Its been a while since I wrote one of these doodads, so excuse the rusty-type phrasing.
So, some of you may have noticed that I have dropped off the Fanpop radar-becoming a stealth Poppette, if you will (though I am annoyed at the distinct lack of forums, etc, wailing and crying about my absence-looking at you, Obby!).
Where is the wailing, the horrific, gut-wrenching wailing?
This is a direct correlation with the Scary Real Life. I got a job. I went back to college. I started working at my youth group again. I was washing my hair. And so forth.
I like my job. I meet people, I work with a lovely group, and I genuinely enjoy myself. Especially the money. I do love the moolah, and the goods and services one can attain by exchange of the wingwangs.
Money. I like money.
However, I had conclusive proof today that humanity should be taken out back and put down.
We're a busy operation. We work hard when we're open, and even harder when we closed. See, we have to do a LOT of cleaning. And I mean a lot. So when we get the news that two managers are coming down tomorrow morning, we(myself and my co-worker, lets call her Vernbon, for funsies) decided to close the shop five minutes earlier to give us a little bit more time to organise the place, and allowing us and the security guards to go home at a decent hour.
See, in my world, this means more work
No problem, except at 5:40, a queue of sorts has formed. So I go to close the queue, aka stand at the end of the line swigging a bottle of Coke so I can stay awake, no easy feat due to the five hours I've been standing with no break.
I'm at the back. Look for the Coke bottle
A few people walk up. I politely tell them we're closing, they say 'Okay so', and walk off. Until a little girl walks up. I tell her we're closing. She passes this on to Mammy and Daddy dearest, over to one side.
Daddy walks up, I explain to him. He replies (stay awake, this part is pivotal) 'I completely understand.'
GOT THAT! HE said it.
Then Mammy dearest walks over, demanding to know why I won't allow her children, the little rays of sunshine that they are, to get ice-cream. I explain again that the shop is closing. I have three teenagers in front of me, and by the time Vernbon has dealt with them, we'll be at our closing time.
Much more attractive than the one I dealt with
Mammy doesn't like this at all. Tells me smugly that it is only 5:40 (thus displaying a miracle of evolution: baboons can tell time), and demands we serve her.
Essential for buying ice-cream
By this point, I'm pissed. The three teenagers has actually only been one, with assorted hangers-on (people need an entourage when buying ice-cream). The eldest child is snidely remarking what a great example I am for kids. I wonder if someone can 'accidently' be hit in the face by a tub of sprinkles.
12th highest cause of death in Europe
So my co-worker says (grudgingly) that she'll serve them.
She serves them, mostly to get rid of them. I walk back into the shop. At this time Mammy is demanding my name, and my manager, to complain me, after I have been subjected to a furious yet condescending lecture from Daddy about how damn lucky I am to have my job in a recession. I say I'm sorry for doing my job, noting in interest another scientific fact : creatures of limited intelligence cannot detect sarcasm, as denoted by the fact that he stated the obvious 'you're not a damn bit sorry!'
Indisputable scientific fact: Can detect sarcasm
Right now I'm looking for volunteers to form an angry mob, to hunt down these 'people', ambush them, and sacrfice them to the Ice Cream God, Milksauce. Except for the youngest child. I got no beef with her.
There's a sign up sheet posted in the common room. Torches are supplied, but must bring packed lunch and own pitchfork.
These don't grow on trees. Except in Iowa
Author's Note: If Mammy had been polite, I would have let them into the line, no hassle.
UPDATE: She came into the shop yesterday, when my manager was in, but didn't say anything. Today, my manager asked me if I was polite to them. When I said yes, she shrugged and said 'Fuck 'em'