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I've been meandering through my local big box electronics store looking for parts for a production system that I and my mentor are trying to develop as a systems integration. It requires a bit more than off-the-shelf systems, and so I've spent more than my fair share of time in what could best be described as The Radio Shack On Crack.
The only thing is this particular place happens to be staffed by people - no, SWARMED by minimum-wage technoweenies with little to no geek skills other than "that one is really, um, good." I mean, I'm not talking virtual reality ware here, but I know for the most part while these guys are dressed far better than I am complete with coats and ties and red nametags, I, in grungy clothes, probably know a bit more than they do.
However, they ARE able to point me down the aisles of their sections and answer questions. There's so many of the damn buggers in the techie sections and in the computer areas that asking for a 2.5 to 3.5 laptop hard drive internal conversion kit with hot swappable drive bays and eSATA support will get you to the right aisle. I'm okay with this idea - namely that while the retail monkeys swarm over the bays they eventually learn the stuff by osmosis and are quite pleasant and realistic. I kind of want to join them, but then I'd likely have to be polite to people like the ones I had to stand in line behind today.
SC: "I want a better computer than this. You can trade it in."
CSGuy: "You are asking me to swap a computer we did not sell you for one you want that we sell here."
SC: "Yes, you sell this computer."
CSGuy: *confused by accent* "Sir, without a valid receipt or warranty or point of sale in our system we cannot accept computers sold by competitors."
SC: "It's under warranty! You replace it!"
CSGuy: "We. Did. Not. Sell. You. This. Computer."
SC: "No, but you sell it here! I want to exchange for better, I pay the difference."
I should note that the computer in question had scars all over it, a cracked screen, what looked like goopy stains near the keyboard, and the individual trying to "exchange" had what could best be described as a "well-seeded" smell to him.
Here's my unopened merchandise that I didn't use, here's my receipt, here's my thanks, my signature, PLEASE LET ME GET AWAY FROM STINKY STUPIDHEAD.
Exit stage left to the networking system area, where two young men are peering around.
OverheardSC1: "But I don't know where the cables are. All I need is the cord."
OSC2: "Just pull it out like you're looking at it, then grab the cord you need from the package and shove it back in."
Me: "Or go five aisles over, pick up the damn part midway down the aisle and stop shoplifting."
That got the attention of a white-shirt who rapidly meandered down the aisle and casually "cleaned" in every aisle the two nits were in from then on.
On to the car stereos!
"What do you mean you can't install this in no Geo Prism, bitch?"
And "this" happened to be a DVD theater system with extra large subwoofers.
The woman in question said to the slender, slight, pimpled-faced wigga with a squeaky voice, "My name is not bitch. And the vehicle couldn't handle the weight or electrical loads required. Like most women, this kind of system prefers something with a little more power, maturity, handling, stability, and substance to it. I recommend you look in the portable player department, or upgrade your vehicle to something that isn't in the same class as our refridgerator cartons."
The White Shirt Employee Babysitter:
"If you want to smash the Guitar Hero controller on the floor, kid, you're more than welcome to do it in the privacy of your own home after you make the purchase. Here, we charge you, AND we call the police."
And finally, checkout with The Grumpy Old Man Talking To The Universe At Large Without Proper Hearing Aid Volume (nods to Greg Dean of Real Life, who documented something I didn't quite believe could EVER happen).
"Hey! I don't understand why we have to stand in this long line. Look at all those empty registers, why aren't there people working there instead of making us wait in line? This is stupid. Hey, why are there candies and stuff and junk food in line? Hrmph. In my day we had just a small stand of candy (grabbing a candy bar or five) by the checkstand. It's just stupid.* And what's this? Some stupid checkout girl** who couldn't work a till or do math, so they make her tell people what register to go to, like I don't have eyes in my head*. Bah. Stupid. Not paying attention***. I tell you it's systems like this that made it so a boy from Texas gets blamed for everything bad in the world. Hey miss! MISS! I'm talking to you, miss! Why do you have to stand here and tell people what register they have to go to?"
She looks at him, then at me, who frantically makes "I'm not with him and would provide an alibi regarding your presence at a social function 400 miles from here should you wish to impale him on a frozen used tampon" gestures, pauses, smiles beatifically, and says, "Because sometimes, sir, people are too wrapped up in bitching about the line to notice that I've told them that register 20 was open seven times in a row WITHOUT THEM SHUTTING THE FUCK**** UP AND LISTENING TO THE FACT THAT REGISTER 20 WAS OPEN."
He glared, shuffled off - and dropped his merchandise on the floor, heading for the exit.
She looked at me as another one came on, and I said, "No no, Register 10. Got it. Have a nice day."
*We were at the front of the line during this section.
