Customer Dissatisfaction.

Dear Valued Customer,

Thank You.

No really, thank you.

Thanks for making my experience serving you the highlight of my week. I know you may be amazed to hear that you surpassed events like my sweet 7 mile run or the cool picture that my youngest made for me in kindergarten, but you did.

The fact that you were on your phone and talking away as I opened a cash register to help you should have clued me into your greatness.  It must have been extremely important business because you were on there for almost the entire transaction.

You know, the transaction where I:

• unpacked the basket you had just thrown on the carousel, since removing your items would have been an interruption to the world-shaping conversation you were having.

•  made sure to remove and properly ring in the coupon that you obviously wanted, because you waggled your pork-sausage-like finger in its general direction.

•  politely waited for a break in the conversation to tell you the total, at which you glared at me like I charged you double.

•  informed you that yes, it did include the coupon you had indicated.

•  watched as you put down your phone, dug through your purse, and held out a crumpled wad of bills.

• didn't say anything as you pulled that hand back, sneezed into it and then handed me the germ-covered currency.

• didn't leap over the counter and stab you when you proceeded to sneeze again, directly into my face, because you were on your phone again. I get how contaminating me is preferable to the glass front on your phone.

So once again, thank you.

I have now realized that no matter what else I encounter in my life, be it a raging horde of emancipated fecal-covered midgets or someone breaking wind while I'm behind them in a race, nothing will phase me again.

Because today I met you.

God bless.*

Your Customer Service Specialist,
Me.








Later.
*By God bless, I mean fuck you, you stupid bitch.