Better late than never, I guess…

I have no problems complaining about the quality of both the telecommunications companies I employ. You may have noticed I hate both Bell Canada, and Rogers. Bell Canada offers, for the most part, excellent service. It’s their credit and billing departments that seem to be run by retarded flying monkeys. In the case of Rogers, it’s almost even pleasant to talk to their customer reps, but it’s the service that is a piece of shit.

“Hey, Rogers? Why can’t I place a long distance call to Mexico, despite being charged 7 dollars a month for my Long Distance Saver plan?”
“Uh… it must be the phone companies down there”, they’ll say. Even when I tell them my sister’s shitty $15 a month Koodo service has no problems establishing contact with “the phone companies down there”.

“Hey Rogers, why can’t I send text messages, but can receive them?”
“Uh… you should be able to…”
“Yeah, I should, technically, since I’m being charged for the service, but I can’t. Hence, my call.”
“Yeah, uh… you should be able to…”
“Thanks, asshole”.

So yesterday, the following happened.

“Your text message woke me up last night”, I was told. For the record, yesterday was Monday September 28th.

“Huh?”, I wondered. I had no recollection of texting anyone for the last couple of weeks, let alone Sunday night. I know my mind’s been acting weird lately, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember texting. Or maybe not? Maybe I did send out a text message, and my mind didn’t register the event? Perhaps I texted in my sleep? I even checked my phone to make sure I hadn’t. I felt like I was insane, having to double-check if I did things I was pretty sure I hadn’t done.

I got home from work, and investigated. “What message?”, I asked.
“The one you sent me at 3.15 in the morning, but I only got the second part”.
Now I felt even weirder. I was pretty sure by 3.15 in the morning, I had been asleep for at least 45 minutes. “Are you sure it was me?”, I ask. Should I just call the men in white, already?
“Yes, I’m perfectly positive it was you”. I was shown the image of what appeared to be my text message. I noticed the words that appeared on said message. I grabbed my phone and investigated further. Question marks were floating around my head like a swarm of killer bees.
Then, I saw it. A text message I actually did send, where the last words matched the words I was shown on-screen. I saw the date on that message, and laughed. It was a text message I sent out the night of September 6th., three weeks ago.

It all made sense. Well, except for the fact that it took 3 weeks for Rogers to transfer half a text message. But at least I could put the phone down. The men in white will have to wait another day.

Thanks, Rogers, for making me doubt my sanity! And for not letting me communicate! For crying out loud, I’m paying nearly a hundred bucks for my service, and I have to use the email function on the iPhone because I can’t text, and I have to buy long distance cards because I can’t call directly.
Shit, typing that just made me feel stupid. Why am I even paying these cretins?

The Iceberg

 

(not so) Deep Thoughts: Self-Consciousness

Sometimes, I’ll look at myself in the mirror, and think “I don’t look that bad”. Not that I’m vain, or anything, I don’t spend hours staring at my stupid reflection. It’s just one of those things. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m inches away from my own image, and I can’t see the details. Then, I’ll look at photos of myself, and recoil in disgust. The wrinkles, the structural deformities of my face, the gloomy, droopy way my eyes seem to express that I’m dead on the inside… there’s hardly an expression in any picture of me, from the last 20, 25 years.
The way my hair appears to hate me, the paleness of my stupid skin, the freckles, the malignant tumour on my arm, the lump on my chest, the chicken pox scar on my forehead… they all jump out at me in every photograph I’ve ever seen of myself. Not that there’s any picture of myself shirtless… I just feel the lump on my chest is visible, because I know it’s there.

The sound of my voice, to myself, is terribly awful. I sound like a very drugged-out Steven Seagal pretending to be Kermit the Frog, I have no intonation, no rhythm to my speech, and I hate being so damn monotonous. And that’s when I do happen to speak. If there’s anything I hate more than talking, because of the sound of my own voice, it’s not talking when I feel I have something to say.

