Let me gather my thoughts.
Stand back, as Iâ€™m about to spit some Hot Fireâ€¦
I am still fighting this Bird Flu and the gym is out of the question at this point. So, I decide that I might as well run an errand.
I need parts for the lawnmower. I have my model number and serial number.
I head to Sears because Sears.com is an abomination. It looks and acts like a website from 1995.
So, I walk into Sears with all the information necessary to get the parts. I need basic stuff like oil, filter, plug, blade, etc. As a High Life Man, I am totally capable of working on small engines.
I ask Sears Big Girl to point me in the right direction. She says go OUTSIDE the store to the "Parts and Service Department." Okâ€¦I don't understand why in a store the size of an aircraft carrier we cannot accommodate a parts/service department, but I play along. My right eyelid starts twitching a bit but I remain in control.
I walk away wondering why a girl that large has such small boobies. I mean, boobies are fat-meat. This gal had shovels full of extra fat. Why the itty-bitty-titties? I quickly decide that this is just another one of God's little jokes. That God is a smart aleck mother f*cker, after all. Heâ€™s always kidding aroundâ€¦just look at the Jews.
So, I wander outside to the little door for parts and service. I walk in and am essentially back in the store. I feel my blood pressure rising, the clock is ticking and I start to tug at my collar like a pit bull yanks on the leg of a screaming toddler.
I wake up the two "customer service representatives" from a nap. I am sweating like a carnival ride operator at this point...the Bird Flu has made me limp, hair-triggered and borderline psychoticâ€¦just like that cyborg Dick Cheney.
I give the customer servicewoman my model number and serial number. I give her the list of parts.
She is hot in a sleazy, crack-whore kind of way. I can tell from her relatively clear eyes that she has been smoking meth for no more than 18 months.
I can't tell how old she isâ€¦she could be 18 or she could be 57. Mommy Reagan was right, I think to myself, JUST SAY NO TO DRUGS!
She punches in the numbers and the DOS-era machine spits out the results. All they carry in the Parts and Service Department is the oil and the plug. I can â€œcheck back in the store" for the other parts.
Now, mind you, I AM IN THE STORE already. And this is clearly identified as the SEARS MOTHER FU*KING PARTS AND SERVICE CENTER. Apparently I am confused.
So I wobble back into the store and get in line. Nervous Salesman Bill is at the counter. Bill looks like he is uneasy with his sales associate status.
Nervous Bill is about 55 and pot-belliedâ€¦probably a displaced GM line worker. As such, I reason, he is probably also suffering from severe cocaine and alcohol withdrawal.
Bill is knocking over everything as he impotently attempts to scan items into the register. I become concerned that, if a mouse walks by, Nervous Bill will jump through the drywall and land in the PARTS AND SERVICE DEPARTMENT, where Crack Ho would gouge his bulging eyes out of his fat head with her three-inch cocaine-spoon nails.
I hand Bill my model number and serial number. I ask Bill for a filter and a blade. I also ask Bill if he knows the size of the wrench needed to remove the blade. This is a mistake on my part and I recognize it immediately. Bill replies that he doesn't have that information.
Billâ€™s upper lip is moist like Nixonâ€™s and quivering, as Hunter Thompson used to say, like the lid on a pot of boiling water.
At this point, my trigger finger start quivering and I realize that applying for the concealed pistol permit may not have been the smartest thing I have ever done.
I look Bill in the eye and ask if we can talk to somebody who might know the size of the wrench, as I cannot change the blade without removing the old one. I growl the words out like a rabid possum.
We walk over to four.....4....."Sears Managers" who are talking amongst themselves. They ignore Bill and me. Bill says nothing to them. I am standing right there. Remember this fact.
Bill walks me away from the managers and says to me, "I just talked to my bosses and they say there is no way to find out the wrench size short of bringing the mower in."
Now I watch the Jesus Channel a lot for laughs. I watch the "Big Brother is Watching YOU!!!" shows that yearn for a return to the days before electricity, when slavery was still legal and everyone had polio.
But I didn't quite know that Big Brother Sears has enabled its employees to communicate via telepathic implants. I mean, I WAS STANDING RIGHT F*CKING THERE and no one spoke to Bill.
At this point, I grow concerned for Bill. I mean, if he cannot remember that I was right there with him, yet he lies to me anyway just 30 seconds later, well, he has some major issues...more than I care to get into today.
The downshift from making $30 / hour making widgets to $6 / hour at Sears could break any man, I think to myself.
Ok Bill, I say to his trembling husk of a body, let's just get the blade and filter. Bill is clearly a man under the influence of The Fear for the first time in his addiction-addled life. Doom on you, Billy Boy.
We walk over to the "IN STORE COMPUTER KIOSK" and Bill types in my model number and serial number.
No luck with the air filter. I apparently have to climb a mountain in F*CKING TIBET and ask the Dalai Lama where to get that part.
But JESUS T*TTY-F*CKING CHRIST, the blade is there. Granted, it is a different part number from that drummed up by Crack Ho back in the Parts and Service Department a hundred feet away. At this point, I don't even care.
I drag myself to the counter. Bill asks for my name and address. Wha??? All I want to do is buy this f*cking lawn mower blade...PLEASE GOD, LET ME DIE!!!!!
Then Bill wants my credit card BEFORE he scans the blade into the system. I am dumb with disbelief at this point. I have become an automaton. I comply like a Stalin-era collective farmer in the old USSR.
Bill then knocks the razor sharp, 21" blade off the counter and it almost decapitates a shrunken old lady. She is unfazed and asks Bill where thumbtacks are.
HOLY F*CKING SH*T LADY! We are in Sears. Go to the F*CKING DOLLAR STORE IF YOU WANT THUMBTACKS!!!!
Of course, Bill has no idea where thumbtacks are in a store the size of Area 51. The Old Bag just walks away, completely unaware that she was almost beheaded by Nervous Bill and the new mower blade that has zero chance of actually fitting on my mower.
I walk out into the enormous, empty parking lot just shaking my head.
Sears, GM, Congress....all these hallowed American institutions have gone down the drain. I am struck with the uneasy feeling that I am living in the Last Days of the American Empire.
And that folks, is something even Nervous Bill and the Crack Ho could understand...because they are living in it up to their yellow and red eyeballs...
WORLD - AN EDGE IN MY VOICE
Copyright © 2010 Rev. F
The USA Is Doomed: The Slow Death of Sears, GM and Congress
Copyright © 2010 Rev. F
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