My Flair Is Flairier Than His Flair Will Ever Be

Customer: “I love all the pins on your vest!”

Me: “Thanks!”

Customer: “I’m a manager at Walmart, and I have pins all over my vest too.”

[Inner Me: Fuck you, Office Space.]

Me: “Well… neat!”

[then, later]

Same Customer: “$99 for this harness, huh?”

Me: “Actually, I just found a promo code in the system for 15% off, so that would make the total price $92 with tax.”

Customer: “Hmm. I’ll give you $80.”

And with that, the sacred bond between retail workers was irrevocably broken. Attempting to bargain is right up there with “No price tag? That means it’s free, right?” on the Official List of Annoying Shit Customers Say ™ and is unforgivable under the best of circumstances. I have no choice but to call Wal-Mart’s 800 number and report this dude as a devil worshiper, then wear his blood-spattered name badge as a warning to anyone else who seeks to betray the Brotherhood of Service Representatives.

Pin that to your vest, you heretic.

Do Not Leave Lit Customers Unattended

450Customer: “What’s this?”

Me: “That’s lube.”

Customer: “In a candle?!

Okay. For the sake of argument, let’s assume that this is in fact a candle instead of a tub full of thickened mineral oil. How would one a) get the lube into it, and b) get the lube out during sexy time? It seems like the obvious light-and-drip method would either a) leave welts, or b) start a really inconvenient inferno, but maybe that’s just me.

I leave it to you, dear readers, to decide and explain.

We also carry video head cleaner, but we’re fresh out of liquid incense

Customer: “Do you sell poppers?”

Me: “No.”

Customer: “Oh.”

Me: “But we do have a fine selection of solvents and polish removers.”

Customer: [blank stare]

Me: “Retail establishments in Texas are prohibited from selling alkyl nitrites or any related chemical compounds for recreational purposes. However, we’re able to keep these products in stock, with the understanding that they are intended to be used as dilution agents and/or room deodorizers, not inhalants.”

Customer: [blank stare]

Me: “See? It says so on the labels.”

Customer: “I just want to buy some poppers.”

Me: “Let’s try this again.”

Aleister Crowley’s Book of the Burn

There’s a new website called Sarahah bouncing around Facebook at the moment, and it’s stirring up strong reactions on both ends of the emotional spectrum. The point of the site is to garner constructive criticism: Once you register, friends and acquaintances can post their honest opinions of you. Anonymously. WTF could possibly go wrong with that?

Sarahah was apparently designed as an online suggestion box for companies wanting impartial feedback from their employees, but at some point it made the jump to social media, ostensibly because sadomasochism is far more prevalent in modern society than most would care to admit. I did not have any plans to create a Sarahah account myself, but once word of the virtual slam book spread, people started posting scathing critiques of people who create Sarahah accounts (“WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF?!? THEY’RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU!!!” etc.), so of course I signed right up.

Truth be told, I really didn’t know what kind of responses I would get. I guess I figured there would be some obligatory niceties, maybe someone would call me fat, and that would be about it. But then the comments started rolling in, and damned if they didn’t exceed all expectations:

I stole some of your sperm a few years ago, never built up the nerve to tell you I had your child.

Who is that looking over your shoulder?

Halloween isn’t for seeing how many ballsacks you can fit in your mouth, Brenda.

When I grow up, I want to be just like you! For reals! Also, I sometimes watch you for uncomfortably long periods of time.

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

Conclusion: My life is teeming with the mentally disturbed. But on the upside, I’m very lucky to be blessed with friends who know when not to take me seriously, and for that I am anonymously grateful.

A pretty Kim Davis, I mean. A pretty-on-the-inside Kim Davis.

Dear GrubHub deliveryperson who kind of looked like Kim Davis:

I know. I’m sorry. The mortification splashed across your face made it clear that you’d never been in a leather bar before, much less ever imagined you’d one day find yourself surrounded by bondage paraphernalia and ball stretchers while clutching a bag of somebody else’s Lebanese food.

Oh. Right. I guess from where you were standing, you couldn’t see the ball stretchers.

I’m sorry I just brought the ball stretchers to your attention.

I also want to reassure you that you don’t physically resemble Kim Davis. However, you were wearing glasses and sensible shoes and a sundress over a long-sleeve shirt, and those items combined weave a story that reads, “county clerk from Kentucky who doesn’t understand the separation of Church and State.” I hope this explains why I maybe yelped a little when I turned around to find you standing quietly behind me, doing your best to remain professional in the face of all the unfortunately-named products around you.

Nasty Pig is just a clothing line, by the way. It’s not necessarily a lifestyle choice.

Regardless, please know how impressed I was that you kept your composure, and I sincerely appreciate that you opted to back slowly out of the store when I’m sure you would’ve preferred to just scream and run away. I do not regret tipping 20% in advance whatsoever, although you might want to brace yourself, because I order a shitload of food from that place, so we’ll more than likely be seeing each other again in a couple of days.

Oh, wait. You probably don’t approve of cursing.

I’m sorry for saying “shitload.”

I have Tourette’s.

Thank you for the falafel.

Who’s on first? Yeah, that’s right, pig. Daddy’s on first.

Customer: “Hey, Daddy? Daddy, I like these jockstraps, but what’s the smallest size?”

Me: “Small.”

Customer: “Small?”

Me: “Small.”

Customer: “Small is the smallest?”

Me: “Small is the smallest.”

Customer: “So… small?”

Me: “Yes. Small.”

Customer: “Okay. Thank you, Daddy.”

According to the tenets of an obscure yet persistent urban legend, if you turn off the lights and say “daddy” three times in front of a mirror, my ghostly face will appear and tell you to stop calling me daddy. And while you guys give that a try, I’m going to head to Walgreens and drop my paycheck on as many boxes of Just For Men as I can fit in the trunk of my car.

It was the 70s. Everyone was doing it.

Me: “Your total today is $10.80.”

Customer: “Oh! Random story.”

Me: “Sign here, please.”

Customer: “So this one time, years ago, I went to the bathhouse, back before it was at the new location.”

Me: “Uh huh. Could you sign here for me?”

Customer: [not signing] “I hooked up with this guy who’d rented one of the big rooms. You know, with the mirrors and everything? So we’re going at it, and then, right in the middle of the sex, he tells me he can astroplane.”

Me: “…”

Customer: “Do you know what astroplaning is?”

[Inner Me: Just say yes just say yes just say yes.]

Me: “… No.”

[Inner Me: Goddamn you.]

Customer: “It’s when you can leave your body, and see the world outside yourself.”

Me: “Oh, that’s actually called–”

[Inner Me: [GAY GLARE]]

Me: “I mean… that’s very interesting.”

Customer: [finally signing] “Anyway, he didn’t do it. Have a good night!”

Okay, first of all, total letdown that he didn’t do it. That aside, you know what would’ve been awesome? If, after he’d described “astroplaning,” I’d gone, “Ah, yes! I can astroplane, too!” and then closed my eyes and collapsed and started snoring.

I’ll bet that would’ve made him sign.

ETA: My boss just read this post and was like, “You should’ve said, “I can astroplane, too!” then stuck your arms out and run around the bar making airplane noises.” This is why he’s the boss.