The Randomist

I like awards.  I like the getting of them and I like the having of them.  I've never won a trophy in my life, but I'm sorely tempted to have one made for myself because I can.  That won't be happening anytime soon because I'm poor and have better things to do, like stealing awards I was never given from websites that offer them freely.  I honestly feel as though I deserve each and every one of the awards TheBloggess  posted on her blog today.  Every.  One.  We'll start with inefficient efficiency. I work in a photolab at my friendly neighborhood "store-mart" and I do the frowning intently at the computer screen thing to make myself appear busy when in reality, I'm really just looking for naked pictures at best and old men in speedos at worst and being pissed off that the raunchiest thing in our system is someone eating a penis cake with asymmetrical balls.   As long as I have the editing box up, I can totally say I'm just enhancing someon...

Take a deep breath and prepare to be astounded by the amount of violent rage I keep bottled inside on a daily basis. I’m about to expose you to more of the horror that is my job at the lovely Store-Mart. I vaguely recall mentioning the fact that we no longer offer one hour film developing. Apparently it was no longer cost effective to keep chemicals that I would gladly drink in order to never again have to deal with these people. Hell is a merrier place. Some might think I’m exaggerating, but some have never had the joy of working in retail. One hour photo, getting back to it. When people want film developed, we have them package it up as usual and drop it in a box where it gets shipped to an out lab. It takes a week to come back. A few weeks ago, I had a woman call up and ask if her rush order had made it back to the store. CT: “My name is Cammy Trockett (Look how clever I am! You see what I did there?).” Me: “Okay. Was it film or digital?” CT: “It was pictures.” Me: “I ge...

When less than an hour into your shift you have to say “Is that baby DEAD?” you know it’s not going to be a good day. I have recently taken a job in the photo lab at a place we’ll refer to as “Store-Mart”. We no longer offer the one hour film development, but focus solely on digital prints. We do, however, still offer to develop your film at an out lab in Tennessee if you want to wait a week instead of driving across the street and paying an extra dollar to get them in an hour. We’ll be discussing this out lab shortly. Already irritated that I’d been shorted eight hours of work this past week, I start my shift in our tiny photo lab with four buggies full of shit. Where did this shit come from? Where does it go? I need to “PI” the “OS” so I can “bin” it? I DON’T UNDERSTAND! I’m sure that your personal phone conversations kept you busy all morning so that you couldn’t stock the overstock (OS!) that wouldn’t fit on the floor anyway. I’m sorry for the inconvenience of your job, es...

Dear Jenny, I know you’ve addressed the issue of getting stabby with co-workers, but what if it’s your boss? Alarming amounts of body hair where no woman should have any aside, this woman is a raging thunder cunt. She’s making me dislike ______ people in general. She’s literally making me racist. She’s managed to accomplish what being raised in the South could not. We have weapons at work. Bo staffs, nunchucks, and an honest to God “I will cut you bitch” sword. I’d honestly rather lather myself up in seal fat, dance provocatively in the ocean, and have my leg gnawed off by a shark than ever speak to her again. How do I control the urge to cut a bitch? Signed, Heather Heartless This was posted to the now defunct Ask the Bloggess portion of  The Bloggess just days before I was quit/fired. One would think that threats of violence and insults to ones furriness and heritage would warrant that, but rest assured dear readers, my ex-boss would never have seen that. That wou...

More happy work related topics. Please welcome our next guest: Mr. or Mrs. Oh boy am I clever. I hate this person. I want to kill them. At the very least, stab them in the eye with a pair of scissors. You’ve all been to a store at some point recently where they have to mark your money with what I like to call my “secret decoder pen”, or as the rest of the world calls them, counterfeit pens. They poke your money and if it stays yellow, or light brown, you’re good to go, if it turns black, you become Big Bertha’s Prison Bitch. Side note, these pens do not work. It told me, yes, the pen turned its head and said plain as day “Hey, it’s real, come on, believe me. Would I lie to you?” Yes, yes you would magic pen. So anyways, magical talking decoder pen told me that this rather odd looking fifty dollar bill was real. It said the same thing to my manager. The bank however, did not agree. But I digress. Boss man told me that I had to start marking EVERYTHING except one dollar bills...

There are many things in this world that drive me into a violent rage. One of those things is stupid people. Stupid people account for the majority of my stress. They can’t drive, speak, or write well, but insist on doing those things as frequently as possible and in my general vicinity. I don’t claim to be smarter than everyone else, just the vast majority of everyone else. Ever since I learned to read, I’ve been in love with language. There are so many ways to use and abuse it. I’ve been a human dictionary and spell check for most of my life, and I am rarely wrong. Don’t let those old spelling bee videos fool you; I tend to choke under that kind of pressure. I need to get some things out of the way here. I tend to overlook a LOT of things because I am Southern and I happen to live in the South. We speak a little differently down here. I’m actually guilty of saying “It’n it” instead of “isn’t it”. But there are things that I absolutely can NOT stand. These things will send me i...

Now, I’ve been known to have a typo or five thousand in my illustrious writing career, but they are just that, typos. There is a world of difference between a typo, a misspelling, and a grammatical error… Let’s not leave out “sheer idiocy”.   There have also been times, in fits of confusion and mental anguish, where I have given in and researched the proper usage of certain words and how they are spelled. I feel that God invented the Google search bar for this very purpose. My most prized source of information on all things grammar related is Grammar Girl  Typo: An accidental misspelling, addition of an excess letter, or the left out letter. ACCIDENTAL! I understand that it happens to other people too and it’s (LOOK AT THAT APOSTROPHE!) usually fairly obvious when it’s accidental. Misspelled words: There is no excuse. Your dyslexia does not faze me because you have the ability to proof read everything you write BEFORE you click “Comment”, “Send”, or “Enter”. Unlike th...

Now, don’t get me wrong, I had many fun and memorable moments at the place I used to work; a place which may or may not sell various tractor components as well as a wide array of interesting things for those who partake in the rural lifestyle. Just today, I threw a book at an elderly gentleman as he was exiting the store, which had closed an hour before due to it being New Year’s Eve. I would not have thrown my delightful non-fiction comedy at this man if he hadn’t moved with the mental speed of a stoned turtle. The doors were closed… and turned off… but not locked. Ok, question time here folks, if you walk up to a retail store and the AUTOMATIC doors don’t open, what would you do? I, personally, would walk away, but does anyone here do that? NO! They pull the doors open and walk in. “Sir!”, “We’re closed!” I say. Elderly gentleman followed by wife proceeds into the checkout area. Wife, “Oh, you’re closed?” No shit Sherlock! “Yes ma’am, we’re closed, we closed at four to...

I'm all shook up. Sorry, had to get one more Elvis thing in there. I told you last blog about the broken footed journey to Baltimore. It is time to tell you the rest. Dear old cousin Keith was getting married, technically in PA, but Baltimore is way better, and we spend more time there... moving on. Our Dad took his bike up there, and left us the Expedition. Well, being the graceful and highly intelligent person that she is, Celia decided that it would be a truly excellent idea to fall down the stairs the night before we left. She sprained her ankle and broke the outside of her foot. But, since I was just getting onto 485 from the other side of Charlotte when I got her panicked phone call, I had to make her wait. I get there, and now The Boy Child, her son, is following her around, doing this really great limping hopping imitation of her, I love this child. We say our goodbyes and I drive her down the mountain to the hospital, really cute doctors by the way. We do the x-ray ...