Mr. Attitude's House Of Hate

May 24, 2004
Not much in the ways of savage hatred lately. Life seems to have been drained from this vessel. Tedium has rendered me almost tame and mundane. But I can still see the red spark of hatred deep in the dark pit called my �heart�, so fear not simpletons, your Dark Lord Of Hatred is not extinguished yet.

As foretold, my job sucks, although not the worst job, it has finally reared a very retarded part.

I should probably inform you that I work at a clothing store, and I �work� there about ten hours a week, that�s two whole shifts!

Anyways, I got a �performance� review the other day. Up until that day, the manager and the assistant manager told me I was doing a �great job.� Then in the �performance� review, I get nothing but negativity. Although, I did agree I had to improve in one area, but the rest seemed made up by someone who has drank a can of paint thinner (which we have stored in the bathroom of the store for some reason). I had to sit there and try not to laugh as the assistant manager told me about all the �inconsistences� in my work. Keep in mind, this was on my first day back after a week between shifts. The assistant manager was surprised that I had no questions at all pertaining to the review. I refrained from telling her that I had nothing to say because it seemed like bullshit and was not worthy of questioning.

I work two days a week, with anywhere from three to seven days off between shifts. How the dog-raping-hell am I supposed to be consistent with a fucktarded schedule like that? I work different days, at different times with different people, and we get different customers. How do they expect to get any form of regularity out of that? I am in no goddamn way going to make the same sales on a Tuesday afternoon that I would on a Saturday. It is just not fucking possible.

The customers are a different story. Most of them and not assholes, and can actually be helped, but every now and then, you get one cunt who needs to be strangled with a pair of jeans and hung from the rafters. Most notably, this one big fuck wearing a Harley Davidson jacket. That might sound intimidating, but he was old and had a cane for Christ�s sake. So I approach him and ask if he needs help finding anything. He responds with, �No, I�ve been harassed enough already today.� I just nodded my head and left, trying desperately to contain both the urge to laugh and drop-kick him in his good knee. As far as I knew, this was the first time anyone approached him in our store, so his dickitude was uncalled for. Like, don�t rip my head off for offering to help your crippled ass.
And then there's the people who say they don�t need help, and then tear apart all the clothes you spent the day folding because they know exactly what they want, yet leave without buying anything because they couldn�t even find their hands after I nailed them to their foreheads.

Oh well, at least I get to listen to cd�s I made at work. And it could be worse, I could be Sting.