Toys and Holidays

I go to the local CVS the day after Halloween, figuring I can score some cheap leftover Halloween candy. In my head, I'm envisioning giant bags of candy corn, Reese's peanut butter cups, various Hershey products. After all, I was there on Halloween, and they had all of this shit stocked like a fat person's nuclear war shelter. Yet, the day after, not even 24 hours after I had seen the center island looking like a candy dumping ground, there's practically nothing there? A few bags of those awful caramels with the chalky cream center, something called Hershey's S'mores minis, which I'm not in any mood to even try, because I was salivating on the ride over thinking about ripping open a bag of mini Reese's peanut butter cups and shoving them into my fat face. I got so mad at the CVS (at the actual, physical store, as if it were it's own entity), that out of spite I bought a six-pack of Reese's peanut butter cups, muttering a "Fuck you, CVS, cocksucking bitch" under my breath, like I had really gotten one over on the CVS. Way to go. I win.

What truly pissed me off, though, was not the lack of candy. I'm sure the fat fuck behind the counter had dibs on the majority of the candy, and that most of the leftovers were already gurgling their way through her giant jiggling belly and her elephantine lower intestines. Her teeth were already brown with the permanent stains of her repeated bad decisions to have one more candy bar before trying again to start another failed attempt at getting her weight down below the level of a tractor-trailer. To get her cholesterol level to a number lower than 8.000.

No, what really pissed me off was the fact that CVS' main aisle had, in under 24 hours, undergone a massive transformation from Halloween Center of the Universe to Christmas Capital USA. Christmas lights, Christmas cards, Christmas ornaments, Christmas candy. And I'm saying to myself, "Holy Shit! Not even a pause for Thanksgiving?" Because that is how life is nowadays. Corporate entities hustle you (ha ha, what a funny double entendre! I hope that as you just read that, you said to yourself "Thanks for overstating the obvious, jerkoff" instead of "Oh! Ha ha! That was cute!" If you said the latter, stop reading, close the page now and go drive your car into the side of a building.) from one holiday to the next. Christmas to Valentine's Day to St. Patrick's Day to Easter to 4th of July to Halloween to Thanksgiving and back to Christmas, with all sorts of Father's Days and Mother's Days and Gay Pride Days and Veteran's Days and Quadriplegic Days and African-American Days (and Months) thrown in between as minor distractions. And I mean, shit, now, apparently, Thanksgiving has been bumped from the main holiday scene altogether, relegated to a tiny section of the greeting card aisle.

What the fuck?

I was going somewhere else with all of this, but I feel like I shot my writing load here... I had a whole thing about how toys suck tremendously these days, and how toys from when I was a kid were so much better, even though really, they weren't. I mean, come on, Thundercats toys were fucking awful, so was He-Man. G.I. Joe and Transformers were tops. Blah blah blah. These days they're all cheap plastic. Blah blah.

Let me end this like a "Saturday Night Live" skit.


Yeah, so that was what we were talking about, holidays, (fade out... hesitant applause... "That was it?" Ugh... Douche chills)

Costume Party

So I work part time as a bartender at a ritzy country club, where they make me serve Grey Goose and Ketel One and all sorts of other expensive alcohol. They make so much money there that I can drop two bottles of "The Goose" (as the gay alkies like to call it when they're ordering... "Give me some of 'The Goose' straight up", they say, and then I take the bottle and smash it over their fucking heads) and the management doesn't get mad.

"Hey! Go ahead! Drop a case of champagne! What do we care! Break glasses and drop dishes with filet mignon! We'll just make more!"

Tonight I worked a Halloween costume party for one of the local town's EMS, which means dealing with drunken dickheads dressed like idiots and falling down all over the place. Added to this, there was going to be a magician, which I was a little excited about. At least there would be some entertainment, I figured, to offset the drunken stupidity I would have to endure at the bar.

