wet-sweat-sock. She took 2 of our orders, not speaking between, just sort of grunting at whoever happened to be next.

Just as she grunted toward #3, her cellie rang. The fact that she had her cellie on her was no big deal. Even the fact that it rang while she was waiting on us was no really big deal even. But when the bitch cut me off mid-order to answer it, now that just pissed me off. Her side of the conversation went this-a-way.

“I gotta answer this.” She grunted as she lowered her head, still facing our table (presumably so her boss wouldn’t see).

“Hello? Who is this? Who is this?” She acted like she didn’t know who HE was.

“Who the hell is this, I’m at work and I have customers.” Why the hell would you tell somebody you don’t even know that you are currently at work and are waiting on them?

“Jesus, Robert. No, I’m not talking to anyone else.” She DID know his ass.

“How can I be cheating if I’m working?” Apparently, Robert didn’t have any faith that she was truly working. I guess that Waffle House distinct waffle and bacon smell being emitted by her apron wasn’t enough proof.

Taucha, my drunk monkey friend, decideds she wants to talk to Robert. So, the waitress obliges (and takes another little bit of our order). After only 2.7 minutes, Taucha hands her the phone back and says to our lovely server, “Lose him, girl. He’s a dick.”

Mario getting on the phone didn’t help. It made Robert believe that she really was in the cubicle of a bathroom bangin’ the customers.

We all figured Robert would show up waving a semi-automatic threatening to blow up the Waffle House and everyone in it because in his head he believes that his girl was fucking us all.

Get a grip, pal. Let the girl bring home the bacon in piece you loser.

** The name of the company in question has been changed.

Ok, kids.   I have been doing my bestest trying to be nicer to people.  This has been going on for some time now.  However, nothing gets the better of me than those annoying ass automated phone calls from Joe Solicitor.  Or the calls you get from Sally Salesperson where they ask for you by first name and try to act like an acquaintance…  Dayum.  I thought that shit was borderline illegal on a harassment level.

Anyway, today I turned the tables.  I got an automated call from “Kelly”.  She was offering us the moon and stars and possibly the sun too if we would “press one to stay on the line for a representitive”.

So, I press one.  I hold for a brief 20 seconds or so, expecting “Kelly” will pick up personally and explain to me this great pitch of hers.  A pitch I intended to let her waste her time giving before asking to have all of our business numbers removed from her bullshit auto-dial system.

All that went out the window, when rather than “Kelly”, some deep voiced, crankity, old british dude picked up. 

“You’re not Kelly.”  I say to him, agast that the wool was pulled over my eyes.

“No, that was a recording.  Are you interested in learning more.”  He blurts out in harsh monotone.

“Uh.  No.  Actually.  I’m really, really tired of you people calling us and would like you to remove our number from your database.”

“Done.”  He said as he disconnects my call.

OH NO HE DIDN’T.

God bless *69.  I annoy the shit out of many-a-telemarketer when I can actually get my hands on the number they called from.

So I dial *69 and get the number.  I press each digit and the little british weasel that hung up on me answered.

**”First Asshat”  He answers.

“Yah.  I was connected to you to be removed from your call list and you hung up on me.”  I lament.

“Well, I didn’t hang up, but you have been removed.”  He sneers.

“How the hell am I removed when you only called one of our numerous numbers, sir? Can you explain that?  Do you have a list with every company that notes every number within that company?” 

I’m ready to fight with him by this time. 

“We have them.”  He hangs up again.

So, me (being me), I dial them up again.

“First Asshat”  It was some uptight manly sounding british woman this time.

“I’m calling to be removed from your call list.”

“Yes, that’s why I answered, I heard the conversation with my employee.”  She says.

“It’s pretty simple.  Remove all of our numbers, now, or I will call you 500 times a day until Jesus comes back.”  I tell her.

“They will be removed.”  She retorts as SHE hangs up on me.

Needless to say, I have spent the last hour randomly picking up the phone, dialing the number and saying…

“Hi it’s me.  Only XXX number of the promised calls left today.”

I kind of wonder if I can get in trouble for it.  If anybody would like to have the same big ball of fun as I am, and help me annoy the shit out of these people, I’d be glad to share the phone number with ya.

Happy dialing!