josecanyusi

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You think you’re moving on / But no one’s gonna feel like, feel like / Me on top of you, touch you like I do / No you’ll never forget…

Well of course no one else’s vagina is gonna feel like hers. That is what she’s singing about, right? Riding you? Katy Perry has never been subtle about the fact she likes sex, particularly with uncircumcised British men. So yeah, that’s what she means: Every woman in your future is gonna remind you her lady parts felt particularly different.

Different how? No idea. Perry confidently believes she’ll come out ahead, as if she does so many Kegel exercises she can snap off your member like a dry twig. But maybe she’s more proud of a looser, almost cavernous feel.

I’m just spitballing here anyway. The infinitely more important thing is that you’re with someone you love, not some tart who likes to sing about how you’ll regret leaving her because she’s all technique.

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My buddy Jason, he’s the sheriff / He’ll flash his lights but let me go

Well of course he will; you’re white.

Hey, not saying that’s right. At all. But still.

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Unavoidable Walmart Radio.

Management recently decreed Walmart Radio needs to stay on in the breakroom.

We have a speaker in the breakroom ceiling, which I or other coworkers regularly turn down to zero. It can’t be entirely turned off; it’s like the televisions in George Orwell’s 1984, though I’m pretty sure they’re not two-way. They might be. The speakers in my high school were.

Anyway I wanted the breakroom to be our one oasis from the audio pests that are Walmart Radio’s DJs and their godawful playlist. Well not anymore. The managers’ need for their largely useless PA announcements to be heard in the breakroom now trumps our peace. Crap.

The frustrating bit: My overnight bosses don’t even use the PA. I think one of them doesn’t even know how it works. The other used to use it to tell everyone, “Breaktime, guys” and “Lunchtime, guys”, but then one of the coworkers started setting the alarm on his phone to go off at breaktimes and lunchtime, and now everybody does that. Don’t need the reminders, don’t need the PA.

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Having a life.

One of my coworkers was bitching yesterday about how working overnights is great… except for the fact we don’t have a life.

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “I have a life.”

“How?”

“I don’t go to bed till noon. I interact with people till then. I see friends and family. I go out to eat in the few restaurants that don’t serve only breakfast. You can have a life—unless none of your friends get up till noon.”

His daily routine is he goes home, goes to bed, and gets up at 3pm. Which means he could interact with people from 3 till 9ish… but doesn’t. Maybe his friends are morning people. Or homebodies.

More likely he’s not making the effort.

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Stuff I miss.

I miss cherry limeade drink powder. Wylers used to make it and I'd find it at Walmart or Dollar Tree. I'd drink it all the time. Then it disappeared off the shelves of both stores and I haven't seen it since. Sucks.

I miss olive and feta cream cheese spread. Walmart used to sell that too. It was my absolute favorite, but apparently nobody else's, and it got discontinued. Sucks.

I miss Blockbuster sometimes. Then every once in a while I return a Redbox video an hour late, and remember nah, I don't really miss it so much.

I miss my cat. He died years ago, but still.

I miss throwing mannequins off the overpass for fun. Stupid fence.

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“Maybe 100 bad days made 100 good stories…”

Dude, it didn’t even inspire one good song.

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Camgirls.

This has happened to me twice so far. Twice.

I'm on Tinder. Looking for a life partner on a hookup site is a little naive, I know, but you never do know.

Anyway I see a really, really hot girl. Straight-girls-will-turn-their-heads-too kind of hot. Only two miles away, which is great cuz I might be able to see her daily, assuming things go anywhere. On the young side, but not college-age, so I'm not gonna feel weird about our age difference—unless she acts like a kid, of course.

So I super-liked her.

And what do you know, she liked me back and said hi.

Short chat. Then she said, "Can we continue chatting on Instagram? Because I'm never on Tinder and don't want to miss your messages." Red flag right there. I've found scam artists like to get their marks away from Tinder, then quickly unmatch so that when they do something scammy, you can't report their profile to Tinder. But I figured I could still report her to Instagram… so okay.

Over to Instagram, where I find she likes to post selfies of herself, looking hot, cuz of course she knows she's hot. Nothing in lingerie.

More chatting. I ask her to coffee so we could chat in person. "I'm not interested in rushing things," she says. Red flag #2: Coffee is rushing things?

I check out her photos later. One of them reveals she's eastern European. That's not necessarily a red flag. But it could mean she's not really two miles away. I've matched with a few girls who turn out to be in Russia, Kenya, and the Philippines. It's way too easy to spoof your location.

Some nights later we chat a bit, and the truth comes out: "I want to move this forward, but I have to confess I'm a camgirl and you need to watch my camshow. That'll be $50 please."

