The hills are alive with the sounds of white trash scamming

What with the economy being in the toilet and the construction industry in Florida being the toilet paper circling the drain of said toilet, the herds of free range white trash without educations or marketable job skills that extend beyond wielding a hammer are again roving the great Wal-prairies looking to scam.

The new thing seems to be buying items at thrift stores, charity shops or maybe pawn shops, then trying to return them at Wal-Mart. Not just clothes, but sometimes electronics. For all I know, they're rifling through the trash. Of course, this only works if you and the corn-fed sow in Daisy Dukes with her hands in your back pockets can keep the story straight.

OK. So I get a particularly lurvley white trash couple straight out of Central Casting. He's got on faded T-shirt that reads "The South Shall Rise Again" - with the sleaves ripped off and the sides cut off except for about an inch around the bottom hem - and jeans with about eight colors of paint and some motor oil thrown in for good measure. Boots that were made for mucking out a stable and the requisite Bud Light hat. From the neck down, maybe if I was slipped a roofie. From the neck up, *shudder* - alls I'm saying is - Future Proactive Spokesmodel-In-Training. Either way, he wasn't too bright.

The girlfriend had packed her considerable girth into a pair of cutoffs that would have made Daisy Duck, Daisy Buchanan, certainly Miss Daisy and probably Daisy Duke herself (Lord, Catherine Bach sure did pack on the pounds later in life) cry with shame and run for a cover-up. I forget what kind of top she had on. I just kept waiting for that one sad, overstressed button on the front of her pants to go and was trying to stay out of the way of it.
Anyway. They roll in with a SanDisk Sansa music player. JUST the player. No box, no cables, no headphones. Nothing. And of course no receipt.

I don't know what it is yet, so I ask them "That's how it came? No headphones?"

She says yes, he says no. "Well which is it?" I'm not very polite when it comes to scammers here lately. What are they gonna do? Call the cops? And apparently it magically doesn't come with headphones or any other accessories. What's that I smell? Scam? Or maybe weed. It was hard to tell over the B.O.

So I'm like "Exchange it, but no refund, no store credit, no nothing." And we're not even supposed to return MP3 players without a receipt period. That's actually one of the policies posted on the wall. But they'll whine and moan and get a manager .... which they eventually did ...

So an electronics associate walks a new one back up to Customer Service and asks me "Is this what you need? You know it's $148 right?" And then I notice it comes with a whole list of stuff: namely - AC charger/adaptor; USB cable; earphones; case; install CD and user guides.

I bust their "no headphones" story like a DUI cop with a quota on a Saturday night. It don't even make a difference because the shield of ignorance is so thick.

"Well this is how we got it." At the pawn shop, maybe. Or digging through the trash. But you ain't bought it like that at at no Wal-Mart on this continent.

I'm like "No. This is how we sell them."

"Well this is how we got ours. I want a manager." And I want birth control to be delivered in the water system.

Management didn't even bother with making the unsavory types "exchange" their "defective" player. They just refunded it onto a gift card and wished them on their merry way.

Which was probably the right wrong call in the end - give away the $148 plus tax and don't let them have another perfectly good unit to go pull the same stunt with again. Still, that's another few shekels down the tube tops. After a while, it starts to add up.

Bud it wuz suppoz tuh be fuh-ree

The subject of today's very much fun and oh-so-enlightening little entry will be coupons. Because, you know, there is nothing more dangerous than mixing white trash, tiny little print, some flip-flops and a bag of Funyuns.

Add a can of Natural Light, season with Cheetos and garnish with Cheez-Whiz and a Pringle. Serves 6.

The genius computerized scheduling system left us with seven cashiers after 5 p.m. on a Saturday night. When I got back from my lunch one of the managers asked me to jump on Register 2 to help get the lines down. It was INSANE. There were like 9-10 people in every line - don't these people got places to BE on a Saturday night? The club, the American Legion, they house, I dunno. Somewhere. Anywhere else but here. I know I'm not up in Wal-Mart because I want to be!

I don't mind Register 2, because it's a speedy checkout - and people are usually pretty good about not coming through there with $400 orders with a ton of produce.

Anyway. The third customer I get is this ancient and withered crone who thanks me for opening up another register. She is so effusive in her praise that I feel almost embarrassed for the store for being so stupid about the schedule.

About 20 minutes later, I get a woman who resembles what Britney Spears is going to look like in about three years if she continues down her current road to ruin. She's wearing an ancient printed T-shirt - so faded I can't even make out what it says - something about beer - complete with more holes than Swiss cheese. Cutoffs, of course. And dirty green flip-flops. (These I see later when she stomps away from the register.) Her dirty blonde hair also just plain dirty. And greasy. Ears pierced four times each. Cheap gold rings on nearly every finger.

