The Hierarchy of the Dollar Bill.

2 07 2012

I’ve been trying to determine if it’s worse being a stripper and having to pay for everything in one dollar bills or being paid eight dollars an hour to take the hundred one dollar bills (that she probably earned in less than an hour) from a stripper.

Yesterday all my co-workers and I had to drive out to the middle of nowhere suburb to find out they’re taking away 1% of our 2% commission. There was no justification for this besides an email stating that basically we were doing an awesome job and they didn’t want to pay us for that.

This a perfect example of how corporations fuck over their employees. Once we actually start doing well, making them a ton of money, they get greedy and try to take it all for themselves. They need to understand that keeping us happy would actually improve their revenue and keep us loyal to them as a company.

They earn their labor costs for an entire week in one afternoon.

They sell everything in the store for at least 50% more than cost.

Sales reps get 1% of our daily sales.

When I sale a $100 toy (that cost the company $40) I get one dollar.

Strippers get one dollar in one second just for winking at a guy.

I give people hours upon hours of pleasure via their sales purchase.

Strippers give people just a fleeting moment of pleasure.

Is this not ass backwards?

I am already bitter about the fact that I am over-educated and working in retail.

The fact that the company has no ownership regarding the decision to take away the other 1% commission of our daily goal makes me want to rage. It makes me want to start my own store. It makes me want to cry. Cry because I am at the bottom and some incredibly selfish greedy asshole is at the top and there is nothing I can do about it.

Except of course, take the hundred one-dollar bills with a smile and say, “money is money.”

And cringe at the fact that I have none.

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The Punch Story. KaPow!

1 06 2012

After dealing with feng shui vagina guy amongst other weirdos I really needed a drink. My feet were killing me because I had, for some strange reason, gone for a run followed by cardio followed by standing on concrete for eight hours. My friend and I decided to go to the nearest bar–though not a favorite–it gets the job done.

We get into this pretty interesting conversation regarding men and their ownership of women due to financial domination.

Strippers for example use men to make bank because they know it’s going to pay much better than say a retail job. But men are in control of these women. The women must pretend they like these guys, which is pretty pathetic on the men’s part–but if the women don’t play the part right they don’t make the money. And men are in complete control of how they want the women to act, which is like a sex doll essentially.

That is a pretty obvious example.

But, my ultimate pet peeve, a common occurrence that I was 30 seconds away from writing my gender studies thesis on, was the smile. More specifically, when a man tells a woman to smile.

Don’t fucking tell me what to do with my body.

I do not have, and am not required, to look happy for your sake.

This is a subtle (but also glaringly obvious when one thinks about it) form of control.

Because our culture feeds off of this idea that we must “pursue happiness,” that we must exude happiness, women as a group take the brunt of this ridiculous theory because we’re stereotyped to not be taken as serious. To not be as serious, to always be cheerful, because why would we have any reason to NOT smile. We’re “beautiful,” but of course, we’d be so much prettier if we just smiled, wouldn’t we?

So yeah, we’re sitting at the bar talking about these ideas and this dude sits down beside me. Mid sentence he taps me on the arm. I think that perhaps he’s listening to our conversation and wants to chime in, which I would have been okay with had he had intelligent thoughts to add, but no. That is not what happened at all.

He taps me on the arm and asks if he can buy me and my friend a shot of whisky.

Thinking about it today, this is just another form of (perhaps unconscious but cultural) control because he cuts off our conversation and then if we accept the shot we feel an obligation of proper etiquette to include him in our group for at least a particular amount of time.

Of course we do, because it’s a free shot of jameson and we love to drink.

Plus, it never hurts to make a new friend. I enjoy meeting new people because they can almost always teach me something.

He was a rare exception to this concept.

He perhaps was the dumbest guy I have ever met. I don’t know if it was because he was really drunk or what. But I tried to have a conversation and all he did was repeat the same questions over and over.

When he stopped doing that, this is the dialogue that followed:

Him: “So you do smokes or pills?”

Me, being an asshole: “What? Do we smoke pills? How does one smoke pills?”

Him: “Oh, you know, you crush them up on foil and then light it.”

Me: “Like tylenol?”

Him: “Yeah, any pill!”

Me: “No. We don’t smoke pills.”

Him: *sad face*

Right at that moment my roommate and her friends walk in. Perfect timing really. So, we get up from the bar to move to a table and the guy leans over and says, “Let me know if it’s acceptable to join you.”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know.” And we walk away.

He sits at the bar alone.

We have a good time away from him.

Then some bald guy joins him.

My friend goes up to get another beer. She gets stuck talking to them for who knows how long. I don’t know how she put up with it. She is much nicer than I am. The bald guy gives her a necklace. I still don’t know what this means.

The bar closes. We’re all standing outside.

The bald guy and the pillsmoker guy come out. They are now best buds. Perhaps they shared a nice smoke of Excedrin in the bathroom. The bald guy comes up to us and says, “let me recite a poem!”

We all get excited. “Yes! Please recite a poem.” We all cheer.

Then he begins, “This poem is by E. G. Phillips” (I have no idea whose name he actually said…)

We all stop him. There’s like 5 of us shouting, NOOOOOO!!!! You can’t recite someone else’s poem! It must be your own!

And then I add, “And it if sucks one of us is going to punch you in the face!”

He agrees to this.

He begins:

“The leaves are turning yellow, the dirt is getting dirtier and I want to nuzzle my face in your breasts!”

Then he fucking attacks me and tries to stick his fucking head in between my boobs.

I am not making this up.

My roommate has to pull him off of me. 

I thought for a split second she was going to punch him. Which would have been AMAZING!!!

But instead, I did it myself.

Right in the stomach.

