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When I Grow Up by Ray Printer Friendly

Hate Week. The perfect time to talk about my dreams, my goals, my aspirations. If you don’t know me very well, you might think that Hate Week would be the worst time to talk about these things. If you know me, you’ve known that it was only matter of time before I brought this up. Aspire to Hateness, not greatness, that’s my motto for the day.

I want to run my own business. I’m not sure what it is I’ll be selling, but you can be sure that it will be great. It’ll have to be something so awesome, so fantastic, so NECESSARY, that people will have to have it. Because the service at my place, it will be bad.

Worse than bad, really. I want to openly insult the customer, degrade the customer, and humiliate the customer, preferably in front of their friends and family. And I want them to come back for more.

See? This is what happens when you work in customer service for too long.

I have daydreams about this kind of thing, and don’t think for an instant that I don’t realize how depraved that is. So, in the interest of keeping Hate Week alive, I will let you in on how I plan to run my business.

.

.

First of all, I will not hire professionals. I will hire people who make me laugh, and have lots of CDs that I can borrow. They have to smell pretty good, too, because I don’t want my business to stink. They have to be witty, because they will have to come up with quick burns when a dumb-ass customer decides to get lippy.

There will be a big sign over the cash register that says, “The customer is always first…to get thrown out of this store covered with pepper spray and cigarette burns. So watch your mouth.”

Anyone who asks for a manager will be fed to crocodiles. Or—since I guess that’s pretty illegal no matter how good of a product you’re selling—they’ll be kicked in the balls. If they don’t have balls, I’ll come out from the back, pretending like I’m psychic and tell them that they have cancer of the uterus. And then I’ll tell them that someone they love is going to die…soon…unless they get the hell out of my store.

There will always be music playing, and if anyone says, “This music is terrible,” I’ll knock them down and tape some sort of lizard to their throat.

Everybody who works there will dress up in strange costumes, and at random times we’ll all start moving around in slow motion, so that the customers think they’re having some kind of mental breakdown.

Any time I get a customer complaint about the attitudes of my employees, I will bring the employee out and ask him or her to repeat what was said to the customer. Like this: “Hey, Mark, can you come over here for a second?”

“Sure, Ray. What’s up?”

“This customer says you insulted her.”

“Yeah. I said she was fat and she smelled bad.”

“Another incident like this, and I’ll have to fire you. We can’t have behavior like that.” At this point, the customer—the fat, stinky lady—is going to be looking all smug, and probably mentally preparing some stupid speech about how I should take more care in the hiring process of future employees. “I mean, OF COURSE she’s fat. OF COURSE she stinks. But, Mark, I don’t pay you to point out the obvious. Come on, man, did you see her kid? She’s coming in hauling that hideous little bastard around, and the best you can come up with is that she stinks? And look at her haircut! It’s like someone glued a really bad traffic accident to her scalp and then covered it with rotten animal pelts. This kind of work is really substandard.”

“I’m sorry, Ray, it won’t happen again.”

“Okay, I’m glad we had this talk. Why don’t you snap a couple of Polaroids of these freaks for our Ugly Wall and then go out and have a smoke, so that you can think up ways to improve your performance around here.

If the customer hasn’t committed suicide by this point, or at least run out of the store in tears, I will drop a piece of raw bacon down the front of her dress and release my specially trained, very carnivorous, genetically-mutated batch of flying monkeys to chase her out.

Hey, maybe that’s what I’ll sell, is flying monkeys. I’ll alter them so that they have laser guns for hands, and dress them all up like Batman. And they’ll glow in the dark and be really good at Scrabble. Who wouldn’t want to buy one of those?


Comments:
Entered By TestName From nXKwab Test myfunction comment
2007-09-16 12:04:31

nXKwab Test myfunction comment


Entered By TestName From ph7vNR Test myfunction comment
2007-09-16 18:39:44

ph7vNR Test myfunction comment


Entered By TestName From srrWr0 Test myfunction comment
2007-09-16 21:08:59

srrWr0 Test myfunction comment


Entered By TestName From f6kKhM Test myfunction comment
2007-09-16 23:39:29

f6kKhM Test myfunction comment


Entered By Ray From Austin
2008-08-02 02:21:24

"Test my function comment?" What is that, some kind of a freaky sex thing where you put shiny objects up my bottom and then put me on display in public places? I'll not be a part of that, TestName, until you've purchased me several very alcoholic drinks.



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