She's smacking gum as if her life depended on it. Hubba Bubba, more than one piece, from the looks and smell of it. How the person on the other end of that cell phone she had jammed in her ear could understand her I'll never know.

I finish bagging up an old man's loaf of bread and three bananas. (For this he probably stood in line a good ten minutes. Old people - get a clue - do NOT go shopping on Saturday nights. I don't UNDERSTAND the need to recreational shop at a time WHEN YOU KNOW THE STORE IS GOING TO BE BUSY AND THEN YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT THE LINES!)

I turn to greet GumSlinger. She doesn't answer, but throws a big box of diapers up on the counter and moves down by the bag rack. She continues on the phone. Somebody effed up somebody else's truck and somebody gonna pay for it or she's gonna eff them up.

I run it the diapers over my scanner. GumSlinger is still on the phone and the woman behind her is putting bananas on the counter.

I hit total and swing the screen toward the woman and tap it. That's what she owes me. She's still yakking on the phone and has not responded to anything I've said. Effing deputy tried to take her cousin to jail because he didn't have a valid license.

She sees the total, shakes a finger and her head at me and whips a coupon out of a pocket and thrusts a grubby paw in my direction. Apparently, she's gonna have to 'throw down' with someone over something to get this truck fixed. And there's gonna be a party at somebody's house tonight. She need to go somewhere and get some beer after she's done at Wal-Mart.

The coupon from Huggies and can be redeemed for a free box of diapers - I just have to scan the coupon and take off the price of the diapers - in this case $24.99. I also have to write down the amount of the product on the coupon, so we can get reimbursed from Huggies.

While I'm doing this, I see her move to grab the Diapers and start to leave. Predictably, she's still on the phone. Hold up!

ME: "Ma'am. You still need to pay me $1.50." Now she gets off the phone. I actually hear her say "I'll call you back. Wal-Mart trying to act a fool up in here."

HER: "These is free."
ME: "Yes ma'am. They are free. You need to pay the tax."
HER: "That means they're not free." Lord. I must have run over a kitten or something to have deserved this. Working on a register AND getting the stupids.
ME: "Ma'am. The diapers cost $24.99. You get the box of diapers free but you have to pay the tax on the diapers."
HER: "I ain't gotta pay that. The coupon say free. So they is free."

ME: "No ma'am. It does not say that you can walk into a store and grab a box of diapers and walk out. The product is free but you still have to pay tax. I need a dollar and fifty cents or I need those diapers back." The woman waiting to check out is watching all this with a certain amount of morbid fascination.
HER: "I don't got it."
ME: "You don't got what?"
HER: "I don't got no money."

ME: "Okay. I need that box of diapers back then. Do you have some money in the car maybe?"
HER: "Naw."
ME: "OK. I need you to leave that here."
HER: "My baby need some diapers." No. Your baby needs Social Services to pay a house call.

ME: "You can come back later tonight when you got some money."
HER: "Can't I brang sum money back later?" OH HELL NO!
ME: "No ma'am. I can't give you stuff for free."
HER: "You betta gimme my coupon back. It say free. This ain't free. I'ma go sumwhar else."
ME: "Here's your coupon ma'am."

She leaves and I see her pull the phone out and start yelling into it again."Wal-Mart won't let me get no free diapers."

Good luck finding somewhere that's going to let you get "free" diapers lady.

"CSM TO REGISTER 2 FOR A VOID PLEASE. CSM TO REGISTER 2 FOR A VOID PLEASE."

Who let the (dumb) dogs out?

OK. We all know how this one is going to roll. Somebody is going to do something stupid with a sketchy return and I'm going to bust them like a watermelon at a Gallagher concert.

For real people. Do you just not understand the concept that computers USE the information on the receipts to, I dunno, TRACK how many returns you have? Even the ancient computers at the House of Wal.

I mean, you're able to return something you outright stole without a receipt, but you sure as hell can't return something for cash once, then come in with ANOTHER USED ONE and try to use the same receipt. It's the greed that will get you every time. The register is going to tell me, make noise, blow bubbles, spit paper out and otherwise refuse to cooperate. Sort of like your girlfriend after the first two weeks of marriage.

Eeeen-e-waaaay. I'm sure we're all dying to hear the one about the sub-woofer and the stupid greasy rednecks at 10:30 p.m. on a Sunday night. As I live and breathe, my life was just so complete at this point. Sunday night I had to run Customer Service by myself from 3-11 p.m. I've got one 15 minute break and a 3o-minute lunch because they begged me not to take a full hour. My feet hurt and I was just not in the mood for this kind of stupidity. You know what, I got it anyway.