Sometimes I don’t say the things I want to say, or even do the things I want to do, because I’m too self-aware. What if they think I’m too “this”, or too “that”. It’s happened a couple of times. Even in situations wherein my friends and myself are saying stupid shit to outgross eachother, I’ll throw something in, and I’ll get looks that say “ooooh! you went too far”.

Other times, I’ll say something I consider relevant, and it’ll go unnoticed. Then, a few days later, someone else will reflect my sentiment, and he/she will be seen as a visionary. So, I think to myself, what’s the point in opening my mouth?

Then, there’s the traumas from my past. A few incidents have fucked my psyche up, big time. This is the first time I’m ever discussing them.

Once, we went to my grandparents’ house. My grandfather was busy collecting wood for the fireplace, and he asked me for my help. When I couldn’t carry a bundle of branches, because I was fucking eleven years old, he said to me “You’re too feeble”. Really, old man? All I wanted to do when I was eleven and went to my grandaprents’ house was to play soccer with my cousin, go build our fort, and eat as many potato chips as I could. I wasn’t there to haul fucking wood, and I tried to help, but hey, thanks for the little tidbit!

Once, years later, I failed a final test in 8th grade. The reason I failed was that, during the previous two weeks, I had undergone a severe case of typhoidea, and at the same time, chicken pox. None of this mattered to my dad, who upon receiving notice from the school that I had failed, limited himself to telling me “You are a failure”.

During that same school year, I was bullied into believing I laughed – and smiled – ridiculously. I guess that’s the reason I don’t smile all that much, since. It’s no surprise I chose to repeat that schoolyear in another school, than spend another year with these people bullying me.

And finally, there’s the myriad of “I’m the bad guy?” scenarios, wherein people tend to ignore other people’s wrongdoings and focus on my reaction to them as if I were the most evil of demons. Like when I call my sister a piece of shit because other than the suitcase I arrived with to Canada, she disappeared all of my possessions, people will be all “dude, she’s still your sister”. Or, if I referred  to my ex-wife as a whore a couple of times because she cheated on me in several instances, people will confront me with “you shouldn’t talk like that”. Really, fuckos? I’m the bad guy?

One thing I found really amusing, and in a way, a reality check, was a couple of months ago, when I created an email acount, spent hours organizing my contacts, dividing them into “family”, “friends”, and the like, and then proceeded to email everybody, reaching out, trying to establish (or reestablish) contact. Out of the fucking hundred people I emailed, two or three replied back. None of my fucking family, and none of my closer friends. Just a couple of people saying “hey thanks for emailing me, and considering me your friend”. I’ve yet to hear back from them.

And finally, there’s the whole “under-appreciated” thing. Be it at work, or with my sisters, or with friends going through trouble, despite my hardest efforts, nobody ever takes the time to say “hey, Iceberg, thanks for being there”. It’s always more like “um… yeah, you did your best, but it just ain’t good enough for us to consider you worthwhile”. Yet the instant somebody shows up to kiss their ass, they have a new BFF. Fucking retards.

Of course, none of that matters now, because stupid or not, I’ve had a huge smile on my face for the past few weeks. Life’s been great, and I have the feeling it’s getting better every day. Who cares about anything else?

Ancora Imparo,

The Iceberg.

 

People I’ve been told I look like

Don’t you hate it when people tell you you look like someone else? On the other hand, is it a form of flattery that to some people you resemble a part of what may, or may not, constitute their cultural icons? Still, you have to wonder what goes through the mind of some people.
In any case, I fail to see the resemblance in these cases (well, maybe except for the last one, but that’s just because some dude was so confused, he asked ME for my autograph, confusing me).
I only included 5 examples, because who has the fucking time to search Google Images all morning?

In order from least to most, here are 5 people I’ve been told I look like.

#5: Mexican singer, Emmanuel

Um… how about a big fat NO? I look nothing like the guy, thank God. But recently, I was told “my friend thinks you look like Emmanuel”. Really?
Actually, I’ve heard worse, so I’ll let this one slide. For fuck’s sake, I was told one I looked like some shitty soap opera actor from Mexico, whose fucking name I’m not even remotely interested in remembering.

