I’m going to tell you a little about my morning. See, sometimes people tell me I’m too cynical, I’m too jaded, I’m too much of an asshole. And sometimes, I think that they’re probably right. The optimistic part of my brain goes, “You know, Ray, you actually have it pretty good.” And because I’m in that kind of mood, I go, “You know what, Brain? You may be right.”
I woke up at six this morning, I got dressed, and I fell back asleep for five minutes. I woke back up, grabbed a cup of coffee, and drove my princess to work. When I got home, I turned on the computer, took a shower, checked my e-mail, had some breakfast, got dressed. Drinking coffee this entire time, because I really like coffee in the mornings.
I got to work a little before nine this morning. The thing is, there are all sorts of managers from all over the place, they’re all having some three-day meeting at my store. Because it’s the central location or because the world hates me, I can’t decide which to believe. One thing all these managers are real big on is energy. Gotta have energy, man, because it’s all about attitude. You can’t get someone to buy a TV if you aren’t enthused about selling it to them, right? You have to have energy! Note to all dipshits: You know how you get people to buy TVs? You give them money. If people have money, they’ll buy shit. If they don’t, they won’t. It’s not about energy—it’s about putting up with people until they break down and give you some money, or until they break down and admit that they have no money.
Anyways, so because this is the way that major corporations spend money, they decided that we needed to have a morning meeting, and we needed to do something to get the energy flowing. The opening manager, he actually had a corporate checklist that they had given him. The first section was called “Ice Breaker.”
This was something he was supposed to do at the beginning of the meeting to get everyone “pumped up,’ to get the “energy flowing.” Or, as I call it, something to “make employees wish that they had been killed in a traffic accident on the way to work.”
Musical chairs. Let me say that to you again, right after I tell the optimistic part of my brain to go suck a dick. Musical…Chairs.
Here’s something you may not know about me—I’m not in third grade. I actually graduated from high school, believe it or not. I even went to college for a minute (I dropped out pretty quick because I’m a raving idiot, but after working in retail for a while, I’ve decided without a doubt that I will be going back to school as soon as I can even come close to affording it). My point is, I’m not supposed to be playing musical chairs. I’m not supposed to be cheering about what time is it, game time. I’m not supposed to have to be doing any of the moronic bullshit that I did for half an hour this morning.
What is it, man? Is it not enough to spend the day getting screamed at by people that aren’t intelligent enough to use Velcro? Now I have to humiliate myself by pretending to be excited to be at work? I have to play children’s games that weren’t even fun when we were children? Hey, you know what I want to do first thing in the morning?
I want to walk around a circle of chairs, listening to shit eighties music, and when it stops, I want a fat guy to sit down in my lap, and I want everyone to point at us and laugh, because he didn’t get a chair. And then, I want to listen to more shit eighties music, and then when it stops again, I want to sit on some other guy’s lap (because I’m sure he appreciates having a fat guy sit on his lap, too), and then I want everyone to laugh and point. Because tubby Ray was just too damn slow, and now he has to go stand by the rest of the reprobates that aren’t too good at sitting.
This is at nine thirty in the morning, man. I haven’t even started dealing with the lunatic public yet. Oh, and a quick aside: if you think I’m being harsh with the name-calling, dig this—there’s this lady that comes in now, I don’t know what the hell she’s up to. She roams around for a bit, she bitches at all the help, she screams and she yells, and then she demands a manager. When the manager gets there, she makes up all kinds of lies about the employees. Strange lies, like people calling her names, people threatening her, people laughing and pointing at her, whatever. Lately, she’s been saying that people are shoving her down. Because that’s how you sell TVs, man, is you grab your customer, and you just shove it. Then you do a ceremonial dance around the customer, and then sacrifice a Snickers bar to the sun god.
Just so you know—I haven’t been accused, yet. And just so you know—I won’t be. Because if she gets close to me, I’m going to shove her down, and then I’m going to stomp on her, and then I’m going to threaten the lives of her hundred and eighteen cats that are waiting for her at home, if she says anything to anyone. And if she tells on me anyway, nobody will believe her.
Am I being too cynical here? Too jaded? Am I being an asshole, what with all this talk about throwing old ladies to the ground? Maybe.
But probably not. In the immortal words of Goldilocks: “This porridge is juuuuust right.”
I gotcher “too hot” hangin’.