Alright, people listen up. First off, I’m not going the politically-correct route and using the term “holidays” because 1) no one shopping for Kwaanza has pissed me off lately and 2) I really don’t care. This isn’t a blog about proper “holiday” terminology. It’s a rant about how Christmas turns people in crazy, raving motherfuckers and you should all burn in hell.

Yeah… it’s one of those days.

I work in retail. It’s not the most glamorous job in the world, but it pays the bills (kind of) and it’s what I gotta do at the moment (my college degree is collecting dust in the other room). This means I don’t have a choice to be in the shopping center, so if you could not be an asshole and nearly sideswipe me trying to steal my parking spot, that would be great. And, no, I’m not going to steal your spot so stop waving like a lunatic and just let me pass you. Seriously, stop waving and let me pass so I can run my car into a brick wall and end my misery.

Don’t come into my store and expect me to shop for you. I’m here to guide you and answer your questions about product tech. I’ll help you find whatever you need, but I don’t know if your kid will like the Sand Uggs or the Chestnut Uggs better. You should maybe pull yourself out of your Xanax haze to talk to them once in a while and see what they’re into. Plus, we don’t have them in size 6. No, I do not find that to be a problem, you should have bought them before the rush. No, I cannot pull them out of my ass. I can give you the waist-size equivalents in inches for pants, but I don’t know if your husband will look good in them. He doesn’t wear clothes while we’re banging, so I wouldn’t know. And please stop acting like you know anything about winter running or outerwear technology and just fucking let me tell you what you need. If you knew anything, you wouldn’t be trying on the fucking thinnest (and cheapest) fleece in the store and ask if it’s “really warm.” And what the fuck, how warm do you need your shit to be? You live in goddamn Pennsylvania, you don’t ski, and you don’t enjoy activity so throw on a sweater and get the pretty coat. If you just want to look good and don’t need tech info, find a color you like and leave me to deal with people who actually care about what they are spending their money on.

Shut the fuck up and let me do my job. If you know how to do a return, ring a giftcard, postvoid (all while juggling grapefruits and baking cookies, simultaneously, yes), then you pop your privileged ass behind the register so I can take a piss break. Or, you know, you could be a completely evil and angry person and announce loudly that you’re astounded that any company would let me be a manager. And then you could call me stupid and unhelpful and make me cry. Yeah – I cried. And you know what? YOU LOOKED LIKE A COMPLETE ASSHOLE. A COMPLETE ASSHOLE WITH A BRATTY CHILD YOU DON’T LOVE BUT A $4000 PURSE THAT YOU DO. And you’re not an extra-small… not naturally, anyway, you Botox-faced, unintelligent, bad mother evil fucking bitch. Kill yourself.

From now on, I’m crying immediately. All the time. It’s the only fucking thing that makes people consider you human and that their actions may be out of line. Crying… not the birth of the Christian God, or the fact that now is a time for generosity and kindness, or the time to start anew. No – you would need to have a soul to have any of those things touch your life.

Fortunately what you lack in a soul, you make up for in a black AmEx.

Merry Fucking Christmas, you miserable motherfuckers.