xpariahx

My mindset --->



Another wah, wah, I hate humanitry post. But it turns into a ha, ha, PWNED post.

Let me paint a picture for you. It is the lansdcape upon which my life is painted.

White trash is alive and well, in a supposedly well-to-do Southern Californian suburb. But after living in the Agoura/Calabasas/Westlake area most of my life, I'm convinced rich people make the worst kind of white trash. Some ex high school prom queen marries a CPA or a producer, and thinks she can be really classy now that she crams her white trash ass into a Juicy Couture crushed velvet jumpsuit and chugs around town in an Escalade or Hummer she can't drive for SHIT.

And then these usesless toerags BREED, and when they get tired of their spoiled, statanic little ADD offspring (who always seem to run low on their Rittalen just as the housekeeper gets deported for eyeing the good silverware, dontcha'know) they bring them to M***ael's Arts & Crafts to torment those of use who actually have to *gasp!* pay for our own university tuition (and car insurance, and groceries, and clothes, and...now I'm just depressing myself...).

Now, I know housewives must hate the sight of young women who don't plan to ever earn their spending cash spread-eagled on their backs while various and sundry children scamper about the house unsupervised, but tormenting ME with those brats is just uncalled for. If I wanted to spend all day cleaning up after some snot-nosed crotch-fruit (aka the beloved chyyyllldrun), I'd spred my legs and make some of my own, thanks. (Okay, empty threat. Maybe I'd adopt a cute little Asian girl. Maybe. More likely I'd just channel any 'maternal instincts' into my menagerie--three cats, two dogs, a bunny, a fish, two tortoises, and the soon-to-be spoiled addition of a green iguana. Who can waste time and space on a nursery when you have to convert the extra bedroom into a climate controlled vivarium for a five foot long lizard with a nasty disposition?)

The following segment was brought to you by Traditional In-Home Birth Control--when all else fails, just grab that fucking coat hanger and do what you gotta do:

I spent three hours out on the floor yesterday, since we were short on sales associates. Did I actually get anything accomplished in THREE HOURS on the floor? Nope. I spent the whole gorram time cleaning up after a bunch of little miracles. I was also hot, post-menstrual, and very short on temper, so I wasn't very pleasant about it. Three little brats (WITH the aid of their parents) decided to tear appart the Halloween costume grid. As my patience was nonexistent at this point, I just stood in the middle of the group of kids (aka ground zero). Every time they'd toss a mask on the floor, I'd pick it up and put it back. After a few minutes of this, did it occur to the parents that maybe THEY should be rescuing the masks that were being stepped on and ground into the floor? Nope. They just kept plucking more off the higher shelves that the kids couldn't reach. And when they finally moved off, I noticed that they left behind a (broken) part of our Lemax Christmas Village display. The display that could only be reached by one of the adults. Nice. Nothing like picking up the smashed pieces of a $50 display to brighten my day.

And the ultimate in upper-class white trash chic...dressing your nine year old daughter like a Suicide Girls model. Read my typeface: Little. Girls. Don't. Need. To. Show. Off. Their. Bodies. Yes, I know some morally depraved fashion icons actually sell thongs in child sizes (with clever sayings like 'Daddy's Girl' and 'Eye Candy') but that doesn't mean you can't be a fucking PARENT and say NO. Try it. Go on. 'No. NO. NOOOOOOO!' See? Wasn't that easy? So next time you take your nine year old shopping, axe the four inch heels, and buy her something that won't make the 30+ registered sex offenders who live in this town (several of which are in violation--thank you Megan's Law.com) run to the nearest restroom to beat off. If your child isn't old enough to grow TITS, she shouldn't be showing off her nonexistent cleavage. And let's just be *totally* old fashioned and bring down the hem of that skirt a few inches until she reaches, oh, say, middle school?



Ahh but now we have (as John Stewart would say) your moment of zen. Some grouchy lady was giving one of my cashiers trouble over a return, so I was called over to, eh, supervise. Since I threw away my company nametag and made a super-cute pirate themed one, it just has my name and not my position (this actually suits me rather well, as people who turn in job applications don't know that all it takes is a Post-it-note-of-Doom from me to keep them from getting hired, and thus they act more naturally).

So I guess when I got called over to handle it, she figured I was just there to make conversation or something. After I give her my deadpanned return policy speach (to which the customer always responds with, "I understand that, but...." There is no BUT. No buts for you. You are butless. Abandon your but-themed hopes and dreams all ye who enter my store) she comes at me with that famous line, "Can I talk to your supervisor?" So I just kinda look down at my feet for a second, then pop up my head with a cheerful smile and say, "I'm the supervisor. What can I help you with?" Store credit, bitch.

And now the real moment of zen



My puppy love! My bestest bud and (somewhat) adoring companion. No humans needed (I have a nice piece of the finest Japanese electronic technology and some D batteries to take care of anything I might need from a 'man').