I'm back attack. Zach attack.

I'm so fucking educated, I can use the word "fuck" and it's charming.

Well, I mean, I can't, but I do have friends who have Pulitzers. OK, not friends exactly, but, like, people I officially know now. And, like, multiple people-with-Pulitzers-who-I-officially-know. They might not remember me, but I know them!

So, you see how I'm better than pretty much anyone with a lesser degree now, right? I mean, really? You went to a state school and finished with a Bachelor's Degree? That's very nice, sweetheart. Your mom and dad must be super proud of you. Do you like your Friendly's uniform? You are the best, most handsome mopper I've ever seen.

Here's a quarter, kid. Our little secret, eh?

*pinchy cheekies*

The only thing better than being a grad school douche like I is being rude to a cashier.

I was in Target, like, a couple months ago, because I've been way too busy to blog about it since then, but I've been itching to tell the story, so here you go; I think I may have built it up too much, but fuggit. Dig the scene.

In Target, I was on the celly with a friend (because I'm a dick who talks on the phone in the store, but I do it quietly, and there are few places in this world a mother of multiple 3-year-olds and a wife of an ADD egghead can go to have a quiet talk with a friend, so kick you in the balls for judging), and the woman in line in front of me started getting angry.

I narrated the uncomfortable play-by-play to my friend on the phone.

The woman with the Caribbean accent wanted a roll of quarters. The cashier would not give it to her. An outrage!

All the customer wanted in this world, other than the small child by her side, was a roll of goddamn quarters, and is that so much to ask for in this life? I ask of you.

I whispered something like, "And I don't blame her," to my friend.

But, soon after the manager came over, I realized the cashier wasn't refusing the customer a roll of quarters out of racism or nationalism or boyfriendjism. She was refusing the customer a roll of quarters because she didn't have any rolls of quarters.

And the customer service desk didn't have any. Because it's Target policy not to make change, so they don't keep rolls around.

So, actually the woman I initially sided with was being a lunatic about the idea that Target had no rolls of quarters, and the situation became a lot more intense.

"What kind of a store is this?" said the customer.

Ma'am. This is the kind of store where you can purchase a garden hose, Goldfish crackers, a sweet cardigan, a frozen pizza, antifungal cream, toilet paper, birthday cards and a pregnancy test in one location. I see by your bag that you understand the premise of the discount department store.

By nature of being a discount department store, Target also is the type of store that is not a bank. Stop yelling at the cashier, and if you choose not to purchase the items she rang up and bagged for you - politely, I might add - then put the fucking items back where you found them.

Don't just walk out, muttering about taking your business to Wal-Mart and jestering **EDIT: BetaDad pointed out that I wrote "jestering" instead of "gesturing," but I'm keeping it because it's both appropriate for what she was doing and points out how educated and awesome I am** about the cashier to your tiny child, and leave your bags at the counter without paying for them, leaving the frozen pizza for the store manager to return to the shelf.

Next time, accept the idea that Target doesn't make change, and make an extra stop at the bank on the other end of the fucking parking lot.

(OK, the next part of my notes on the saved draft of this was "Also, melon baller." How I wish I knew what the hell I meant by that a couple months ago. Conversely, I wish I could go back in time and tell my historical self that those three words were not enough to jog the memory of present-day me, so could she please be a little more specific, kthxbai.)

I had more I wanted to say, but I'll save that for tomorrow's blog entry.

I've got some step-by-step cleaning instructions simmering. It's brewing nicely. (OK, so I've basically been drawing doodles of myself with a broom, again, but I'm telling PHubby I'm spending a lot of time on the computer right now for "research" and "serious writer writing" for my grad school program. He's starting to get suspicious about the amount of mousing I do (quite a bit), versus the amount of typing I do (none), so I'll have to actually take a break from doodling to write a blog post.)

Um, piano man, play me off?