Two doods, one wearing - I swear to Shiva, overalls - bopped up at 10:30 p.m. One was carrying an out-of-the-box subwoofer. The other one stood around and adjusted himself for 15 minutes. Seriously. He could have taught a master class in Anatomical Ikebana.

I don't even get my standard "Can I help you?" greeting out before the greasier of the two launches into an explanation of how they bought this sub-woofer, how it won't install, how it isn't blown out (complete with demonstration) and all sorts of verbal diarrhea to try and distract me from the fact that this is a sketchy return.

It is a $68 sub-woofer. There's no box, no serial number, the receipt is from another store and I think they're just generally acting suspicious. I don't want to do the return, so I call my supervisor over and tell her that I have a problem and I need her to go see if we stock the item. She doesn't care, just wants to go home, and says "Just return it." Thus, we see how decisions are made in the House of Wal.

So I start the process. PS MERCH RETURN I print the defective slip and put APPROVED BY CSM XXXX on there. I'm not taking the hit for this one.

But when I try to cash out the transaction, the register hangs and gives me a message on the screen and then spits out a piece of paper.

TRANSACTION PREVIOUSLY REFUNDED FOR $XX.XX ON 9/16 STORE #XXXX and a few more lines with the specific register and whatnot the refund was on.

They already returned one sub-woofer using this receipt. At a different store than the one they bought it at.

Do we get the picture? Let me spell it out. Buy one *NEW* sub-woofer. Then return - or at least try to return - used sub-woofers using the new Wal-Mart receipt. I'd bet that some Wal-Mart somewhere has a used sub-woofer sitting on a shelf right now.

I tell them I can't process the return because they've already had the transaction refunded. They deny it. I'm like "No. Right here. You got a refund at XXX store three hours ago."

They deny it again and claim "this is the only receipt we have." I'm sure it is. And a well-traveled receipt too. It's been in three Wal-Marts in the past four hours. And on the garage floor by the looks of it.

I'm like "We're not going to take it back tonight. If you want to return that merchandise, you need to go back to the store you bought the merchandise at or the store where you returned it previously. We can't help you. Have a good night."

They stand around and gripe for a while, but eventually leave.

It was just the day for the basura blanca. Two hours earlier a meth addict in serious need of a fix had tried to cash a $4,000 check. *twitch & scratch* Do you *twitch & scratch* cash checks *twitch & scratch* here? *twitch & scratch* "I'm sorry, the most we cash is $1500." And he did not look like a Henrietta. Unless "Henrietta" was on some serious hormone replacement therapy.

PS: Neither of you were cute enough for me to care about, not even in that skanky, bad-boy, white trash sort of way!

Did Wal-Mart try to steal a baby?

There's a MySpace rant that dropped today from a woman who says she was in a store when there a CODE ADAM called. She says that a security guard demanded she hand over her baby.

1. Read her MySpace rant here.
2. Read the back and forth at Consumerist here.

I have been away from a computer nearly all of today and not even able to knock out a post on my phone. Now that I can see the furor, this is what I think.

1. We all know what I think of the trash that shops in Wal-Mart. I seriously doubt this went down the way she describes - with a Rent-A-Cop "demanding" she hand over her baby.

2. The Consumerist is being somewhat needlessly sensationalistic. Nobody tried to "steal" a baby. Wal-Mart steals your money. Not your howlers. Believe me. NOBODY there wants your crotch spawn. [disclosure: Consumerist sends a great deal of traffic to Behind the Counter]

3. CODE ADAM is a federal program created and named in memory of 6-year-old Adam Walsh, who was was abducted from a Florida shopping mall in 1981 and later found murdered. There are SPECIFIC steps businesses must follow when a child is reported lost or missing.

4. ONE OF THOSE STEPS IS: If the child is found accompanied by someone other than a parent or legal guardian, reasonable efforts to delay their departure will be used without putting the child, staff, or visitors at risk.

5. This was a baby. For whatever reason, the security guard had cause to believe that this baby may have been the lost baby.

6. If you lost your baby in a 200,000 square foot store, would you want a woman - who by her own admission was screaming obscenities - walking right out the door with it?

ON THE OTHER HAND

7. How the hell do you lose a damn baby? Seriously. How in the hell do you lose a damn baby? Howler monkeys I understand. They crawl away. Babies? It ain't like they gonna push the crib from 0-60 in 3.5 seconds or anything.