**We were three feet from her at this point.
***She'd said, "Number 20" twice at this point.
****The guy at the register said, "I'm sorry for her language." I said, "Why? The old fuckhead deserved it." He nodded and said, "Yep, every time."
The only thing is this particular place happens to be staffed by people - no, SWARMED by minimum-wage technoweenies with little to no geek skills other than "that one is really, um, good." I mean, I'm not talking virtual reality ware here, but I know for the most part while these guys are dressed far better than I am complete with coats and ties and red nametags, I, in grungy clothes, probably know a bit more than they do.
However, they ARE able to point me down the aisles of their sections and answer questions. There's so many of the damn buggers in the techie sections and in the computer areas that asking for a 2.5 to 3.5 laptop hard drive internal conversion kit with hot swappable drive bays and eSATA support will get you to the right aisle. I'm okay with this idea - namely that while the retail monkeys swarm over the bays they eventually learn the stuff by osmosis and are quite pleasant and realistic. I kind of want to join them, but then I'd likely have to be polite to people like the ones I had to stand in line behind today.
SC: "I want a better computer than this. You can trade it in."
CSGuy: "You are asking me to swap a computer we did not sell you for one you want that we sell here."
SC: "Yes, you sell this computer."
CSGuy: *confused by accent* "Sir, without a valid receipt or warranty or point of sale in our system we cannot accept computers sold by competitors."
SC: "It's under warranty! You replace it!"
CSGuy: "We. Did. Not. Sell. You. This. Computer."
SC: "No, but you sell it here! I want to exchange for better, I pay the difference."
I should note that the computer in question had scars all over it, a cracked screen, what looked like goopy stains near the keyboard, and the individual trying to "exchange" had what could best be described as a "well-seeded" smell to him.
Here's my unopened merchandise that I didn't use, here's my receipt, here's my thanks, my signature, PLEASE LET ME GET AWAY FROM STINKY STUPIDHEAD.
Exit stage left to the networking system area, where two young men are peering around.
OverheardSC1: "But I don't know where the cables are. All I need is the cord."
OSC2: "Just pull it out like you're looking at it, then grab the cord you need from the package and shove it back in."
Me: "Or go five aisles over, pick up the damn part midway down the aisle and stop shoplifting."
That got the attention of a white-shirt who rapidly meandered down the aisle and casually "cleaned" in every aisle the two nits were in from then on.
On to the car stereos!
"What do you mean you can't install this in no Geo Prism, bitch?"
And "this" happened to be a DVD theater system with extra large subwoofers.
The woman in question said to the slender, slight, pimpled-faced wigga with a squeaky voice, "My name is not bitch. And the vehicle couldn't handle the weight or electrical loads required. Like most women, this kind of system prefers something with a little more power, maturity, handling, stability, and substance to it. I recommend you look in the portable player department, or upgrade your vehicle to something that isn't in the same class as our refridgerator cartons."
The White Shirt Employee Babysitter:
"If you want to smash the Guitar Hero controller on the floor, kid, you're more than welcome to do it in the privacy of your own home after you make the purchase. Here, we charge you, AND we call the police."
And finally, checkout with The Grumpy Old Man Talking To The Universe At Large Without Proper Hearing Aid Volume (nods to Greg Dean of Real Life, who documented something I didn't quite believe could EVER happen).
"Hey! I don't understand why we have to stand in this long line. Look at all those empty registers, why aren't there people working there instead of making us wait in line? This is stupid. Hey, why are there candies and stuff and junk food in line? Hrmph. In my day we had just a small stand of candy (grabbing a candy bar or five) by the checkstand. It's just stupid.* And what's this? Some stupid checkout girl** who couldn't work a till or do math, so they make her tell people what register to go to, like I don't have eyes in my head*. Bah. Stupid. Not paying attention***. I tell you it's systems like this that made it so a boy from Texas gets blamed for everything bad in the world. Hey miss! MISS! I'm talking to you, miss! Why do you have to stand here and tell people what register they have to go to?"
She looks at him, then at me, who frantically makes "I'm not with him and would provide an alibi regarding your presence at a social function 400 miles from here should you wish to impale him on a frozen used tampon" gestures, pauses, smiles beatifically, and says, "Because sometimes, sir, people are too wrapped up in bitching about the line to notice that I've told them that register 20 was open seven times in a row WITHOUT THEM SHUTTING THE FUCK**** UP AND LISTENING TO THE FACT THAT REGISTER 20 WAS OPEN."
He glared, shuffled off - and dropped his merchandise on the floor, heading for the exit.
She looked at me as another one came on, and I said, "No no, Register 10. Got it. Have a nice day."
*We were at the front of the line during this section.
**We were three feet from her at this point.
***She'd said, "Number 20" twice at this point.
****The guy at the register said, "I'm sorry for her language." I said, "Why? The old fuckhead deserved it." He nodded and said, "Yep, every time."
This woman is my new hero!
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