And who is the first fucking guy to come up to the bar? This smug, arrogant cock-nosed prick that I went to high school with about 12 years ago. This dumb fuck is running for town council in the town over from me, and he comes up all smug, thankfully doesn't recognize me, and proceeds to order glasses of Chardonnay and vodka and tonics ("The Goose"... gotta be the fucking Goose, right?) for him and his wife, who also went to high school with me. This is a cash bar tonight, and what does this fucker do? Takes out a huge roll of cash, pays for his fucking drinks and doesn't leave a tip. He does this five times throughout the night, not leaving a single dollar of tip money. Faggot. I wish I lived in his town so I could have told him to his face that I was intentionally voting for whoever is running against him based on the lack of tips coming out of his fat wallet.

Around this time I decided to make myself a glass of water, to which I added some Rose's Lime Syrup. The resulting concoction tasted like what I imagine horse piss would taste like, and even now, after coming home, eating dinner and brushing my teeth, I still have the awful taste lurking in the back of my throat.

Here's a short list of who showed up at the Monster Mash tonight. The Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood were there. The Wolf, unbeknownst to me, is able to knock back several Myer's Rum and Tonics as well as several chilled Absolut Vodka shots. Some idiot with white face paint trying to be the Joker and looking like a complete asshole. A guy dressed as a knight, who got shitfaced and told me he likes to shower and flop his penis all over the place. At this point in the evening I wanted to go outside and drown myself in the fountain.

Also, the werewolf showed up, a hairy ugly man who asked for pineapple juice, then gives it back and says "I don't want any ice in this." Okay. I give him pineapple juice without ice. He says, "This isn't chilled. I want this chilled." That's funny, because I want this guy to jump off a fucking bridge and die. Then he leaves me FIFTY FUCKING CENTS TIP!

There was a woman there dressed like a whore, or something like a whore. She had her tits flopping all out of her dressed and it was very hard to concentrate on making her drink when she has her titties bouncing around in front of me. And then there was the coat check girl, who wasn't dressed for the costume party, but looked like she was, with her see-thru top and fishnets and stilettoes. This bitch has 4 kids and apparently is looking for hot sex, possibly whore-like sex for money.

And finally, after waiting all night for the magician, they trot out this homosexual asshole who doesn't do actual magic tricks, like making things disappear and creating wonderful mindbending illusions. Instead they have a guy doing card tricks and ripping dollar bills in half and putting them back together, while he cracks jokes like he's Joey Gladstone entertaining the Tanner family, only 10 times more gay. I stood there watching this and started to feel like a real jerk for having gotten all excited about a fucking magician and actually expecting fucking David Copperfield to walk through the door. I was so mad at myself that I ended up taking it out on the magician. After he finished his hokey hucka-hucka schtick, he came up to the bar, all hoarse-throated and sweaty-faced, and asked me for a glass of water. After giving this twat the glass, I come out with an amazing piece of wit and ask, "Can you do any magic with this glass of water?", half trying to be a wise ass, and half kind of hoping he actually REALLY CAN do some kind of awesome magic trick.

Unfortunately for little ol' me, he just gave me a dirty look and a terse, "No, I can't" and walked away. Then I took a bottle of "THE GOOSE", jumped over the bar, broke the bottle over the back of his head and started stabbing him repeatedly until my tuxedo shirt was stained with the magician's blood.


Although, I really didn't do this last part. I did think it though, and sent nasty thoughts in his direction and hoped he'd mess up his next gig so bad that he'd be fired as a magician and have to perform tricks for senior citizens.


Before the night was through, I was wallowing in my own sorrows, though, as I came to the realization that this idiot I went to school with is the same age as me, already has his Master's, will probably end up as a state senator or some shit like that, and there I was, pulling in $83, serving him drinks, waiting to stuff my fat face with McDonald's after I left because I didn't eat a proper dinner. I suppose one day it works itself out, but for right now, all I have is a bad mixture of envy, anger, depression and greasy shitty food.

Awesome party.

IKEA

This is my official blog, isn't it great? I've spent the last twenty minutes trying to figure out how to set up ridiculous templates and color schemes and I have absolutely no fucking idea what I've saved or changed or anything. Thankfully all this computer shit happened right after I finished high school and college, so I'm officially a retard when it comes to this kind of thing.

Anyway, so this is my first post, and I'd like to use it to express my complete and total displeasure with the IKEA furniture store that is located in Paramus, New Jersey. I am assuming that my hatred for this store extends to all IKEA stores across the globe, because their product can't be that much different simply because it comes from a store located in another state or country.

