MCN: where the soul goes to die...and maybe your body too?

Screw "MC Nickels" and its germ infested midnight monster movie customers. Give me a stay in the Overlook Hotel with Jack Nicholson over that place any day. I swear the "MCN" customers try to kill you and not just you brain cells. Last year, while working in the lingerie department a customer called me a slut because I own a black bra (don't ask how that topic came about) then started coughing on me and muttered something about having the swine flu. And you must love the fact that this incident occurred on June 1st... which was my first full day without health insurance. Thank God I never got sick from her.

Then just last night I had a woman return a dress in an incredibly oily bag, the dress was covered in this greasy substance and the receipt was pretty much illegible because the ink was so smeared. I sucked it up and did my job as an awesome customer service associate and returned the dress, then tried to get the creature from the Black Lagoon away from be as quickly as possible. No such luck. After the transaction, she proceeded to dump the contents of her purse onto my counter and pick out all the garbage for me to throw away. For some reason she seemed to have a surplus of napkins at her dispense (probably because she's seeping more oil than a pelican in the Gulf... too soon?). She pondered the napkins and their existence for awhile then decided she wanted nothing to do with them and asked me to discard them. I'm sure she realized that it would be easier to take over human bodies without them (X-Files reference). She assured me they were clean... or at least they were until she picked one of them up, wiped her nose with it, threw it back down on my counter and then merrily trotted off into the night to terrorize more unsuspecting cashiers.

Dear God,

What have I done to deserve this? Especially since I am nice to these people... at least to their faces and then I can joke on their expense after they've left the store. Please send me another job that is at least slightly better than this one. I'd do anything for a career... but I won't do that.

Love and Meatloaf,
Jen

Socializing problem? I thought only dogs and preschoolers got that.

So my manager called me into his office today to talk about my "socializing problem." Apparently I talk too much and this concerns him because it seems as if I'm not taking the job seriously. No offense, but I professionally fold and put away clothes while trying not to tear off the head of some idiot who can't find the fitting room. There's a loud, obnoxious bell that dings when people walk in or out... and they're either in a corner or directly in the center of the wall- are they really that hard to find? And I have to constantly put up with people insulting me- mostly my intelligence, but on occasion they will comment on my appearance or personality. However, most people do not have a right to comment on appearance because I usually attempt to wear modest and age appropriate clothing. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that the majority of women are very easy to classify into groups. I know of two very prominent ones, probably because they stand out the most.

The first group is of course, the sluts. The current fashion for these gals is to appear as though they just wrapped filming the Jersey Shore... except on the Mon Wharf. They have either the incredibly bleach blonde damaged hair or the black rat's nest atop their head. Either way this woman likes to be tan- be it the natural leathery look or the I accidentally fell asleep in a washing machine full of orange highlighters. Sex-ay. Of course they wear minimal amounts of clothing. One time I even saw a girl strutting her stuff (and I mean all of her stuff) in a just slightly below the ass tunic shirt. Of course, slightly below the ass means that whenever she was walking her butt cheeks were hanging out. But who knows? Maybe I'm wrong and she's just budget conscious and decided that pants were not a necessity.

The second group of women slightly overlap the sluts, but sometimes in a slightly classier way. Call them cougars, but those are the cream of the crop when it comes to these broads. These women don't understand that every January another year goes by and they're slightly older. They're still partying like it's 1999... but in 1989. They love that the 80s are coming back with a vengeance. Gotta get those leggings and neon colored shirts... oh wait, they never got rid of their old ones. Example. A woman walked up to me and asked if the outfit she was holding would be appropriate for a 12 year old girl. It was a 3 piece set with black leggings, a bright teal tunic with a neon colored print, a solid color vest and necklace. I responded that it would be very cute because that to me is appropriate for a 12 year old nowadays. She then asked if I would wear it, to which I said no because I am 23 and I'm pretty sure I had the same outfit when I was five and would rather not relive those fashion disasters that I had no choice in. She then pulled out a matching outfit (different colors, but same concept) and responded she's buying that one for herself. I should have felt like an idiot, but I wasn't the one buying the outfit.

I'm sure I can come up with more in the upcoming days since, let's face it, I have nothing else better to do while I'm working.

A call to arms, Smurf Army!

Let me just that I Hate Avatar. That's right, James Cameron's "masterpiece" can kiss my Fern Gully loving ass. It was too long, I did not care about any of the characters and it was basically just Fern Gully, Pocahontas and Dances with Wolves gang banging a smurf... for 3 HOURS. I want my dollar back. Yes, I only paid a dollar to see it, but it is the principle of the matter. That is three hours of my life that I can not get back. Unless James Cameron decides to "revolutionize" something else and accidentally creates a time machine. Even though more than likely we would only be able to travel back in time to when the machine was built. So he needs to find a way to add on three hours of my life. I feel he owes me that... or at least a dollar.

So now here comes one of my ridiculous ideas. To everyone who hated Avatar, please send James Cameron a smurf doll or picture of a smurf (because smurfs are cooler than giant blue people). They can be found online, on ebay or at your local collectible store (which is scary considering I grew up with these things). You may attach a note if you like, but please don't make it threatening or profane. However, please refer to James Cameron as "Gargamel." This is a call to arms, Smurf Army! Attack!

