Munkki World

Meh, fuck it. This didn't work out and it never will.

My real journal is spid3rman, add me there if you haven't already and I'll probably delete this journal. I started this journal because a momentary lapse in reason made me forget why I hated bloggers. Then I started this journal, and I remembered: Nobody gives a shit about anybody else's opinion unless they're famous or hot. Sadly, I am neither.

Except to NT.

Oh, right, this thing. I really was planning on updating it sometime, but then I didn't.

Something interesting happened at work the other night. We had a customer come in who wanted to return something without a receipt; normally we give store credit because the register will not let us give cash and there's no way for us to override that, but she argues otherwise. Oh, there is an interesting twist: she's deaf. My manager had to spend 20 minutes having an argument with this customer on paper.

Apparently, some dumbass friend (she didn't remember who bought her a $100 gift, which is real nice of her) bought her a video baby monitor, but she wanted one that vibrates to wake her up when the baby is crying. We don't carry that, so she wanted to get cash back so that she could order one on the internet. The manager wrote her no and explained at least a hundred times that we couldn't do anything other than store credit. This lady is a testiment to Lisa Lampinelli's statement that deaf people aren't actually deaf, they're retards just faking it. All she did was complain about how we're going to let her baby cry and how it's not her fault she's deaf and we shouldn't punish her for that. The entire conversation was hilariously full of bad grammar and spelling errors, since neither of the people involved were particularly intelligent. The deaf retard didn't want store credit because we were trying to tempt her into buying our "crap" instead of buying this baby monitor for her child, whom we were going to let cry. Apparently she had no means of obtaining real money, because using the store credit to buy groceries or something and using whatever source of real money she has to buy the monitor is an idea beyond her comprehension. We're not even supposed to take items back without a receipt, especially ones as expensive as what she had, so she's lucky to have gotten anything at all.

Of course, there is a loophole in the system in that items purchased with a gift card can be refunded for cash, and all she would have had to do is buy something, then return it later and get cash back. If she wasn't being such a huge bitch over it I would have considered telling her about it, but I wanted to let her baby cry. Fuck him, he's screwed anyway. Probably retarded. I hear it's hereditary.

I'm tired of corporations telling me what a real man is.

Maybe I'm hallucinating, but it seems like every other ad, television or radio, whatever, includes some reference as to what "real men" are. The stereotypical shit. Work on cars, bed many women a night, headbang to heavy metal, that sort of bullshit. There are new Trojan Condom ads with the tagline "Evolve, be a man, use a trojan condom every time" saying that if you're a sloppy asshole, you're not a man. That seems to contradict all the other shit I'm told! Every other ad tells me that men are down and dirty and don't give a fuck what anyone thinks of them.

Recently, my favorite radio station has begun using that sort of tactic. "Real men listen to Z92." My favorite is one that says "If you've got a hair on your ass, listen to Z92".

Like I said, it's my favorite radio station, but not because the growths on my backside are telling me it is. I like the music they play. I don't give a shit what real men listen to.

<Friend> Dude, let's listen to channel 89.
<Me> No. We're listening to Z92.
<Friend> But-
<Me> The hairs on my ass command it.

Their alternate slogan is "Everything that rocks is on Z92." That one I'll give them, since it's at least a rock station. But not everything they play rocks. It's always funny to me when they play that tagline, then follow it up immediately with Creed's "With Arms Wide Open".

By their definition I'm not a real man. I don't drink a lot of booze. I don't like working on cars. Hell, I get shaky if my hands get too dirty. But last I checked, I've got a penis. Science's description of a real man is good enough for me.

Today was fantastic. Seriously. I love my job.

Anyway, to the point of this entry and consequently this journal. I have an issue remembering things. Anyone who knows me even a bit can recognize this. My attention span is roughly four seconds (reaching up to eight on a good day) and my short-term memory is even worse. So I bought a mini notebook thing to record points of interest during my day.

It also serves as a window into the way my mind operates.

All I do in it is write down short phrases to jog my memory as to what the hell I wanted to remember later on. It will make absolutely no sense to any outsider (read: anyone but me), which is perfect. The worst case scenario is that I lose it or somebody finds it, they read it, and they think I'm a lunatic.

That's already a pretty popular opinion. I don't mind.

Today during my shift at work in a department store, I began logging my day in this style. This is what I came up with, verbatim.

• Humanity
  
• Exact change
  
• Old people w/ diapers
  
• Flashlight wrapping
  
• Dogs
  
• This should be $2.99
  
  • What did that ring up
  
  
• Annoy a liberal
  
  • Work, live, be happy
  
  
• "Good evening"
  
  • Headquarters of KKK
    
  • I'd like a receipt
  
  
• Late shoppers
  
• LJ "real world"
  
• whiskers on kittens

Each of these phrases has some kind of story behind it. For your sake, I added sublists to related phrases where I wrote more than one down in order to maintain the entire story, so as to not forget an important part. Well, probably not important at all, but whatever.

Anyway, what I'll probably be doing in this journal is taking shit like that and converting it into coherent entries that will hopefully be entertaining, humorous, and/or informative. I have a lot of shit passing through my brain on a daily basis and it's a damn waste most of it disappears on the drive home.