Yeah, that's about enough of that.

I'm such an idiot for taking this stupid stocknegro job.  And if I didn't know that before, I SURELY know it now, as ten minutes ago when I walked out from work I was handed the tiniest check I've ever had in my entire existence.  $41.77.  Sure it was for only 5 hours but still.  THAT is what minimum wage is, Ladies and Gentleman.  A $2 whore who gives you syphilis but then asks you to give half of it back to her because she needs it to give away to Johns from foreign nations.  (See what I did there...at 6am dude is still able to create a powerful metaphor about his country's tax gobbling and shady economic priorities by use of a hooker and an STD.  Brilliant.)  Anyway, before I even left the house tonight I was not happy with my pay rate, as my teenage daughter brought her check home and I did the math.  For a job where all she does is run kids' birthday parties at some Chucky Cheese-type place and then clean up afterwards, she brought home more than I would for the same exact time worked.  I was enraged.

So when I got to work, my wrist was still hurting.  Right now, it's actually a damn lump the size of Whoopi Goldberg's Adam's Apple.  The most experienced woman there asked how I was doing and I told her my wrist was hurting pretty bad.  She asked why, I said from opening all the boxes.  She looked at me like she was Hitler's right-hand man and had just unearthed a Jew from within his ranks.  She didn't care and I didn't care to explain any further.  I was not a "company man" in her eyes, eyes by the way which are saggy and droopy with age and fat.  Yeah, I said it.  Moving on.  Tonight sucked because for some reason none of the boxes were in the aisles where they were supposed to be, meaning we couldn't just start ripping them open and stacking them.  We had to also take them from the stacks, figure out which aisle they belonged and separate them like that first.  Saggy Eyes then feels the need to assert some sort of authority because of her tenure, and says to us, "Okay, we got another truck in tonight, as big as last night's, so we're really going to have to move it guys."  Okay that's strike two with you, woman.  First you don't give me any sympathy for my bruised and battered wrist.  Now you're trying to tell me what to do?  Here's a thought...go die.  Yeah, that'll work for me.

Anyway I, for some reason was given the goddamn Barbie aisle.  This dude who I like to call Mr. Chipper because he's a full-timer who has been there awhile and makes twice as much as us lowlife seasonal stock people, sees I'm struggling with these bitch ass Barbies and says, "Could be worse."  I said, "I don't think so."  He flips a nut.  "Well that's a positive attitude to start out the night!"  Strike three.  Fucking Strike three and it's only 10:05.   I said nothing.  I had been there for five minutes, I was already pissed off and now Fat Ass McGirth is giving me shit for not being "positive" enough.  You know what man, fuck you, alright.  I just found out my teenage daughter makes more than me, my wrist and back are killing me, I hate this job and I hate you.  Now point me to the fucking Barbie Snowcastles.

Finally, some Barbies who understand what a brotha want in an interracial, seminude orgy with plastic dolls.

I spent 30 minutes between Barbie and Disney Princesses.  Every minute from 10:15-10:45 I spent deciding whether or not I was going to quit on the spot.  I was hating life and hating these people and thinking I could get in the car, drive to Harrah's and make $200 in an hour and be happy.  However, the boxes kept coming and I felt like I had at least made a commitment to be there tonight, and I'd leave them out in the lurch if I left now.  Plus around 11pm, the two Advil I took right before I left for the pain in my wrist and back started to kick in.  Things felt good.  I was moving at my own pace, fast enough for these idiots at least, and getting the hang of the Barbie/Princess stuff.  I even thought at that point for some reason that Cher really isn't so bad.  Yeah, the Advil was doing well.  The hour from 11-midnight I really don't remember much of.  But at midnight we moved on to the kids' aisle...Fisher Price, Toy Story, Crayola, Infant shit, pretty much the most packed part of the whole store.

We get there and...AGAIN, nothing is in the aisles where it should be.  So I take an hour chucking boxes into aisles.  At this point I could care less where shit goes.  I'm getting most of the shit right but who knows what I'm really doing.  I don't know what these codes mean and worse yet I don't know what's in these aisles.  It got to the point once I finally did get the boxes into the aisles, that I started playing with the games.  BECAUSE I WANTED TO, THAT'S WHY.  Pushing buttons, shaking shit, seeing how Dora was doing today.  And I also decided that to hell with being civil, if something strikes a chord, I'm going to say "Shit."  or "Fuck"  or "Shitfuckass."  Whatever.  We're all adults here.  If I can't play with a Fisher Price infant xylophone toy one second and yell, "Motherfucking hell" in another, then what kind of toy store is this.

So by 4am we're already way behind because we had to do more than just open and stack the boxes.  Now at 4:15, the bosslady slows shit up even more by telling me to take the pallet jack and move the pallets to the back stock room.  Well, there are three problems with that.  1) I don't know what a pallet jack is, 2) I surely don't know how to use one, and 3) I'm in no mood.  I can't believe I'm saying this but when she asked me to do that, I actually felt bad that I wouldn't be opening boxes.  Jesus.  So someone shows me how to run the pallet jack.  I load up boxes.  They tell me I need to put more on.  Now, seeing as I'm a novice at this and the only huge loads I deal with end up in my toilet, I am hesitant, to say the least.  However, the next go around I load it pretty high, navigate it through the aisles and drop off in the stock room.  Now I'm cocky.  So the last load I load up so high Kareem Abdul Jabbar would look up and say, "Magic Johnson was my friend."  He'd also say it was pretty tall.  So I get it to the stock room.  The boss says, "You're pretty good at handling that.  If it were me I'd be dropping boxes everywhere."  YOU FUCKING BITCH.  Because the next thing, I'm trying to squeeze this monstrosity of a load through the stock room and I get stuck.  Stuck between more boxes on the left and a shelving unit on the right.  I try to He-Man it by holding onto the pallet jack with my left hand, lean around the boxes on the right side, attempt to secure the entire load with my right hand while forcing the pallet jack through the obstruction.  Now that would have been all well and good until my shoulder blade (the one I blew a nerve in when I sneezed this week) gave out.  I about screamed like a bitch but I had been farting like a bastard because I was alone for the first time tonight and had a ton of lasagna for dinner but if I did scream someone would have come running and would have convulsed and wretched from the smell of the noxious gas and they never would have hired a black man again because "they smell".  Point is I didn't scream.  But I had to let go.  ALL of the boxes tumbled down, save for about three left on the pallet jack.  I spent the next few minutes picking up all of the boxes and wondering where my life was headed.

So near the end of the night, the boss says, "Boy we sucked tonight."  I wanted to say, "No YOU sucked.  You had us throwing and moving boxes all night instead of opening and stocking them and that's why we didn't finish."  But I didn't.  I figured she was already in enough hot water when her supervisor comes in and sees that we didn't complete 1/2 the store before it opens.  But I don't care.  You didn't care about my wrist, so I don't care about you being reprimanded.  That's about even, I think.

Okay, time for bed.  My next scheduled work day is Tuesday.  I'm taking bets on whether I'm there.