#4: Guatemalan singer, Ricardo Arjona

This is due to one picture of myself sporting a bandana and sunglasses. Not one, not two, not three, but a lot of different people made the connection between, I guess, the bandana, a singer from Guatemala, and myself. Other than that, the guy wishes he could look like me. Or maybe not. Ha!

#3: WWE Superstar The Undertaker

What a lovely pink background, Undertaker!

Fucking really? Is it the hair? The eyes? The tattoos? Because, dude, I look nothing like the guy. Yet some people insist. Let them dream, says I. At least they don’t say I look like The Great Khali.
Speaking of being compared to WWE wrestlers, my ex swears I look like Chris Jericho. A big, astounding “NO!”, on that one as well.

#2: Nirvana singer, Kurt Cobain

Despite not looking anything like Kurt Cobain, except for the unkempt hair and I guess the same demeanor, it doesn’t bother me that people say I look like the guy. Not because of his physical appearance, but because he’s cool.
When I used to work at a record store, one of the guys from the bookstore used to call me “Cobain”. So, I guess, I’m cool with that.

#1: Megadeth singer/guitarist, Dave Mustaine

Pretty much everybody says Mr. Mustaine and myself bear a striking resemblance to each other. None as much as the dude that asked me for my autograph when we went to see a show in Monterrey, though. Drugs are bad, I guess.
Before bookstore employees started to refer to me as “Cobain”, I was known as “Mustaine” in high school. The fact that both names rhyme is something that has always amused me.

So there you have it. That’s the way some people see me, for whatever reasons…

Speaking of the way some people see me, I’m preparing a post I’ve had in the back burner for years. Stay tuned!

The Iceberg.

 

Movie Review – Borderland

I might have mentioned a few dozen times that I am a fan of the SAW franchise, and to some extent, the HOSTEL one, as well. It’s not because I’m a huge gore fan, or anything of the sort. I just like a good horror movie with an interesting story, not just a serial killer/monster/cheesy plot.

So, a few weeks ago, I was looking up info on the upcoming SAW VI movie (out on Halloween ‘09 – can’t wait!), when in some forum or another, somebody mentioned that there was a movie called Borderland which made SAW and HOSTEL seem like “The Sound Of Music”. Naturally, my interest was piqued.
The movie is a story that is loosely based on the real-life events that took place in 1988-1989 near the border city of Matamoros, Tamaulipas, Mexico, in which a group of drug-dealin’, satan-worshippin’ people popularized by the media as the “narcosatánicos” dealt drugs and performed human sacrifices in satanic rituals. On a personal note, 1988 was the year I moved to the state of Tamaulipas, so reading the newspapers didn’t make me feel very welcome there.
So far, so good: A horror movie that promised to make SAW pale in comparison, and a story I could relate to in real life. What could make the movie even better?

Ah, yes. Martha Higareda. The lovely and talented Martha Higareda. Anyway, let’s get on with the movie.

The movie starts one year in the past, in Mexico City. Two police officers are investigating an abandoned crime scene. Things get off to a gory start. Fast forward to the “present day”.
Three american dudes embark on a journey to Mexico, before they each go on their own way to different colleges (just like in HOSTEL, three guys going on a bender in a foreign country. But worry not, that’s the only thing they have in common – well, that, and the gore). As soon as they cross the border, the become drunk, because according to Hollywood, all there ever is in Mexico is tequila, titty bars and guys with moustaches.
Speaking of titty bars, our three amigos decide to go to a titty bar, because one of them is a virgin and they plan on putting an end to that. They pay a prostitute to take the virgin dude upstairs, and just before shenanigans start to happen, the prostitute’s baby starts crying. As any virgin will do in such a situation, he falls in love with the prostitute and her baby, and decides to lose his virginity at a later time. Meanwhile, one of the other guys goes up to the bar to order a drink (presumably, tequila). As it happens, the bartender is not only beautiful, but she smiles at the customer and even engages in conversation. Now, I’ve not been to a lot of titty bars in my lifetime, but I’ve never encountered such a scenario. Anyway, the virgin guy returns, and tells the other two that he’s going away with the prostitute.

