Get taught everything by an ostensible

Get taught everything by an ostensible

Noteable Customers

Noteable Customers #1

This grocery store sees, on average, about 3,000 customers a day. Compared to a lot of stores, this isn’t much. Out of those thousands of passing faces, there’s a select few who keep coming back—whether it be once a week or every day.
Here’s a few.
THE CREEPY SLOB

This guy comes in every few days and buys the same things: Chips, beer, and dog food. I understand the chips and beer, but something tells me he doesn’t even own a dog. This guy is  gross. His clothes are always filthy, he smells like horse shit and sweaty crotch, and his hair looks like he just dipped it in a vat of bacon grease.
The Slob is not only disgusting, but creepy. He fucking stares at me while I’m stocking the checkstands, then quickly turns away when I look at him. He has a lazy eye, which is pretty handy, because he can stare at me AND the Starbucks barista at the same time!
I swear this guy wears the same clothes every time I see him. Fiddy bux says he hasn’t changed them at all. Or showered in like a year. Christ, he smells horrible. The checkers and I always know when he walks into the store because this sharp odor starts wafting through the air. Go home and eat your dog food, Creepy Slob.
THE ALIEN CARRIER

This lady comes in with her litter of four crotch-droppings once a week. They each can’t be more than a year apart, and big surprise—she’s expecting another one, because Catholics don’t believe in birth control or some shit. She doesn’t speak English, nor do any of her kids.
I fucking hate kids. I especially fucking hate these kids, because they’re always running around the store unsupervised, screaming at the top of their lungs, breaking stuff and stealing candy. Can I tell the Alien Carrier to control them? No, because she doesn’t understand a god damn word out of my mouth.
This woman is obviously in the country illegally, and honestly, I don’t care. What pisses me off is the fact that she pays with food stamps. She doesn’t pay taxes, she shouldn’t get those. I hate that I’m paying to feed these asshole kids of hers as I’m cleaning up the broken wine bottle they just knocked over.
She scribbles her makeup on like a clown. Her Sharpie-eyebrows are arched so hardcore she looks unnaturally angry, and she lines her red lips in black. Fucking BLACK. Not dark brown or anything, because that would be too reasonable. But fine, I can deal.
What I can’t deal with is how her clothes NEVER FIT, EVER. Her nasty stretch-marked pregnant gut hangs out below her saggy tits. She makes absolutely sure her jogging pants are low enough so the world can see her sexy pimpled asscrack.
No wonder her kids are so bad. I’d be pissed too if my mother was a whore.
THE PARROT GUY

This guy…Is fucking AWESOME.
He looks strangely like Dr. Steel, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a mad scientist too. In fact, I have no idea what this guy does. That’s his beauty: No one knows what he does, who he is, or what the little green parrot on his shoulder is for. Nobody even knows his name, which usually shows up on a receipt when you use a savings card. This means he never signed up for a savings card even though he comes in maybe once every two weeks. He’s too fukken badass for a sweet deals.
He’s probably in his 40’s, really tall and skinny. He wears these dark round glasses, sometimes a stylish but sensible hat. He always dresses in fancy suit-jackets and slacks. Most importantly, he carries a tiny green parrot-thing on his shoulder. I’m guessing The Parrot Guy is some kind of secret agent or maybe even an assassin. The parrot is probably really a high-tech gadget disguised as a bird.

I’ve never heard him say a word, except “Thank you.” as he leaves. He drives this really nice white car and never buys more than a handful of random things. Cheese and tuna mostly. Yeah, I always thought he looked like a cheese’ntuna type of guy.
There are plenty more regulars to be mocked. I don’t even know where to start.

Bloody Shit-Puke

Bloody Shit-Puke (A Horror Story)

I’m going to share a delightful story with you about something I found in the men’s bathroom one morning.
This happened somewhat early on the job. The day started off pretty good and I was feeling optimistic.

After gathering all the carts in the parking lot and taking out all the trash, I got ready to clean the bathrooms.
For the record, the restrooms usually aren’t too bad. There’s always, ALWAYS a small amount of shit on at least one of the toilet seats, but it’s nothing I can’t handle with The Blue Stuff and some paper towels. The men’s room is always worse than the women’s.
So I was expecting a small mess in the men’s restroom that morning, as always…But I was not expecting this…

Covering 80% of the floor, splattered on the walls and sinks, and leading from the one stall was what I can only describe as “bloody shit-puke”. Like, seriously, there was BLOOD—or maybe they horked up something red—I don’t know. But I was pretty sure that when I opened that stall door, there would be a human corpse with an ruptured colon lying there.

The smell. THE SMELL, you guys. What has been smelled can never be unsmelled; it was the worst thing to ever rape my nostrils since I tried snorting confetti when I was 7.
So I went to tell my boss, thinking he would have mercy on me and call someone else to deal with it. Because…Seriously. Bloody diarrhea vomit, What the hell. NO ONE is prepared to deal with that, especially not 19-year-old OCD me.
I told him…

…And he fucking laughs. Not like a “teehee” chuckle, but a “HA HA HA OH MY GOD SRSLY?!” bellow. I asked him if he could call a different company to deal with it, and he pretty much said,
“LOL NOPE. GET IN THERE AND DO IT FAGGOT.”