If you've never been to an IKEA, you're not missing much. Generally the stores are jam-packed with idiots who think they're getting a big bargain on coffee tables or bedroom sets, when really all they're getting is an ass-fuck because the products are made like shit and reflect their relatively inexpensive price tag. And the stores themselves are no treat. Like I said, they are jammed with idiot zombie mall-walkers, and they're so complexly arranged that they have to actually put up maps to tell you what direction you should be going. How ergonomical. One big consumer flow from the entrance to the checkout, like food getting digested through the front door and moving through the bowels of the blue/yellow box and pumped out its shithole.

Or you can take one of the cute little shortcuts to another department and feel all special! How cute!

Here's what I got at IKEA: Three dressers, two endtables and an armoire, total cost around $850. Wow, how cheap right? That's because you have to get tickets for each item, go downstairs to this giant warehouse full of flat cardboard boxes, each weighing about 600 pounds, which you have to personally lift onto a little metal dolly. Then you have to maneuver this small battleship-like cart to the checkout, where the lines rival those at DisneyWorld, all the while trying to keep from destroying stupid displays of bath sets and three for $10.00 cd-holders and other useless shit that appear to be set up specifically to serve as obstacles to test your skills. And the degenerates let their children run around like animals, knocking into you, knocking things over, screaming and cursing. The only good thing is that occasionally one runs into my cart and bounces off like a bird hitting a window, which makes me almost smile.

Anyway, after you pay, you have to put the shit in your car by yourself, and then you have to take it home and put it together by yourself, using directions consisting of pictures of morph-like people shapes assembling cartoon versions of the item you just bought. It's not that hard, except for one thing:

Seven months down the line, the shit is falling apart. The faces of the drawers on the dressers keep popping off, the bottoms of the drawers can't handle a weight-load consisting of more than 8 0r 9 t-shirts, or maybe several pairs of pants, and if you try to move the dressers and grab under the top, it pops up because it's only secured by gravity, not the little lock-screw things that are supposed to keep it secure. And when I tried fixing these problems, with screwdrivers and wood glue, the cheap fucking wood they used to make the goddamn dressers snaps and breaks like one of those faggy balsa wood gliders that I used to buy for a dollar when I was a kid.

So here is the e-mail exchange between myself and the stupid fucks at IKEA, a store I will never again shop at thanks to their complete inability to provide a decent piece of furniture. I'm still waiting to hear back from these dumb cunts, and I doubt I will.


This is what I wrote first:
I just wanted to let you know that I am wholly dissatisfied withthe products I purchased at your Paramus, NJ, store. My wife and I spent well over $700.00 for three dressers, all three of which have had problems. All three of these dressers have had broken pieces, and we have not had them for a year yet! On all three of the dressers, the bottoms of several drawers have bowed downward and have had to be held in place by duct tape. These dressers have spacious drawers, and apparently one of your selling points is not the fact that they cannot hold the weight of clothing. One of the dressers, as well as a wardrobe we purchased for our daughter, have had problems with the drawers. The small circular pieces which the bolts on the drawer face lock into constantly fall out, and when you go to open the drawer, the face pops off. I have tried gluing them shut, which has not worked. I have also found that when you tighten the locks too much, the cheap wood you use cracks, and fixing the drawer becomes an impossibility. I will continue to use your store for items such as CD and DVDholders, which are cheap and inexpensive. But never again will I spend my hard-earned money on the garbage you people are trying to pass off as decent furniture. I do not abuse my furniture, and there is absolutely no reason whatsoever that these dressers and this wardrobe should be falling apart. I would like to know what kind of an answer IKEA has for my problems. It seems that your products were not designed with durability in mind.

