I am the sharp dressed shit-shoveler with the sexy stoneface. Welcome to my real world and join the rampage. Valued customer, did I ever tell you how much I hate you and your shopping order? You may have wronged me or smiled and never crossed me. Maybe I didn’t like the way you look. Most likely, we’ve never met and I damn sure like it that way. This is the Mad Cashier reminding you that humanity is contemptible and it’s dragging down us all. Allow me to elucidate with this joyfully fulminating litany of hatred.
I took my meds and left the knife at home, what more do you want? I’m capable of being happy and jovial, but y’all won’t let me drink on the job. That’s me in the hat bagging groceries for the tasteless and the hopeless. Surely some of them are great people and keen minds, but I don’t give a damn. I keep checking my Timex and popping pills because I can’t stand you, them, or anybody.
Management counsels me about my lack of people skills, but nobody knows which screws I’ve got loose. I’ve got a natural stoneface; people think I’m pissed even when I’m feeling good. I didn’t mean to suggest that you screw off but I’m glad you did. Maybe I need therapy, but you should get liposuction and a clue.
At my first retail job I became born again disgruntled, infamous for angering customers and known by the closing shift as a master fulminator. Some people think I should be more positive, but I know how foolish that would be. Sure I’m a pessimist, but they must be living in a dreamworld rather than reality.
I’m well-adjusted in my own way, particularly when I’m fighting through acid reflux to chug down a magnum. You know what else brings me joy? Petting kittens and telling humanity to kiss my crazy white ass.
Intoxication is the spice of life and vitriol is all I know. I’ve been laying down invective since 2001, punch-typing the truth to loud music while I’m getting drunk. I write for a limited audience because this is what I am and I don’t care who doesn’t like it. Candor doesn’t appeal to many folks, but they’re just collateral damage.
I’m not special, either. I’m one of many lurking in broad daylight and seeing only darkness. You never know who might be one or what we’re thinking. Case in point: I haven’t been fired or committed recently. I might have bagged your order yesterday or sold you a quarter pounder back in 2000. No, I didn’t spit in your food like a coward. I smashed your fries and destroyed your sandwich.
Maybe I was the psychotic ex-Green Beret grill cook who did time for felony assault. He was a cool guy who shared good weed and claimed to have brutalized some customers at Burger King. I could be the wholesome, pig-tailed girl next door…who plans to screw your virgin son and daughter while you’re pretending at church and then burn your vanilla house down. Chill out, I’m no arsonist. I’m a vandal.
Damn right, I should never work with the general public. Pull your head out of your happy place, we don’t all get the dream job. I got beat down by the man in the mouse suit at Chuck E Cheese when I was a little kid. He should never have worked with children. The difference between him and me is that nobody ever got hurt when I flipped out. If we all had it made, there would be nobody to sell you groceries. So what if I scared a few customers and employees?
I’m living it up at the poverty line. Guess what, I’m not a shiftless pothead and I’m not on the dole. A distinguished gentleman I work with spends his money on weed rather than food. Nevertheless, he’d have a full fridge if the lazy bastard could be bothered to get more food stamps. Genuine losers surround and sicken me. A poor worker can stand proud, but only scum leads the low life with his hand out. From Main Street to Wall Street, we’re ruled and served by scum from every echelon.
Cashiering nearly got my head blown off. I was all alone with a masked gunman and his lookout, but my working life has seen worse days. An average day in the fast food maelstrom pushed me closer to insanity. So what if violent crime gave me a little PTSD? It was a calm, deep night and the salt of the earth didn’t aggravate me. I’ve worked through Hell and haven’t feared death since I slaved at Jack in the Box. We called the cops on dopeheads every week at that grease trap.
It doesn’t end when I clock out. Drivers and passengers have thrown drinks and cussed at me just for walking down the street, but never accepted my invitation to get out of the car. Some little suburban bitch ran a red light when I caught up with him. Kiss this, Rowlett, Texas.
Am I sober or are you just horrifically insufferable? People always want me to explain myself. Why do I always wear an ivy dress? I like hats, dumb ass.
Why did you assail me with pleasantries? I don’t care how life is treating you, either. “Doin’ good” I always respond. I could have been suicidal that day. We’re all inveterate liars.
People speak for no reason and pretend to care when they don’t have to. Fine, engage in velvet-gloved mutual masturbation, but don’t expect me to join in. Why suffer the exhaustion of mindless happy talk when coldness will suffice? I’m not the prick, I try to mind my own business and keep getting accosted. My street clothes are dress clothes but my only fashion statement is that white lapel pin flipping you the bird.
Hell yes, I meant it. You pushed me too far and I’m going for broke. Don’t like it? Yeah, and it would take a team of psychologists to determine why I might give a goddamn. Nevertheless, I hope this rant finds you well and God bless. A parting thought and my final offer: kiss my crazy white ass.