8. Rent-a-cops are dumb. I've never met a smart one. Have you?

9. I am so, so, so sure this could have been handled with more tact and grace.

10. If you have been so wronged, why would you go home and rant on MySpace? why wouldn't you drive to the police station and start filing complaints and talking to lawyers?

Anyway. That's my punditry. No great insight. I just think that all parties involved should have shut up and calmed down. We as a society are all too ready to grab, jerk, howl and yell out that we are being mistreated. And the rent-a-cop was probably a bit too fiesty. But he thought she had snatched a baby. Put yourself in their shoes. Nobody was thinking straight.

The lesson here? The only way to win is not to shop at the House of Wal.

Washed up with the Tide

My store is home to great roaming herds of white trash, milling aimlessly across the cold tile prairies as far as the eye can see. They flock to the House of Wal - clad in faux Crocs and pajama bottoms - in search of plastic doodads, Cheez-Whiz and brake fluid for their pick-em-up trucks.

The white trash is good at eating, breeding, complaining, stealing and being stupid. That's pretty much it. Don't even think about putting "wearing clothes that fit" on that list.

Picture a beachball. With a pasty complexion and acne. Age it to about 45 and add some bleached hair (looks like it has been hacked off with an egg beater at around an inch long) and with roots showing. Add Pillsbury Doughboy legs with cottage cheese thighs. Wait. Back up. It's only about five feet tall.

Now dress this lovely, lovely human being - who is breeding the sons and daughters who are going to be paying YOUR social security - in pink terrycloth shorts and a T-shirt four sizes too small for her.

Don't forget. There's about six inches of pasty white belly showing. Now, add a belly-button ring with a nice little star dangling down. Big Momma is PROUD of her belly. Lots of Natural Light went up in there!

Cue the fun:

PINK SHORTS: Jams finger onto receipt. "This here Tide was $8.94 on da shelf." She didn't say respond to my greeting or to my smile. Which is fine. In the future, just know that I judge you within 5 seconds of initiating the transaction. Which is another post entirely .....
ME: "OK. Do you have your receipt."
PINK SHORTS: "Right here."
ME: "Can I have it?" No. Really. I need it.
PINK SHORTS: "I had to walk all the way back in here."
ME: Mashing buttons, thinking "Exercise does a body good, bitch." I'm just shocked you ain't on a Mart-Cart.

I print out the refund slip and prepare to re-sell her the Tide. I'm already planning to give her the $3.00 off because it rang up wrong instead of just fixing it during the refund transaction - even though that is quicker - because I can tell she is the type that will totally be a Cee-You-Next-Tuesday about having stuff ring up wrong.

ME: "Can you sign this for me ma'am?" And I give her the refund slip.
PINK SHORTS: "WHAT IS THIS. I DON'T WANT TO RETURN IT. I HAD TO WALK ALL THA DAMN WAY BACK IN THA DAMN STORE IN THA DAMN HEAT AN' THA DAMN PRICE WAS WRONG AN' ...." I mean, she is just oinking like a sow at a feed trough with a fresh bucket of slop.
ME: "Ma'am. One moment. I'm not done yet." And she gets the finger of death held up right in her face.
PINK SHORTS: "Well I don't understand what tha hell I'm a supposed a sign."
ME: "OK. I'm going to break it down. I need to return the Tide at the incorrect price." That is as far as I got.
PINK SHORTS: "I DON'T WANT TO RETURN IT." Q-tips. Aisle 3 of HBA. Cause they is obviously some earwax issues going on.
ME: "I. AM. NOT. FINISHED. I need to sell it to you at the correct price. And you're going to get three dollars off because it rang up wrong."
PINK SHORTS: "Where I work if it ring up wrong you get it for free." I would strongly suggest you shop there then. If it is such a lovely and inviting place, why are you up in the House of Wal spending your beer money?
ME: "Our policy is to give three dollars back if an item rings up wrong."
PINK SHORTS: "That ain't right." Neither is your existence, your right to spawn or the fact that I can't execute you on the spot for stupidity - but yet there you are - and there you'll be tomorrow - skank, rank and yo breath still stank!
ME: "Here is your receipt and your change ma'am. You have a lovely day."
PINK SHORTS: Grunts and walks out.

After she left, I realized she was probably just trying to get a big jug of Tide for free. Le sigh.

More scams at the Wal-Mart

Another silly moo tried the old 'change the driver license number' trick today. This time it was $125 in 600-thread-count sheets.

The least she could have done was used black ink. Florida DOES NOT use blue ink on their driver licenses.

Silly cow. Doesn't she read Behind the Counter? Scammers rarely prosper. Complainers ALWAYS do!

How glue can you make me feel?