And it was then, when I realized I am not good at punching. Yes, I have done years and years of Taebo P90X, kickboxing, etc. But, I have never actually hit another person. I suck at it! Because I never really want to hurt anyone. Even when I was punching him I couldn’t really do it because deep down I felt his humanity and knew that even though he was a complete jackass loser hitting him wasn’t going to fix that problem. If hitting people made them become better people than I should have started punching them years ago.

In any case, we walked away from them and went and ate some hash browns. My roommate’s friend tried to give me tips for the perfect punch along the way, but in all honesty, I’d prefer not to get in that sort of predicament ever again. I think it’s time I stop wearing my pheromone oil, all that it attracts are fuck-ups and rejects. Is that who I’m destined to end up with? I sure hope not. I’d rather be alone than with an asshole.

But more on that another day.





I Almost Pooped My Pants.

11 05 2012

Have you ever lived with someone else and shared a bathroom, then one day the other person is in the bathroom but you really really really have to go to the bathroom and for some reason they’re like taking an eternity (masturbating?) in there, so you hold it and hold it, but then your mind starts imagining all of the places in the house you could potentially go to the bathroom instead. Like in the kitchen sink. Or in a plastic bag. Or in an old salsa jar. But all of that imagining just disgusts you. So you hold it longer. Am I the only one who has done that? Who is actually doing it right now?

Trying to distract myself instead.

Wondering if any one driving by would see my squatting in the yard? Probably, we don’t have any trees. Or any bushes. Just some tall irises amongst the rocks. If I could go outside and transform myself into a dog then no one would notice. Except I’d be a dog without an owner and I’d probably get taken to the pound. Theoretically, if I could transform myself into a dog it would be better if I could just transform myself into someone who didn’t have to go to the bathroom. That would solve that problem.

I just watched this video as part of the distraction ploy.

I hear it all the time at work. What the hell is wrong with her? She dances like a drunk monkey that just did a speed ball and then stuck an anal plug up her butt. And a cut-off flannel? For a music video? About being someone’s lover? So weird.

Relief! Finally! Relief!

Okay. So now I can blog about something more important.

Ha!

Occasionally at work I am selected to be the one who cleans up our lot. This is probably the worst part of the job for me. The best part is that I get to be outside. The rest is me bending over and over with my ass crack falling out of my pants while I pick filthy cigarette butts out of the pebbles. And whatever else I find. Which leads me to the finger nail. That’s right, the other day I found a strippers used thumb nail on the ground. I am still completely disturbed by this. I don’t know why exactly it creeps me out so much. I think it’s because I can’t quite figure out a good enough story behind why I had to pick up someone’s broken nail off the ground. Like was she opening a can of pop in the parking lot, and oops! So, she just threw it on the ground? Was she giving some guy a bj and the guy got angry and started breaking her fingers one by one? Is she dead somewhere? Should I call CSI? I didn’t know what to do. So I just threw it in the trash bag with the cigs and the sad droopy condoms.

I’m waiting for the day when I find drugs. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the drugs, sell them, snort them, share them with friends. Throw them away you say? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll probably throw them away, you’re right, I’m not that cool. Plus, I don’t want to lose a finger nail and not remember where it fell off. . .because unlike this strippers by fingernails (and every other part of my body) are real.





5 Random Thoughts: Denver, Music, Strippers.

28 04 2012

1. I love that I’ve only been in Denver a little over 5 months and I can walk down the street and run into multiple people I know. And not only that, but I can randomly hear my friend’s band in the middle of the afternoon even though I’ve been so out of the loop I didn’t even know they were playing. Serendipity or just small town city life?

2. I was at this record store and I had a Ghost World flashback, remember that scene where they go into the porn store and Thora Birch’s character yells, “look at all the creeps!” that’s exactly what I was thinking while all these doodes fingered records. The ritual of looking for music is just as important as the music itself–which is the same for people who rent/buy pornographic films, yeah you can download all the porn or music that you want, but it’s not the same as finding a rare gem amongst the coals.

3. While being a creep at the record store I bought one of Peaches albums and was super excited to open it and discover that the record was PINK instead of the usual black. Also, I’m considering having a Peaches & Cream theme party where we only play Peaches and Cream. And only drink peach flavored beverages and eat creamy foods (that are vegan of course–yes, that exists fools). And people can only wear those two colors–or at least close shades.

4. Speaking of Peaches would it be bad for me to admit that “fuck the pain away” has, at some point in the last few months, been a theme song of mine? That’s why I’m going for a Man-less May. As close to celibacy as I can get. Can’t give up the Tango. Can give up “Man-Eater” as my other theme song though.

5. I made a facebook comment about how I am starting to have a problem with strippers. The problem is with their attitude; they’re rude, they’re often high, and with that high they’re usually stupid. A combination that creates major disturbances in my line of work. Particularly when they come in to the store and feel the need to try everything on–every pair of shoes, every wig, every outfit and then leave it all thrown about the place like it’s their bedroom and their mommy’s going to come clean up after them. Perhaps because they work in an industry where they’re both idealized and objectified they feel they are entitled to do whatever they want because they’re told their gorgeous and amazing so often that they believe it. And with the belief they feel they can get away with anything. They think it’s okay to act that way because they’re “spending money.” But just like with their line of work I am sure they have boundaries in which money can only get someone so far. Since I’m not really getting much of the money that they’re dropping I’d actually prefer it if they’d stop acting like brats and start respecting other people in the service industry.

In regards to their chosen profession—I know this draws a line of contention between feminists–but until the entire system changes, I understand why they do it. I understand it. Though I’d personally not choose it myself and I believe there are many MANY problems with it–which perhaps I’ll get into on another day when they piss me off again.

I’m sure it will be soon.