Friday, March 12, 2010

Douchebags In Line

Don't you hate waiting in line? No? Well, clearly you haven't waited in line behind a douchebag. Or in front of one. If they're behind you, they tend to complain and bitch and blame you for every-fucking-thing. They're out of butter for the popcorn? Totally your fault, even though you didn't order butter on your popcorn. The sale they were having ended yesterday? Your fault for being here so long. Yeah, they're a pain.

It's worse when they're ahead of you. They spend 4 hours looking at the same 16 doughnuts that they looked at for a half hour before even getting to the counter. I was in line behind a guy at the ticket machine at the movies the other day. He was there with his girlfriend (I assume), and they spent the first 10 minutes debating about whether they wanted to see Alice in Wonderland in 3D and pay the extra $3, or save the money and get popcorn instead. Seriously. That was their conversation. Once they chose 2D and popcorn, they had to decide on a time. Really? You couldn't fucking do that before going to buy your goddamn tickets? They chose the 7 o'clock show, for anyone who gives a fuck (no one). Yeah. I took 3 minutes. My friends and I had already decided on The Crazies at 6:55. Because we're fucking normal.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

The Creeper Douchebag

Lucky me. I'm female. And though usually I'm happy about that fact, when faced with the creeper douchebag, I regret my gender.

The creeper douchebag is usually aged 25 and older, flirts with every woman he encounters, and focuses on (much) younger women. The creeper in question here is 31. I'm 22. He's been hitting on me for over 6 months now. He works at the local convenience store which I frequent due to its proximity to my house and my crippling caffeine addiction. I used to venture into said store several times a week. Now, it's about once every two weeks.

The truly frightening side of creepers is their chameleon-esque ability to appear sweet and charming to everyone they encounter. It's not so effective here as 90% of people in this town are Italian, so the convenience store creeper (sounds like a nickname for a serial killer) is a greasy, pervy, immature Italian. No offence to Italians, but Italian creepers are actually creepier than any other kind.

Anyway, the latest creepy actions from this creeper occurred last week while buying giant bottles of Diet Pepsi. As I was looking through the fridge-compartment containing the beverages I intended to buy, Mr. Creeper came up behind me (that's dirty), stood there 'til I turned around, then hugged me while stroking my hair.

Thanks, creepy douchebag. Now I have to go to the next closest convenience store, an extra 10 minutes away. (Not actually a big deal, but I did burn those clothes and run home to shower. In reverse order. That could have been awkward.)

P.S. 31 and still working at a convenience store? Now that's a real winner.