********************SCAMMER ALERT********************

OK. I don't know you. I don't know your ugly bearded daughter. (Girlfriend. Wax, electrolysis, depilatory cream, razors, a goat, a lawnmower, a Weed-eater, something. Anything. You look like an alpaca mated with a Fuller brush.) You are interrupting a transaction I'm trying to finish just to say "HI" and use my name - because, you know, I'm required to wear a nametag. I have regulars. You are not one of them.

You interrupt the transaction of the customer ahead of you (woman returning some sheets) again to comment on my glasses. Because I have the fly designer frames. Seriously. I don't know you. I do know that you're as annoying as hell.

You keep talking. You start asking the woman whose transaction you're interrupting about her makeup, her handbag and her jewelry. It is like a pre-hymn church service up in here. Everybody is just so friendly - although the woman obviously doesn't want to talk to you - but she doesn't want to be rude. But I still don't know you.

You and your four-hundred-pound daughter - who's using one of the Mart Carts - finally pull up to the counter when the woman returning the sheets escapes (why can't I). Then we find out why you're trying to be so friendly. Heifers. You're trying to run some game. I still don't know you.

But I know you are scammers of a different order.

The leviathan-like daughter take the lead. She's wearing a spaghetti-strap top and terrycloth shorts about four sizes too small for her; she whips out a bag containing eight or nine boxes of water-softener and water-filter products. "My husband bought a different kind of filter. I looked all over but I can't find the receipt." Because I always buy $20o worth of stuff and throw away the receipts. It never existed on this or any other plane of existence.

I blank my face and start scanning. She keeps yakking. "Don't you think it is terrible how you have to buy one filter to purify the water and another filter and a tablet to make the water taste a certain way? Isn't that terrible? These people are just trying to rip us poor folks off." My stars. Seriously. Just shut up. If you want to scam, just shut your gaping maw.

The final total is $207. And change. **sigh**

"Can I see your ID ma'am?" With any luck, she's already got three returns and I can deny her.

She proffers up a huge paw and a tiny pink pocketbook with the drivers license in a see-through plastic window. I make to grab it and she yanks it back like I'm going for her bag of Funyuns. She's got it on a strap around her wrist. "I always lose my ID," she squawks by way of explanation. OK. Fine. We can play it your way.

I pull it as close as I can and I start typing and when I hit the fifth number alarm bells go off. She has changed both the "3s" in the number to eights with a ballpoint pen to try to get around the "three returns without a receipt policy.

ME: "Can you take your ID out for me ma'am?"
HER: "NO."
ME: "Ma'am. I need to see your ID."
HER: "NO."
ME: "Ma'am. I need to examine your ID."
HER: "It is glued in."
ME: "I need to see your ID or we will not be able to return these items."
HER: "WHY DO YOU NEED TO SEE IT? IT IS RIGHT THERE?"
ME: "Ma'am. That is not a valid ID. I need to examine it. You can take it out or you can take you items and leave."
HER: "It is a valid ID."
ME: "Ma'am. I need to see it. Can you take it out for me?"
HER: "It is glued in. I can't take it out because I always lose it."
ME: "That's fine ma'am. When you have a valid ID, you can return these items."

She looks at me like I slapped her across the face and then yanked a bag of Cheetos right out of her hands. All the while dancing around the living room of her double-wide dousing it with gasoline and throwing matches while singing "Big Girls Don't Cry."

Her mother asks her - right in front of me - "Well, how many returns do you have? I can't do no more."

HER: "Well I want my stuff back."
ME: "Certainly."

Ride that Mart Cart right on out of here. I hope you run into a sheriff's deputy and give him that same line of "it's glued in" crap. I hope you keep squawking that line right off to county lock-up.

Trading up

Customers are inherently stupid - especially Wal-Mart customers. Durr. The picture on the box must be what's inside. Durr. Consider the apocryphal tale of the Gerber baby food in Africa - since debunked by Snopes.com.

OK. So you buy an airbed. The picture on the box is blue. The airbed IN the box is brown. You don't like the airbed. You don't want the airbed. You want to return the airbed. That's fine. This is the Wal-Mart. We'd take your babies back if you has a receipt on them. Or not. I'm not much on the howler monkeys.

Where we run into problems is when you want to upgrade from a single to a queen - WITHOUT PAYING THE DIFFERENCE.

"Ma'am. The airbed you're returning is $39.96. The one you want to get is $49.96. You're going to owe me about ten dollars."

"No. It's not my problem." Lady, you gots monumental problems. This is only the tip of the iceberg. And in this case, continental ice shelf would be more appropriate than iceberg.