The next day, they find he never came back. Well, no wonder! he’s being held in a barn, with Sean Astin as his keeper. Sean fucking Astin!

So the two other guys, and of course the bartender and her cousin, go out in search of their missing friend. Because that’s what gorgeous bartenders in dangerous cities do in their free time. Oh, and the cousin is some kind of witchy character.
In one scene, we learn that not even the police will partake of the actions going on, except for one cop that has been on a manhunt for approximately a year.

So far, the movie’s been great. Nothing could ruin it. Oh wait, there’s the main bad guy! Is he… he looks kind of familiar… NOOOOOO!!!! WHY!!!!!

Turns out, our evil overlord is played by none other than Beto Cuevas, the singer in Chilean pop-rock trio La Ley. That just blows. Getting Beto Cuevas to play the leader of a satanic cult of drug smugglers is like getting Clay Aiken to play the leader of a satanic cult of drug smugglers. A very bad idea, if you ask me.

Anyway, shit hits the fan, things get gory again (including one scene on a rooftop you just HAVE to watch), and we are met with an anti-climatic ending. The credits start rolling, and guess whose music starts playing? Of course, Beto Cuevas!
Now, when I say “anti-climatic”, I don’t say it in a bad way. On the contrary. We’ve so been fed twist endings and false endings, and all that nonsense, that to see an ending like this one becomes refreshing.

In any case, casting snafu aside (although they made up for it by including my homie Roberto Sosa), it turned out to be a very good movie. I enjoyed it even more because of Martha Higareda, whom I’ve had a crush on since her early acting days in feminine hygiene commercials, and because of the fact that every outdoor scene reminded me of back home: the dirt roads, the scarce vegetation, the CERVEZA BIEN FRIA signs outside of stores…

If you can stand some gore in your movies, I suggest you watch it. As for the comparison to SAW and HOSTEL, well, I guess there’s some truth to the fact that this is the better movie, overall. The others are far gorier, if that’s your thing, so even if Borderland didn’t make the other ones seem like “The Sound Of Music”, it does hold up as a great movie. Here’s the trailer, as long as YouTube lets me keep it here.

The Iceberg

 

YouTube!

Ahh, YouTube. One of the most brilliant concepts to ever come out of the internet. Millions upon millions of videos, right there for you to search and watch. Music videos, live concert footage, movie trailers, “best” moments from TV shows, news clips, the odd funny or amazing home videos, stand-up comedy, documentaries, how-to guides… the possibilities are endless. Or should I say were?

As everything else that becomes huge and successful, two things happen.
The industry gets its dirty, grimy hands all over it, and ruins everything with its dumb copyright laws;
And even worse, idiots take over like a flock of seagulls upon spotting a rotting fish carcass that has washed ashore. Or an army of ants upon spotting something ants consider a delicacy. Like, caterpillars and stuff.

So I’m kind of in a love/hate relationship with YouTube, right now, despite it not being directly their fault. Here’s 5 things I hate, and 5 things I love about YouTube:

5 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOUTUBE
#5: YouTube Comments. It’s been said before, but it’s true. If one wants to see exactly how far along we’ve come as a species, all they need to do is take a peek at the average YouTube video, and read the comments (or, alternatively, take a quick gander over at Yahoo! Questions – or their Facebook feed).
From people who post, on just about any ordinary song, “OMG THIS IS THE GR8EST SONG EVR!!!”, to the people who reply to that with “LOL UR A FAG”, to the moron who doesn’t realize that a) this is an English language discussion (although I use the term “English” loosely, here), and b) Unlike English, not everyone in the world is familiar with their particular language, there’s always some dullard typing whatever nonsense in portuguese, vietnamese, norwegian, or one of the many dialects spoken around the Black Sea, to my personal favorites: the ones who take one line from the song, no matter how meaningless, and decide to post it for all of us to see. Such as, “OMG p-p-p-pokerface!!!!”
If you place your ear over Charles Darwin’s grave, you can hear him spinning.