I found two addresses for him...

3201 Retreat Ct,
Malibu. CA 90265
USA

919 Santa Monica Blvd.
Santa Monica, CA 90401
USA

California Dreaming or Stuck in PA?

So I have challenged the Fates in what is probably the most ridiculous and possibly worst life decision I've made. Most people already know about this, but I feel as though putting it writing is more official. So thus begins my battle with fate.... I watch far too much Lost.

My friend Heather likes LA. She likes it so much that she needs little pale old me to join her out there. I don't know if I want to since I seem to be more of an east coast girl with the hip styles I wear and I don't wish every girl could be a California girl (Gurl?) We're all unique, ya know! Anyway... I have come up with the perfect challenge to see if it is truly my destiny to don the daisy dukes with the bikini on top. If she goes on The Price Is Right and makes it to the showcase showdown, I have no choice but to go on the run, drive in the sun, look out for number one and scream "California, here I come!" If she/ fate fails at this test, I must abide and remain here where all the leaves are brown and the sky is grey.

I'm still not sure whether this is a fantastic idea or if I'm still living in the land of Lost (not the one with dinosaurs... although, that'd be sweet too).

Can I get a tweet tweet?

So after a small detour, I return to the title of this blog. Just to update you, I still have not found a job in my field. I've tried. I actually got a response from Pixar... a rejection, but it was a response. I was excited by this until I was rejected the next day by "The Biggest Loser."...Really? The show with the title which perfectly describes me doesn't want me casting for them? I might as well stock up on some bacon and whore it up with the carbs and hope for a heart attack. I guess you know you're the ugly girl at the dance when the "biggest loser" doesn't even want you.

On the bright side though I did dream up a few more long shots for achieving occupational bliss (not to be taken like I'm going to become a hooker. Trust me, no one wants that). First, I am going to come up with cover letters that are 140 characters or less. That's right, I've been working on my twitter account (that sentence just depresses me). I've discovered in the world of "tweeting" it's very hard to sound snarky, witty and funny without sounding like a complete idiot...in 140 characters. I have posted a few statuses that aren't "Heeeeeyyyy goin' outside" (ten minutes later) "Itz so hotttt"... etcetera. My next step is to tweet celebrities begging for a job... in a witty way that could get me noticed... in 140 characters. It's a challenge, but I've accepted it. Unfortunately, this means instant writer's block. Hopefully after my day of rest, I'll get a spark of creativity. Twitter is very nerve-wracking though- there's a character countdown. There's so much pressure to fit all of my ramblings into one giant, run on sentence.

My second awesome attempt, but ridiculous long shot is to send Chelsea Handler a bottle of Belvedere (lemon flavored) with my resume taped around it and a letter that's not so much a cover letter, but just full of sarcastic comments. We have about the same sense of humor. Who knows? It just might work.

An Ode to Samuel L Jackson?

Pulp Fiction is on, which reminded me of these old Samuel L Jackson jokes I wrote awhile ago on my xanga (yeah, I had a blg before they were cool) so I dug them up for a bit of a blast from the past. Even though no one else really has read them, so they will be new, fresh and awesome for you!


*Samuel L. Jackson didn't use a taser on the snakes, he just looked at them and they were electrocuted by his awesomeness.

*Samuel L. Jackson really is the foot fuckin' master.

*Samuel L. Jackson was actually the one that put the snakes on the plane. He was bored with beating up bears at the zoo and needed a challenge.

*If Samuel L. Jackson was in a room with Chuck Norris, the world would implode. ((That's right, implode, not explode because imploding is cooler))

*Samuel L. Jackson doesn't really need a gun, it's just less messy than ripping a man's head off with his bare hands.

*During the filming of Star Wars, Samuel L. Jackson was the only one with a real lightsaber... that he made himself.

*"Motherfucking" is no longer considered a swearword, rather it is said in praise to Samuel L. Jackson

*Samuel L. Jackson can force France to call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.

*Samuel L. Jackson was the first to use the Force, it just wasn't documented because of the sheer awesomeness.... that and everyone in the vicinity was immediately killed.

*It really was Marsellus Wallace's soul in the case. Samuel L. Jackson took it because Marsellus Wallace bet that he couldn't beat the shit out of some motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane. He was wrong. Dead wrong.

*Samuel L. Jackson suggested that Jurrasic Park be called "Dinosaurs on an Island," but the studios dismissed the idea. The movie was then doomed to 2 horrible sequels. And the only thing everyone remembers about all 3 movies is "Hold onto your butts"

*The line "Play it again, Sam" from A Night in Casablanca (Yes, A Night in Casablanca, not Casablanca...believe me) was changed from "Fuck them sons of bitches up again, Sam" when Samuel L. Jackson pulled out of the film due to the fact that the producers refused to change the title to Nazis in Casablanca.

*You know how kryptonite kills Superman? Samuel L. Jackson eats it for breakfast. Kellogs is trying to market it as "The breakfast of gods"

*Samuel L. Jackson just didn't quote the Bible in Pulp Fiction. He had it memorized because he was God's spell-check/ occasional thesaurus.