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‘Shorty, Short’
A White Wednesday/Ghetto Grocer Reality Check
We lowly supermarket clerks have long resigned ourselves to being cussed at, demeaned, threatened, and even attacked—for rarely does a clerk go through their career without a customer striking, or in the case of women, molesting them. But sometimes—and this is not often—a thing happens which stretches the mental template of humanity to the breaking point.
The basic rule is:
1. Most black women are rude.
2. About a third of black men are rude.
3. Most food stampers are stupid, which really makes diplomacy difficult.
4. The only food stampers who are not rude are white men. Blacks and white women with food stamps are always rude.
5. The only non-law enforcement customers that threaten to harm employees are old white guys who want sexual favors from young female employees and black food stampers. I have no recollection of a cash paying black customer threatening me or my staff unless he was a cop, and I had two of those, a city cop and a transit cop.
6. The only white men who have threatened male employees are cops. I can name five white cops that threatened me or my staff, not as part of their job, but in seeking privileged treatment. I have also been ‘flexed on’ and glared at by two white cops while on the job in my present location.
What this points to is the aristocratic impulse to do violence to those who serve you, which seems to arise exclusively in police of both races, women of both races, and black men who do not work. Working black men and mature black criminals flush with cash are generally the most polite and civil customers you will deal with. Once when barring entrance through the exit door after hours on Christmas Eve, I had a black cop threaten to “beat you wherever I see you” for not letting him shop after hours. Another black cop on another occasion did the same. Ten minute later a young black criminal with his homeboys came up to me with a knot roll of bills and offered me $1,400 to bring him a gallon of milk, so that his baby’s mother would not be mad at him for staying too late at the bar and missing the supermarket. When I declined, he was polite and understanding and wished me a merry Christmas. I can only imagine what a bitch she was!
When I used to manage a store and hire people I had one introductory speech for all customer service people. “Look, every type of person on earth, with the exception of third would dictators and certain types of serial killers, shop in supermarkets. You will get it all. So be prepared and don’t take it personal.”
What is more and more obvious to me as real wages shrink, and adjusted wages whither for grocery clerks, and welfare benefits increase, is that we are the mud-tilling peasants of the Welfare State. The welfare people, and the scumbags who buy as much as one third of all food stamps at 50 cents on the dollar from state subsidized drug addicts, are the lords on their mighty steeds. Indeed, the most common vehicle driven by welfare recipients is a late model SUV. A few weeks ago a $700 food stamp order was packed into a shimmering white Escalade at my local market.
And now, since the riots and purge, police are no longer responding, or are electing to wait an hour to respond, to calls for help at supermarkets in the city or the county. As I entered work on Monday night at midnight I did not see Alf the pimp and his two white whores sitting in front of the dollar store. I also did not see Rico Suave and Trash Mouth, who have been causing trouble lately. The store was doing a brisk business as food stampers, and those who buy discount food stamps, bought sodas and snacks by the cart load.
I spent an hour in the stockroom and cooler sorting my dairy order, then worked up a cart of yogurt, which took me to about 1:30. I made a hot chocolate at the coffee pot and walked up front to pay for it and get a shopping cart for my cardboard. There was a nine-year-old girl shopping, with a cart and open wallet, seeming very studious about her business. She was a short half-black half-white mix with her hair straightened, in the way that Ajay assured me costs hundreds of dollars a month to maintain.
When I checked out Bubba, who deals with all of the scum, not just the ones buying whipped topping to snort the gas, looks at me with heavy lids hanging low over his 21-year-old eyes and says, “I hate people, I really do.”
I went out front and noticed two 13-year-old wanna be thugs loitering by the door. To my right was a woman who resembled the child so much that I was relieved that she was not shopping parentless. The woman had a baby carriage which she was pushing in small circles on the sidewalk. She too had an expensive hair do.
An hour later I come up front to have lunch and find out there has been a commotion I did not here from my refrigerated habitat. I ended up interviewing the parties involved.
Shorty Short in the Market
The nine-year-old girl essentially shopped solo as her 25-year-old mother tried to follow her around the store, but was, according to Steevo, “Either stoned, or fucking retarded—real, shit your stupid pants, retarded.”
During the course of her jaunt she came around the corner of Aisle 11 as Steevo pulled down his stair stepper off the over head and rammed him in the back with the cart at high speed as she screamed “like a fuckin’ animal, man.”
Steevo stepped back in amazement and let her go by.
She then approached Jack and snarled, “Your fucking store sucks, bitch!”
Jack admitted to “a what-the-fuck moment” as he got out of the little demon’s way. This kid has already figured out that she is the tyrant of a parentless world in which the law—if ever applied—tends to favor the most savage and violent child over a well-meaning adult.
The girl brought a series of order to the register and, one-by-one argued with Bubba over the total. If a particular selection did not seem to be worth, let’s say 10.14—which was the total of one of the orders—she would scatter the goods across the belt and then go and shop for another order. Her remarks to Bubba were more along the lines of him being stupid and incompetent for not correctly tallying the orders, rather than profane. She did say, “This store really sucks! I like the other store!”
Bubba said, “Then why don’t you shop at the other store?”
The little lady responded, “Fuck you. Where are the cookies?”
As she went off to buy cookies, as the candy she had selected was too expensive, her mother mumbled in response to Bubba’s questioning look, “I’m really tired of her.”
Note that the woman was wheeling a silent baby around the entire time.
Finally one of the orders was tallied to this non-counting designer-attired waif’s approval and she made the transaction with cash.
Bubba said, “I was totally shocked that it wasn’t a food stamp order.”
Shorty Short then demanded, “Call us a cab.”
Bubba, peering five feet down from his great height, asked, “You want me to call a cab for you and your mother.”
“That’s what I said! Can’t you hear?”
Bubba picked up the phone and made the call. When he asked the young beast what her address was she darted over and ripped the phone out of his hand as he looked on in amazement, and began calling the cab dispatcher a “stupid white bitch” for not knowing where she lived. She then unleashed a stream of profanity replete with F-words and hung up on the dispatcher.
Bubba called back and apologized to the dispatcher, and managed to get the address from the mother. Eventually the cab arrived and carted off this load of obnoxious fury, who, shall come to maturity in world that owes her everything, shoulder to shoulder with legions of other privileged children of the Welfare State, as working people work for ever less serving their savage needs.
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