#4 Dude, Where’s My Video? What can be worse than looking for a particular video, even from popular, mainstream media, only to find that either the media has removed it from YouTube, or it’s so deep inside page 27 of the search results that by the time you get to it you don’t even want to see it anymore because you found it half an hour ago in your MP3 collection? Huh? What can be worse?

#3: Why did I ask? Of course, the tribute/rendition/home-made/bullshit tripe the idiots come up with. Hey idiots, what makes you think that, deep down, if I search “Hell Awaits” by Slayer, or anything from The Killers, it’s because I want to watch your shitty guitar playing to said song? Or even worse, drums? Or that I desire to listen to said songs while looking at your favorite Anime clips, or a video of your cat eating?

#2: Embedding disabled by request. This one is personal.
“You fucking fucks, what’s going on?”
“Oh, you can only watch this video directly on YouTube”.
“No I can’t. I can easily download said video, albeit in a shitty format, and watch it to my heart’s content, even without using the internet. So what’s going on?
“Uh, uh, ummmm, well it makes sense to us that if you want to link to our video, even if you’re linking directly to YouTube, it’s wrong, somehow”.
“Then, how is it that I can link to some of your videos, but not all?”
“Listen, dude, we’re the media. We’re idiots, we just do as we please”.

#1.Some amateur artists. Having, judging by my stats, what could be referred to as the shittiest blog in the world, I shouldn’t be judging other people’s failures at artistic expression. But I will. You know why? Because pasting photos (PHOTOS, not video) and your opinions, shitty poetry and/or lyrics and adding a Nirvana song does not art make. And, speaking of, does everybody use the same software? It’s always the same blue background, with white text, using the same font. How original. And then, you end it all with “PLS JOIN MY CHANNEL “. How about no.

And, just because you won't believe anything I say, click the image for a video of a cat eating, set to music by Kansas...

THINGS I LOVE ABOUT YOUTUBE
#5. It kills time. Sometimes, too much time. But it’s fun, for the most part. I’ve been known to spend hours on end just watching clip after clip. Fuck, if I got paid to watch videos on YouTube, I could quit my day job. And, if I got a bonus for every shitty one I’ve found, I’d be living like a king. Ha!

#4. The “Recommendations” Sidebar. Tying into the theme of #5, I love the recommendations they give for any particular video, which inevitably lead to more time being killed. Say you’re watching a music video. The recommendations offer you more videos from the band/artist, like live footage, interviews, or other music videos from the artist or similar artists. The possibilities are endless. Unfortunately, time is not.

#3. Some amateur artists. And by “some”, I mean a few. Some video bloggers, some conceptual artists, etc. There are not too many of them I enjoy, but there are a few. For example, even though I couldn’t care any less about the lives of celebrities, or gossipy shit like that, I like the way one girl discusses said topics, through her personal art. Do yourselves a favour and search for “Pop Waffle”.

#2. It’s International (for now). Unlike other media sites I can mention (I shake my fist at Pandora, Hulu and MTV), you don’t “have to be a resident of the United States due to copyright laws” or whatever excuse they find.

#1. It’s easy to share. Gone are the days of waiting half an hour for a song to be sent through Instant Messaging in order for your conversationee to get what you’re talking about. Whether it’s a game I like to call “YouTube Tag” (wherein myself and another person just take turns sharing Youtube videos), or the sudden urge to share a video that makes sense to the conversation, or a love song, all it takes is to copy/paste the URL to your conversation window. Alternatively, I love the verb “Youtube”, as in “Youtube it”.

So there you have it! 10 opinions on YouTube I’m sure nobody was curious about.

The Iceberg

 

:)

I feel great. I feel – dare I say it – happy. I feel invincible. I feel I could knock out Mike Tyson with a single punch. I feel I could make a movie called “Titanic 2″ and make it even better than the original. I feel I could convince the pope to discuss zombies in his next public appearance.

Life suddenly became awesome. And I’m loving every second of it.

Sorry I took a week off, to let it all sink in. I’m back.

The Iceberg.

 

Even the weather is ironic

It’s supposed to be summer. It sure hasn’t felt like it, except for a couple of days.