This is the response I got back from "Neil":
Thank you for taking the time to contact us. We apologize for any inconvenience. IKEA products carry a guarantee for material quality and workmanship. In cases where there may be a potential defect in a product, we generally recommend returning to the store (along with the item and the receipt), so that co-workers in the store are able to inspect the item. At that time, a Customer Service Representative can also arrange a refund, exchange, or credit as deemed appropriate. Thank you for selecting IKEA.
Best regards,
Neil
IKEA Customer Care Center

This got me pissed off, so I fired off this response:
Thanks Neil, but, unlike my mother-in-law, who has receipts from the last millennium, I tend to not keep receipts for products such as furniture. Generally, I expect that when I buy furniture, I'm not going to have to deal with it falling apart for a considerable length of time. Plus, if I did have the receipts, what you are essentially telling me is this; Figure out a way to get three dressers and an armoire -- which are already put together, mind you -- all the way back to the store you bought them from. Then, maybe, just maybe, the people at my local IKEA will deem my problem worthy of their time. That's not cool, Neil. Not cool at all. You people have got some racket going on there. You sell home furnishings at "discount" prices, make them look all hip and retro and unique, and then when you get it home, the products fall apart after several months. After your receipts are gone, Neil. You think the schmuck at IKEA Paramus is going to give me a refund for something I bought over 8 months ago and for something that is broken and already assembled? My point isn't that I want new stuff from you, and it isn't that I want you to fix the problems I have. Thanks, but no thanks. I'll figure out a nice, cheap, reliable way to have the problems fixed. And in lieu of that, I'll throw the garbage you pass off as quality workmanship right where it belongs: At the end of my driveway on pickup night, with the rest of my trash. In fact, as I'm writing this letter, it is dawning on me that you aren't the person I need to be exchanging e-mails with. I plan on drafting a full detailed complaint letter to IKEA to voice my displeasure. Thanks for your suggestions.

I didn't actually send that letter because I'm a lazy fuck and would rather have furniture held together with duct tape than actually do something proactive about it, but IKEA was nice enough to send this shit answer back, some cunt-drip named Connie sent it:

Thank you for your reply. Beyond 45 days, a full refund may be issued if the item is unassembled, in its original packaging and able to be returned to stock. Without a receipt, a store credit may be issued for the lowest selling price; however, this will be at the store's discretion. We do hope this information has been helpful, and we thank you for your inquiry.
Best Regards,
Connie
IKEA Customer Care Center

I haven't actually written this letter yet, but if I were to respond to Connie, it would go something like this:

Dear Connie,

You and your company epitomize what is wrong with the world today. You sell shit product and act like it's the best shit available when really I could probably cut down a tree in my backyard and carve better furniture for myself. How dare you rape my wallet for product that looks good but, in furniture terms, lasts about as long as I do in bed. (For your information, that is approximately 8 seconds). You then have the balls to tell me that I can unassemble my dressers and armoire, which I didn't know how to assemble in the first place without your instructions, and return it to the store, and if it's resellable, they'll give me the lowest possible price available.

THE FUCKING FURNITURE IS FALLING APART, CONNIE!!! If your furniture were alive, I would have to send it to a fucking leper colony because it's breaking apart! You know that if I'm telling you this, it's fucking unsellable! So I should waste my time disassembling this shit, figure out a way to haul it back to your shit shack of a store, where some high-school dropout cretin will tell me, "Oh, sorry, sir, but this is broken! We can't sell it so you can't have a refund."? And if they are generous enough to give me a refund, it will be for less than what I paid (or equivalent to what it was probably worth in the first place)?

Because you see, if the guy or gal tells me it's broken and I can't sell it, I'll have to bring this shit to IKEA company headquarters and smack you in the head with it for even daring to suggest that I bring broken product back to your store for a refund. And I'll go to jail for assault, and hopefully you'll end up a fucking dumb, retarded vegetable like Terry Schiavo, and they'll leave your feeding tube in until you fucking die, cunt.

I hope every one of your stores burns down to the ground. I hope your stock falls through the floor and every IKEA around the world gets turned into a homeless shelter where people shit and piss all over the floor.

Thanks for stealing my money and making me pay for shit.

Next time give me a little kiss, or stick your she-cock in my mouth, because when I get fucked I like to get a little mouth action, Cunty.

Fuck you.


I haven't actually sent this yet, but maybe I will one day.


By the way, this blog is fucking gay, I know, but it helps knowing I can get this stuff out there for people to read, even if they think it sucks. Let me know what you think so I can tell you to suck my balls.