Shall we catalog? Yes. We shall. Ma'am, I appreciate the fact that you're wearing bicycle shorts. I didn't know they came in fuscia in that size. Wow. I'm suddenly hungry for raspberries. And strawberries. And cherries.

Tell me, have you ever exercised? No. Really. Because your thighs look like an industrial-size container of cottage cheese poured into a FunTime Aerobics Barbie outfit. It is not tight. It is too damn small. Your ratty old college T-shirt from the back of your closet needs to be thrown into the rag bag. PS: It don't come down far enough to cover up your size 3X cameltoe.

After I run a quick mental catalog of her many sins, fashion and otherwise, I snap back to reality in time to hear her say again "It's not my problem."

"I'm sorry?" I'm thinking I must have heard an echo, a bird, a cash register or a tweeting telephone - or possibly the sound of pounds dropping in sheer sexual frustration. Anything but this utter nonsense. And she sets her triple chins hard out against her chest and assumes the look. The look that says "I read self-help books at night. Step 9. Be firm. Step 10. Repeat your request. Step 11. Escalate up the chain of command."

"It's not my problem that what you sold me was not what was advertised. I don't think I should have to pay extra to replace it." See. Right there. You're thinking. That's a problem.

"Ma'am. We're not asking you to pay extra to replace it. You are getting an entirely different product. You are getting a larger airbed. I can't give you a queen airbed for the price of a single."

"Yes you are. I want a manager." No. You want Brad Pitt to drop Maddox off at the daycare, charter a plane and come over and do the thing with a hair dryer on your bed just like he did with Geena Davis in "Thelma & Louise." And BTW Brad, can you do the rest of the things you did with Thelma too ... maybe two or three times?

AND THEY LET HER DO IT. SHE GOT THE QUEEN AIRBED. JUST BECAUSE THE COLOR ON THE BOX WAS DIFFERENT.

I looked at the airbed in the box that she returned. There was no defect. What was advertised was exactly what was in the box. It was just not the color that was on the outside of the box. And this creature got a queen-size airbed for the price of a single.

Just for being a witch. I hope she gets a bad back from sleeping on the floor.

Let that be a lesson. You can act a fool up in the Wal-Mart. And you'll be rewarded.

Attention K-Mart shoppers

Look beyotch. This is not the K-Mart ... where you USED to work. This is the Wal-Mart. Where I work. Where we at RIGHT NOW. Where you are RETURNING STUFF. Where I reign supreme with the power of life and death over your measly $3.42 that you did not even notice when you paid for the frelling shorts eight days ago. If you want that $3.42 so bad - go back to K-Mart and lick Martha Stewart's prison-stained feet for half an hour. Because you know, K-Mart is at the top of the retail food chain ....

So this is how it rolled out. It's a Sunday night - which is predictable only in that it is singularly unpredictable. About 9:30 p.m. - which seems to be about the time the white trash emerges from their beer, Pringles and Cheeto stupor - this pair of 300-pound land whales clomps up to my register. The wife has to lean on the counter the whole time. The husband is so out of breath from the trip in from the parking lot he collapses on the chairs at the hiring computer.

Land Whale flings down a couple of shopping bags, exhales and goes "Iwannareturndese." OK. Whatever. Orange board shorts are a step up from your cutoffs and faded NASCAR-wear with a scissor-cut in the neckline to accommodate your tremendous triple-D "assets."

I ask for a receipt - and shockingly she says she's got one. I can see it in her hand - only she won't let me have it.

Sometimes it is the WOACA's who have issues (they like to "help" me by finding the merchandise for themselves - control issues) but usually the white trash are too lazy.

The land whale is having issues though because she can't find the shorts on the receipt. Finally I'm like "Ma'am. Let me. It's what I do." That's not good enough for her. "Naw. I just seen dem." Fine. Sit there and gnash all three teeth in your head together. Keep looking. I'm doing everything I can to keep from gazing into the valley of death between your gigantic knockers that you have flung out on my counter like two sacks of flour. Help me Jesus. At least they're tanned. Really lady. The fact that you don't have a tan line in that area seriously disturbs me. I mean ... the implications of that is major MONDO disturbing ....

She still can't find them. And there were only 20 items on that receipt. I reach in and get a hand on the receipt. "Ma'am. Please." She begrudgingly lets it go. Seriously. It was like I was taking candy away from her or something. Can you imagine if I WAS taking some Cheetos away or something?

I find the items and circle the UPC and put the date. She is watching me like a hawk. Old ladies could take lessons from her. After I find the second item she blows up. "WHAT!"