Well, today at 8 O’clock PM, I decided to go out for a smoke. Having felt the weather in previous smoke outings, I did what I never thought I would do in motherfucking August: I put a sweater on.
As I was smoking, I joked within myself that it must be colder here than in fucking Finland. I quickly corrected myself. “Don’t be stupid, Iceberg. They must be freezing way up in those latitudes”.

Came back inside, logged on to the Weather Network’s website, and saw the local temperature:

“Those Finnish fuckers must be, at the very highest, at around 5°”, I thought. Not only are they closer to the Arctic Circle, but it’s midnight over there.
I almost considered not checking the temperature in Helsinki. I thought it pointless. But then I did, because I’m a stubborn fuck like that.

Really? REALLY?

Shit, man!

The Iceberg

 

No sympathy

I hardly ever get topical on this here blog. I hardly ever discuss news items, unless the baffle me in some way. Well, on Sunday, I was baffled.

See, I’m not an activist or anything, but one of the things that pisses me off the most is the way women are treated in some parts of the world. Condemned to a lifetime of never being seen, never being heard, and having only one right – the right to live (unless, of course, they are the victims of rape, in which case they bring shame and dishonour, and are deserving of being stoned to death).

Well, on Sunday I was reading my news items, as always, when this particular item caught my attention:

BBC: Mali Protest Against Women’s Law

Let’s wrap our heads around that one, shall we?

1. The Government of Mali, an african nation, proposes a law that gives women equal rights in marriage.
2. Women, yes, women, become pissed at this new law.
3. So pissed, in fact, that they organize a protest against said law.
4. All in the name of – you guessed it – religion.

Nice!

I look forward to watching video clips of these women being stoned to death for daring to organize themselves in protest. Stupid bitches.
The government has your back, you idiots! You can now speak, co-own shit, and inherit more shit when your husband dies. But you don’t want rights? Are you fucking kidding me? Why, dumbasses? Why don’t you want those rights?

“We have to stick to the Koran,” Ms Dembele told the BBC’s Focus on Africa programme. “A man must protect his wife, a wife must obey her husband.”

Oh.

The Iceberg.

 

Creative Advertising #2

Here’s another batch of creative ways of advertising products and ideas. You gotta hand it to some people, when they get inspired, they come out with some really good stuff.

What do you think? My personal favorites this time around are the BMW and the Jesus ones, because of their play on another sign (as opposed as I am to the catholic church, I’ll admit their sign placement made me laugh), the office products one with the Liquid Paper™, the yoga straw, and well, it doesn’t get any more genius than the McDonald’s one. The “depletion of the rainforest so you can dry your hands” one, by the WWF, was cool, as well.
The one with the guy washing his hands in the bathroom is for some psychiatric institution, hence the other guy in the mirror. And the Spiderman one was pretty clever, I guess. And according to what I read, the one with the paint isn’t an ad for a paint company, but for Nationwide Insurance. Still, it’s a classic.
I’ll be on the lookout for another 20 clever/funny ads. In the meantime, I hope you liked these, and the previous gallery which can be found here.

The Iceberg.

 

No Frills, No Regards for our Customers.

I usually buy my groceries at No Frills. I’ve done so for at least the two years I’ve lived at this place. First, because along with Zehr’s, it’s close by. And second, Zehr’s might have more variety, but No Frills has more specialty products. As in, a “mexican products” section, where I obtain such treats as my Kutbil’Ik Habanero Sauce, my flour tortillas, and the occasional pickled jalapeño slices.

Today, though, I decided it would be my last grocery shopping there. I mean, Just because of their items I might pop in every now and then, whenever I’m in need of things I can’t find elsewhere, but I am taking the 100 dollars (at least) I spend on groceries every month, elsewhere.

I can find lettuce and ham and bags of rice and beans and milk and coffee and fucking avocados just about anywhere. Why would I give my business to a store that allows what happened today?

