dust

I hate merchandisers. These useless tools show up for about one hour, somewhere along the chronological vicinity of 8 to 9, and move our shipments of alcohol from one corner of the store to the other. And that's all they do, besides bitch and moan about their stupid jobs and lives, or spread gossip about others in their pointless profession. In my head I've given them nicknames. There's Douchetool, your typical slick back mid thirties So-Cal Valley with a mix of surfer bro accent-speaking wannabe, but not even close to achieving the same level of success, yuppie. Always checking his text messages, always the first to start a conversation with one of the other merchs. I want to tell him he's missed the boat. He's doomed to be a glorified version of the porters and shipment bearers who come bring in the stuff from the trucks to begin with, only at least their manual labor comes with a certain amount of dignity and integrity associated with the working class. Such words, however, do not exist in Douchetool's vocabulary.

Then there's Shitheel, a younger, prettier version of Douchetool, only light years behind him mentally, if that were even possible. I want to break this guy's face. Allow me, the fed up protagonist, to share my confrontational fantasy: Shitheel is shitting his heels on the halls of my store, pushing a two-wheeler with a stack of product to the soda wall. He says to me, "What's up, dude?" I stop what I'm doing (actually putting the product AWAY on the goddamn SHELVES where they FUCKING BELONG), grab a blunt object, oh let's say a 750ml sized bottle of Milagro Silver, and proceed to mercilessly beat him over the head with it, until his face becomes mangled, disfigured, and unrecognizable.

And last, but not least, there's the girl I wanna fuck. It's not so much a nickname as a straightforward assertion in my head. Like, hey look, there's that girl I wanna fuck. She's a tasty, skinny white chick, with wavy hair, and a cute little ass. And she smells nice, too. It's just too bad she's as worthless as the other two fuck-assed jack-offs - guilty by association. After doing their pointless little relocating of the store's product, occasionally even carrying things FARTHER away from the shelves where they ultimately belong, I imagine them all heading back to her place for a good-ole-fashioned dumbfuck threesome. Maybe they invite their other shitqueefing merchandiser friends over, go family style on her. Must be why she's got that hurried look on her face, as though the thought quietly racing through her pretty little head is, "Oh no, I better hurry or I'll be late for my gangbang." What a ho.

I'm sick of the dust bowl, its ashen remains coating my extremities in pale black dirt that turn into splattered gray drops I wash away in the sink. I'm putting all my eggs in one basket, baby, hoping, wishing, praying it'll pay off and whisk me away from this place I've become too accustomed to. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Satan, L. Ron Hubbard, Tom Cruise, Lao Tzu, Shiva, Vishnu, Muhammad, Moses - whoever, I'm sending my prayers out indiscriminately like emails en masse, hoping at least one of these deities will come through for me. And if I'm lucky, I'll be working with people who are actually disabled, instead all of these fuckers who just act like dumbshits.