WHALE: "Why'd you mark that'un?"
ME: "That's one of the pairs of shorts you are returning."
WHALE: "No it ain't"
ME: "Um, these are the shorts. Look. This is the UPC number on the receipt. This is the barcode number on the shorts."
WHALE: "I worked at K-Mart. I know 'bout barcodes. That price sticker say $10.00. I paid $13.42."
WHALE continues: "Well, dat's why I couldn find it. I wuz lookin fer $10 and de price wuz wrong."
ME: "Well, it looks like there was just a mistake with a price change not going through. You will get back everything you paid."
WHALE: "Das not the prollem. I paid for two pair o' shorts and they was both $10. You gots to give me the money back on that udder pair."
ME: "Do you have the other pair of shorts with you?"
WHALE: "No."
WHALE: "Baby, how much wuz dat pair o' shorts I bought fer you? Wuzn't it $10?"
ME: Checks price of other pair of shorts. Still $13.42. "Well, I can't give you money back. I don't know how much that other pair was supposed to be."
WHALE: "Why not? I just tole you it was $1o."
ME: "You telling me the other pair was supposed to be $10. I'm showing they are still ringing up at $13.42."
WHALE: "That's not right. When I worked at K-Mart we believes our customers."
ME: "Ma'am. I'm not saying anything about you being dishonest. What I'm saying is that I can't give you money back on a pair of shorts you didn't even notice you paid too much for eight days after you paid for them!"
WHALE: "I don't like this. I worked at K-Mart and it wuzn't like dis."
ME: "Ma'am. I'll give you the money back if you go get me the same pair of shorts as are on this receipt and they have a SALE sticker on them."
WHALE: "Why ain't you believe me?"
ME: "Ma'am, when you worked for K-Mart, did you give people $4 of K-Mart's money every time they asked for it?" I just could not hold it in. She was just stupid. And if she mentioned that she worked for K-Mart one more time ....

She shuts up real quick. And yes, she did come back about a half-hour later with the same pair of shorts. With a $10 sticker - that did not look like it had been stuck on for something else. So I gave her the $3.42 plus the $3 for an item being scanned incorrectly. See, it pays to be nice to me sometimes.

Stupid cow. She probably waddled over to the McDonald's and spend the $7.42$6.42 on three Big Macs, two large fries and a large Diet Coke, because, you know, she's got to cut back somewhere!

CLARIFICATION: Because there seems to be confusion over this - and because my math skills are lacking when there is not a register to add & subtract for me.

Cow-cow was arguing about the $3.42 difference between the $13.42 price on receipt - which the pants rung up at - and the $10.00 SALE tag. She only wanted the $3.42 back. I also used the PRICE OVERRIDE REASON 1 code on the register to give her the additional $3 back for when an item rings up wrong. The REASON 1 sends a message to the department manager to go check the price of all the shorts with that UPC because there is obviously a problem if you have a $10 SALE sticker on the tag but they're still ringing up at $13.42.

Just to be clear. She only wanted $3.42 back. I gave her the other $3 back because that is what we are supposed to do.

What kinda beer yo' momma want?

Some day, I'm going to win. Some days, the white trash is going to win. Some days, I just shouldn't get out of bed at all. Some days, I really should have a Web cam.

I had a dead ringer for Jessica Simpson stroll up to my counter Sunday night. This girl ... blonde - although I'm pretty sure it came from a bottle - legs that went on for days and that ended in actual, real, live cowgirl boots. The blue-jean shorts were a little too short (and tight) for good taste - but hey, it's only the Wal-Mart.

The real killer was the too-tight (and way, way too worn out) Budweiser T-shirt tied into a knot under her generous ... ummm ... "assets." I just know this girl was like Miss Swamp Cabbage or Miss Hometown Chevrolet at some point or something. She just had that country beauty queen look.

And the country boyfriend. Dirty white work pants splattered with paint. God, I hope it was brown paint. I really don't want to know what else it might have been. He had on a Bud Light T-shirt. I guess no one drinks Old Milwaukee anymore. And about six teeth in his head.

She's got a bag full of cleaning supplies and some story about how her momma got evicted from her trailer and how her new trailer doesn't have a tile floor or a glass top stove and now she doesn't need all this stuff. Shockingly, she actually does have a receipt.

I start trying to find all the stuff on the receipt. The boyfriend is whining about how long it is taking. He's pulling on her and is like "Baby, we got to get movin'. We got to get us some beer and get over to yo momma's for the barbecue. What kinda beer yo' momma want?" Maybe he just needed a fix. He was kind of edgy.

I'm looking for the stuff on the receipt, and I hear her tell him, "Baby, why don't you go get me some smokes?" He leaves for Register 15, and she yanks another small bag out of her purse. "Can you return this real quick? I didn't want anyone else to see."

Yes. Condoms.