Personally, I don’t think $8.50 an hour is enough incentive to deal with this. I probably should have thrown down my apron and walked the fuck out, but whatever. Time to man up and face the music great pool of various human wastes.
I put on a paper mask and got a gallon of bleach and a mop. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor of every bathroom, so I just poured the bleach everywhere and considered drinking it to end the pain.
Then I just kinda stood outside the bathroom door, swishing the mop around and quietly dying on the inside.

I still don’t know what the hell happened in there that morning. I’m pretty sure I don’t WANT to know, but I find myself occasionally wondering even to this day. It really looked like someone just fucking exploded. With a full colon. Uuuugh.
I have suffered, and now I am stronger.

Just a Graph

We’re professionals.

Reusable Bags

Reuseable Bags (And Why I Hate Them)

While I’m mostly a janitor, I do work at a grocery store, and everyone on the salesfloor can magically become a bagger at any time when one of the checkers picks up the phone and goes, “EVERYONE GET UP HERE! SOMEONE HAS REUSABLE BAGS!”
Since the first actual bagger of the day doesn’t come in until after I leave, it’s usually me. Whoopdefuckindoo.
Why such a frenzy over cloth bags? They’re good for the environment or some crap, sure, but a major pain in the ass to the rest of us. Let me share a typical experience…
A lady walks up. She has a cart spilling over with groceries and a million reusable bags. I hold out my hand to accept these things and the bitch chucks them at my face like she’s trying to get rid of a grenade.

You’d be surprised how much people do this. Yeah, just fucking THROW them at me. Don’t apologize or anything when they hit me in the face either, that will only give me a sense of worth.
One thing I have learned from this job: People treat baggers almost worse than they treat janitors. Almost.
The average reusable bag is covered with a thin coat of mysterious filth. I feel like I need a freakin’ Hazmat suit to touch some of these things. Oh god, and they smell.

Instead of chucking these at my face, why don’t you chuck them in the washer once in a while? Jesus, I’ve found entire ecosystems evolving in them.
On the note of bagging, another peeve I have is when people hover 2 inches in front of my face while I’m packing their groceries, making absolutely sure I pack everything exactly right.

They’ll seriously stand like this the whole time, sometimes with their hands floating over the bag. It’s horribly obnoxious and unsettling.
These are the people that are so fucking OCD that they make everyone around them miserable. “THERE IS A BOX ON THE FLOOR IN THIS AISLE, THIS STORE IS A DUMP. I’M TELLING THE MANAGER.”
Y’know, those people.
No joke, some lady once watched me pack up every item in her shitty cloth bags, hovering over me the whole time…And waited until the last item was packed before turning the bag upside-down and screeching like a howler monkey,
“THE BEANS CAN’T GO WITH THE MILK!”

And that’s all she said before leaving me to stand there in stunned silence, wondering why the hell beans and milk can’t be together in harmony. I tried to explain to her that I was distributing weight evenly between the bags, but she insisted that beans and milk absolutely can NOT be grooving in the same space. Her reason?
“They’re not the same food group!”
WELL I’M PRETTY SURE WE’RE NOT THE SAME SPECIES, HOWLER MONKEY LADY, BUT WE STILL SHARE THE SAME GROCERY STORE. ASS.
So she ended up with one extremely heavy bag with a million cans of beans in it. I hope the bitch wrecked her spine.
Today’s lesson: Do not dump my bag out when I finish packing it, it is quite rude. Also, something about beans and mysterious stains, I dunno.

Regarding Trash

Trash: What to Do With it

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a trash can.

The trash can is a docile creature that lives on a diet of useless non-recyclable refuse, and should be fed regularly. It also looks vaguely like a penis sometimes, but that’s not the point. If you have some trash in your hand, feed the can! Because when I find shit like this…

It makes me sad. And angry. Because it’s clear that some asshole just didn’t care if a poor trash can starved to death. He was probably walking along with his fancy hat and curly mustache, not even giving a single fuck if his garbage ended up on the ground, looking all gross and attracting ants and crows and unicorns and other hideous vermin.

Hey, douche. That can isn’t going to feed itself. Is it so hard to take 2—maybe 3—seconds of your time to prevent starvation?

IS IT?!

The Mad Janitor

Obligatory Intro Post

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve mopped piss off the floor, I wouldn’t be a janitor.
Yes. That’s how I’m going to introduce myself. With piss.
I work the early AM custodian shift at a grocery store. My job includes (but is not limited to) scrubbing toilets, collecting carts, picking up trash, making minor repairs and mopping piss off the fucking floor.
Let me repeat: MOPPING PISS. OFF THE FLOOR. Don’t think this is a problem limited to the guys either. Many a time have I waltzed into the ladies’ room and almost slipped on a pool of urine that some sick bitch decided to leave for me.



If you lack the mental capacity to understand “URINE GOES INTO TOILET” then you shouldn’t be out in public. Fuck you, go die.
Hi. My name is Janitor and I’m a tiny ball of concentrated rage. I’m an obsessive hand-washer and organizer, so you’d think being a custodian would drive me crazy.

It has.
Honestly, I like my job. Sure the pay is shit and the work is sometimes frustrating, but my coworkers are great and I have perfect hours. I’m lucky to have a job at all these days. Right? RIGHT?
Anyway.
ENOUGH OF THAT NICEY-NICE BULLSHIT, ON WITH THE RAGE.