First time this happened, I stupidly tried to reason with the camgirl: What kind of relationship is it when you have to pay money upfront? I didn't say it felt like I was hiring a whore; I knew that would only piss her off. But she insisted: If I wanted to date her, I had to pay for her camshow. Then we'd see.

No we wouldn't see. She'd just make me pay for future camshows and string me along. I know guys who fell for camgirls; I know exactly how it works. These are the very same sad losers who follow her Instagram feed and comment, "So hot" every time she posts something they find spankable.

Didn't even bother to debate this camgirl. I just said, "This won't work out; goodbye."

She tried to argue her case; wouldn't I spend even more than $50 on a first date? Yes but that's not the point—but instead of debating her I blocked her.

Then reported her to Tinder, because she hadn't unmatched yet. And Instagram, although I'm pretty sure Instagram has no problem with camgirls. They have so many.

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Plugs!

In Walmart-speak, plugs aren't mini-ads for some product or show; they're when some doofus put the wrong item in the wrong spot. Like laxative where the sleep aid should be. (Don't mix up the two. Either you'll crap the bed or fall asleep on the can.) And since the item is usually next to the wrong price tag, customers will either think they found a bargain—and be surprised, and annoyed, at checkout—or they'll think, "I'm not paying that," and pass it by.

Plugs also play merry hell with inventory. Where the item's supposed to go is empty, and every week an inattentive manager will go through the store, notice all the empty spots on the shelves, and reorder stuff when we're out… but we might not be out, cuz the item what's supposed to be there is on the shelf above. Or below. Or in the space right next to it. Managers are busy and haven't the time to read labels.

We have a plugging bandit at my store; someone who constantly puts stuff in the wrong spot. I think he (it's likely a he) is illiterate. Probably can actually read, but doesn't cuz he struggles with it, or won't wear his glasses or contacts. Why I think he's illiterate is cuz he plugs the items in reasonable places—where you'd guess they would go, if you had to guess, but he guesses wrong.

So when I find it, I gotta fix it. And sometimes I'll find a whole daisy chain, a veritable human centipede, of plugs. The chicken soup is where the tomato soup should be; but where the chicken soup should go, there's minestrone; and where the minestrone should go is ramen; and the ramen's "home" is full. It's obnoxious.

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It's not the song so much that bugs me; it's the fact Texans don't know how to pronounce "amarillo." AW-MAW-REE-YOH. Trill the R slightly, ya crackers.

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"Had every inch of your skin / There's nowhere your hands haven't been / Ain't it funny? / Cuz now there's nothing left but small talk."

Nowhere his hands hasn't been? Eww. They've been in her butt.

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Riots!

I don't live in a big city. It's… medium sized I guess. But there were protests today over the George Floyd murder, and just to be on the safe side a number of Walmart employees went home early. Anxious families, I guess.

Nothing happened in my town tonight. Plenty happened in other towns though. Floyd's murder is an entirely valid thing to protest. Those looting stores, I don't consider any way part of the protest; it's just a bunch of criminals taking advantage.

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Walmart Radio has played this song every day for the past three weeks. It got old for me in the '80s. I sometimes wonder if the reason they're so willing to play crap is because they're too cheap to splurge for the rights to good music.

She couldn't have muted him with science?…

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Coronavirus run!

Past two weeks, we've been selling hand sanitizer like crazy. We oughta make a feature of it… and would, if there weren't demand for it everywhere in the world.

We're also selling lots of antibacterial wipes, antibacterial hand soap, and rubbing alcohol. You'd think we'd sell a lot of bleach too, but people don't seem to remember bleach kills viruses. Or they can't abide the smell; I dunno.

Past two days, customers have been buying up all the toilet paper. Cuz now they're just hoarding in general: If you've gotta sit thru two weeks quarantine, you're gonna need two weeks of T.P., and if the flu gives you the trots maybe you'll need four weeks worth.

Me, I use flushable wipes. Haven't sold out of those yet.

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I think I'd enjoy Walmart Radio more if they'd just play something new.

But they don't. God rot their balls.

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Same chorus as the Go Go's "Heaven Is a Place on Earth," but I like what the 1975 did with it better. It's just I'm pretty sure Walmart Radio has no idea the song's about heroin addiction, cuz it's just so cheerful.

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"And if you're having trouble, baby, holding on to memories / I've got a king-sized bed and a Ph.D. in the way it used to be."

So if you don't remember how good it was with him, let him bang it back into you.

[josecanyusi]

And now, John Mellencamp's ode to painful intercourse.