"Is there anything wrong with them ma'am?"

"Naw. We don't need them no more. We decided we's gonna have us a baby."

The gene pool really needs a better filter.

Diapers for Martina

Wal-Mart. 7:15 a.m. I'm sick and weak from a bout of food poisoning, but I drag myself in to work anyway. I don't last long, but the adventures are many.

The 7 a.m. hour is always interesting. There's the brave few who are trying to "beat the rush" of Saturday shoppers. There's the stragglers who are obviously on the morning after the night before. There's would-be scammers who try to hit eleven Wal-Marts in one day. Then, there's the baby-daddies probably trying to get out of the house while Mommy cooks up a new batch of meth in the tub. Uh-huh. Got to pay that rent.

So this guy, who could have doubled for Justin Timberlake in "Alpha Dog" - prison tattoos and all - comes up to Register 14. He's got one baby in a car seat in the cart and another toddler standing in the cart.

He's dressed in a grimy wife-beater with cigarette burn holes all over it, a pair of dirty gray sweat pants and some beat-up high-tops that look like somebody mowed the lawn in them. The kids are dressed in hand-me-downs, but at least clean ones and look to be reasonably well-fed and cared for. Except for the fact that the toddler standing up in the cart is pestering him for some candy, they are reasonably well-behaved for howler monkeys.

I watch all the action from the Service Desk.

He keeps trying to swipe an EBT (Electronic Benefits Transfer - the new name for Food Stamps) card and is obviously not happy with the results. He starts berating the cashier, who correctly tells him that she's not the one responsible for him not having enough money in his account to cover the purchase of diapers and formula. If he doesn't have enough money, he doesn't have enough money.

For those not in the know, some people get both cash & food EBT benefits. The EBT FOOD can only be spent on government-designated food items. The EBT CASH can be spent on anything -- and can even be received as a debit cash back. I once had a woman buy four packs of gum in four individual transactions and use EBT CASH on all four and walk away from my register with $400 of taxpayer money.

The situation at Register 14 escalates, and a supervisor gets involved. The transaction gets suspended and brought over to my register. (Why do people always assume it is the REGISTER'S fault?) I take his EBT card and lo and behold, this lovely tattooed gentleman goes by the name of Martina.

Which is a no-no. Retailers who accept government payments such as WIC and EBT are supposed to verify that the name on the payment instrument (EBT card, WIC check) is who they say they are. But he obviously can't use it, so I'm not about to start a fight at 7:15 a.m. when I feel like someone took a blender to my stomach.

I ask him if he has EBT cash & EBT food benefits. He says yes. I ask him if he knows how much. "Plenty."

Wonderful. "Plenty" is now a number.

"Well sir, it's not going through. Do you have any other way to pay?"

And now he gets hostile with me. "If I had any other damn way to pay, I wouldn't be f****** standing here, now would I?"

"OK. Then you need to call the EBT number and check your balance. Because it's not like we DON'T WANT TO SELL YOU MERCHANDISE. You can use our phone or the pay phone in the corner." And for the record, yes, I was just as snarky. He was prison-hot, but a bit of a-hole.

Customer Service is deserted, so I hear him pressing buttons on the pay phone to get his balance. Then he slams the phone down. And starts hitting buttons really hard and angry like.

This was his end of the conversation that followed:

*I know you're there. Pick up the phone.*
*Did you go to the store yesterday?*
*What did you buy all that stuff for? I can't get the boys no diapers.*
*Well I ain't got no money.*
*Well what am I supposed to do?*
*Fine. You can have them then.*
**SLAMS PHONE DOWN, mutters an expletive**

Exit Grocery Door Stage Right.

Rebel yell

I'm tired and I'm sick, so I'm not going to write a novella today. Instead I'll leave you to ponder this thought.

Who goes out in public in matching mother-daughter outfits of cut-up-to-here ragged cut-off blue jean shorts and Confederate flag tie-dyed T-shirts that say - in very prominent letters - REBEL B*TCH - right across the stomach? And yes, it was the full word for a female dog - in letters two inches high.

When did American taste go right past the gutter and take the first handbasket on the expressway bound for hell?

And it wasn't like these two were going to be a catch for any man. The mother looked like a body double for that old woman in "There's Something About Mary" -- but with more wrinkles and fewer special effects. Think crocodile after ten years of an African drought. The daughter was an elephant trying to fool everyone into thinking she was a gazelle. Muffin top, thou art no woman's friend.

I'm all for freedom of expression, but I'm still just not quite sure of the taste level there. But hey, it's just the Wal-Mart.

What were they returning you ask? A car sun visor - too small for their Ford F150.