I’ve been in line at the register before, and suddenly somebody pops up behind me, and the cashier tells them “you’re the last person” while she props up her The Next Available Register Will Be Glad To Help You! sign. They announce it, beforehand, and I understand. maybe her shift is over, maybe she’s got the squirts… I dunno. But if they have to leave, they let you know.

Today, though, I’m holding a basket with a loaf of bread, a few jalapeños, a pack of meat, a sack of stupid potatoes, and a fucking Gillette Fusion because it’s somehow cheaper to buy another razor with two cartridges than a pack of new cartridges. And I need to shave, like fucking immediately. I don’t know how other guys do it. One week later, and I’m itching like a fucking zombie.

In front of me, is a couple, with their son. They’re clearly Iranian. Iranians are cool, and I’ll defend them with my life if need be, because an Iranian looked out for me in that January 2007 night in Toronto.
They seem to love Pepsi. And lettuce. I don’t care, really.

I’ve been in line for a while now. The Iranians are putting their stuff on the conveyor thingie. The asshole with the “WHITE” tattoo on his left arm and “POWER” on his right is paying with debit. Fucking skinhead motherfucker, buying yogurt for his fucking aryan offspring. He walks away, unknowing of the fact that I’m not 100% white. Fucking racist fuck.
As the Iranians finish placing their Pepsis and their (admittedly ho-ho-ho) Iceberg lettuce on the conveyor, unknowing perhaps that I’ve been standing there watching a racist scumbag shop for yogurt, the bitch cashier with the “SMILE! I’M A TRAINEE” shirt asks me to please move to another line.

YOU FUCKING BITCH!

So, as she walks away, to talk to some people (it’s not like it was something else… she just shut her fucking register so she could go talk to her friends outside the registers), I line up, again, behind two shoppers. A lady, doing her fucking groceries for what seems to be some paramilitary bunker (I could have sworn, she rang up 1,000 dollars in groceries), and some stupid redneck who decided saturday afternoon at No Frills was the perfect time to stack up on Coca Cola cans. I swear, this dude stepped out with at least 25 cases of Coke. (25 X 24 = 600. Go figure).

Finally, the Tyrannosaurus Rex of a woman behind the register gets to scanning my stuff. I notice she, too, has a “SMILE! I’M A TRAINEE!” shirt. She’s fucking huge, man! About my size (6′2), but 45 times my girth. She could devour me with a single bite.
Not one to judge peoples’ appearances, I ignore the fact that she could flatten a Bradley tank just by frowning at it. She scans all my shit, and informs me with a hippo smile that it’s $24.50.
I slowly distance myself from her, but ask her for the name of the other chick. “Jessica”, she bellows. “Why?”.
It is at this moment that I cower so deeply, that I can only muster up a line from Monty Python’s Parrot sketch. “Because I wish to register a complaint”, I say. I swear, that’s what I said.
“Do you want to speak to a manager?” She asks.
“No, maybe the next time I stop by”, I say. Pissed off as I am, I can’t just go ahead and ruin somebody’s budding career as a cashier. Especially in these economic times. I walk away.

I see “Jessica” happily chatting away with her friends. I walk out of the store, fuming.

I’m carrying three grocery bags on my way home. One of them holds my 10 pound bag of potatoes. I arrive at the Hanlon Parkway, by far the busiest street on my way to, and back. The light turns green, which means I better hurry. I make it through the right lanes. The light turns yellow. I better kick my pace up a notch. Light turns red, bag with potato sack breaks halfway through the other lanes. I paid 5 cents for a bag, and of all places, this is where it decides to give in? I divert traffic. Some douche bitch in a Geo honks unmercilessly at me. I pretend not to care, as I toss the remains of the bag aside and pick up my 3.99 sack of potatoes.

I consider blaming that “Jessica” person for all my troubles. I decide it’s not all her fault. I don’t know who the people she ran to talk to were. I conclude I’d do the same if it were people from back home. I forgive her.

Still, she’s a trainee. She should know more than that. She should know I could have gotten her fired, but didn’t. She should reward me with sex. She should offer, at least. But she won’t. So I’ll take my business elsewhere, from now on.

The Iceberg