The “R” Word

Starting today’s post with a language disclaimer; regular followers are accustomed to my profanity sprinkles – they give a vanilla life more color, but I thought it only fair to warn new visitors.

Those I know outside cyber world can attest to my, ahem, outspokenness, especially in situations that insult or degrade the innocent. (Hell, that sounds too Verbal-Superhero, I prefer Ethical-Loud-Mouth). A blessing and a curse, this character trait often leads to…situations, and in those moments my grey matter can’t restrain my mouth, there’s high probability things will end with my husband identifying me through dental records.

There are very few things that truly erupt my Vesuvius temper, but there is one so close to my heart, so hot-button-pushing it’s a shame Catholic school squeezed the natural street fighter out of me – a biter with a low center of gravity, I’d have a six figure salary, easy.

What’s the number one reason I verbally eviscerate complete strangers? The R Word.

Time & Place:

Today – Department Store Checkout

Players:

Clerk: A lovely young man with Down Syndrome.

Me: Fabulous as always.

SHIT: Stupid-Haughty-Ignorant-Twentysomething.

Scene:

I’m ahead of SHIT, who, ironically, smells like he took a sponge bath in the cologne department, and of course my last item, a killer black sweater, won’t ring up. PRICE CHECK!

Clerk: “Mam,” (Blech, I got mam’ed), “do you remember where you got this? I need to go get another one.”

Me: “No problem, I’ll go.”

Clerk: “No, no, it’s my job.”

Me: “OK.” (I explain the location and off he goes. Usually I would tell him to forget it and spare my Visa pain, but it had perfect boob placement. Short torso girls will get it.)

So we wait…and wait…

SHIT: (Gigantic sigh) “Why do I always get the retards?”

*At this point I feel I should give one of those graphic content warnings newscasters spew before they roll clips of emaciated animals and 100-pound tumors. Look away if you’re squeamish.*

Me: “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

SHIT: “Hey, don’t get me wrong, it’s nice they let the guy work here, but come on…”

Me: “Come on, what?”

SHIT: (Eye roll.) “How long does it take to find a fucking sweater?”

Me: “I don’t know; how long did your fucking parents wait to tell you they’re brother and sister?”

SHIT: (Blank stare. Sarcasm is wasted on the wit-deficient.)

Clerk: “I found it.”

Me: “Thank you for looking.”

Clerk: “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” (I love him.) “Oh, I forgot to ask, do you want to open a (Store) credit card and save 20%?”

Now this isn’t my first retail-rodeo, I know how long this process takes, coal forms diamonds faster. I look around, note the only other register open has a ten deep line – and I grin, like shit, at SHIT.

Me: “Why yes, I’d love to open a store credit card, thank you for asking.”