The Tale of the Unwanted Box of Gushers


After work Tuesday morning, I bought a box of gushers. When I opened the box to devour the little gem shaped goo sacks, I found bizarre scrawlings written all over the inside. As it turns out, they were journal entries, and I thought I would share them with you. Enjoy:


Day  1:

Dear Journal,

Hello! I am a box of Gushers fruit snacks, expiration date 11 Jun 2014, and today is the day that I finally moved up to the front of the line on the shelf. I’m really excited. After all, I have been waiting for this moment ever since I’ve had my insides stuffed inside me and my ends sealed with hot glue. That sounds painful but it’s actually quite nice- you feel whole afterwards. Anyway, I just know that any minute now a person (or possibly a younger person with the case of the “munchies” as I’ve heard it) will take me off the shelf, and carry me off to their homes where…

Actually, I don’t know what happens then. No one does. There are stories of course- some say that we spend the time before we expire relaxing with other items, doing whatever we want- standing there, lying down, falling over, you name it. Then, of course, there are the boxes of gushers that believe that we’re going to be tortured and possibly eaten by these giant people. These boxes hang out in the back of the shelf, sometimes behind other products like Fruit Roll Ups until a worker person finds them. Personally, I like to believe that I will spend my remaining time playing with the miniature people (children, as they’re called), seeing as though they are the ones who usually ask for us by name.

But whatever happens, I will find out soon! I’m at the front! I can see the floor for the first time since the brief glimpse I stole as I was being put on the shelf. That feels like such a long time ago now. But it doesn’t matter, I was made for whatever happens to me next! Oh, and look! A person is coming! I think this one is called a “man.” He has short hair, is larger than the “womans” I’ve seen, and is wearing nice looking clothes. I especially like the shiny black things on his feet and the piece of dark blue cloth that starts at his throat and hangs down in front of his chest. It looks fancy. I wonder if he’ll let me wear it.

He’s getting closer now. He’s pushing one of those carts, and it has quite a good amount of stuff in it already, but I see room for me! I’m standing up straight, making sure not to wobble, and my logo is clearly visible. There is no way he is going to miss me. He’s still walking towards me! Getting closer! Getting closer! He’s right in front of me!

He passed me up. He didn’t even notice that I was there. Maybe I did something wrong. Maybe my colors weren’t bright enough to get his attention. There is a tiny bit of space between me and the edge of the shelf; maybe I should’ve been forward a little more. I wish I knew what I did wrong. No. It’s OK. That was the first time a person walked by while I was in front. I cannot start beating myself up just because that man didn’t want me. Someone will, and pretty soon I will be taken home by that person, I can feel it in my pouches.

Gushers, Expiration date: 11 Jun 2014

Dear Journal,

I’ve been taken off the shelf! A very nice sounding woman snatched me up and tossed me lovingly into her cart. I like her- I think we’ll make a great pair. She’s older, has a fun round shape to her, and leans onto the cart as she walks, like she’s trying to get closer to us!

By “us” I mean the other products and myself. I guess you could call them my new friends. Or well most of them. At first, I tried hanging out with a bunch of colorful things in bags. They called themselves fruits, and since fruit is part of my name, I figured I belonged with them. I was wrong. They called me a lot of hurtful names like “fake” and “candy” and “nonperishable.”

“Why don’t you hang out with the other junk food,” the apples said in unison.

I was hurt, but obliged them, and I decided to talk to the other boxed items like me. There was tall box called Saltines, and a box that was closer to my shape named Hamburger Helper. They were much nicer to me. As was the blue plastic package called Oreo, who was put in the cart after me. I liked my new friends. We all shared storied about our time in the factory and on the shelf, as well as our theories on what happened to us next. Apparently, no one knows for sure, but every rumor I heard from the other Gushers were also told to them, so I wasn’t much help in solving that mystery.

After a while of our person wandering through the store, she grabbed a big white thing and set it down between me and Hamburger Helper. This new guy, who’s label said “Homogenized Milk” was the weirdest thing in the cart. He was easily the biggest thing in there, but he was also kind of squishy.

“I’m filled with liquid,” he explained.

“But then why are you so cold?” Hamburger Helper asked.

That was a good question. He was very cold, and after not too long he began to sweat.

“Why are you so moist?” I asked after I accidentally touched him. The water was quickly absorbed into my cardboard and the area started to swell. I fell away from him to prevent it from happening again.

“Well, shit,” he replied, “That’s just my condensation. It happens to all us cold stuff. Don’t worry though; it’s not dangerous and will evaporate again soon.

“Why are you even talking to those Nonperishables, Homogenized Milk?” the cucumber at the other end of the cart asked, “Their expiration dates aren’t this month. They’re not even next month. How can you trust something that lasts longer than two months?”

“Hey Cucumber,” Homogenized milk retorted, “You’re just a jar of vinegar away from being nonperishable yourself, so how about you fuck off.”

The cucumber didn’t say anything back, but instead started a heated conversation with a bunch of bananas.

“Don’t worry about those guys,” Homogenized reassured us, “They’re produce, and produce goes rotten real damn quick. You just have to ignore those fuckers.”

We all laughed with Homogenized milk, and pretty soon he had given us all nick names. I was “Gush”- which I liked- it sounded cool, Hamburger Helper was “HH,” Saltines didn’t seemed too pleased with “Cracker,” but he didn’t complain, and Oreo was given the nick name “Big O.”

Big O then said to Homogenized, “We should call you Homo!”

He liked the name and adopted it as his own, and finally our little group was complete. Well, that is until our person stopped the cart. I looked up at her. She was looking from a slip of paper to us and frowning. Then, without a single word, she picked me up and pulled me out of the cart. With a look of both disappointment and annoyance, she set me down on a nearby shelf and then returned to the cart and walked away.

“Homo! HH! Big O! Cracker! Help!” I cried, “She’s leaving me, she’s leaving me!”

“Gush!” they cried back. But it was no use. She turned the corner and they were gone, and I knew I was never going to see them again. I wanted to cry. I really did. How could my person do this to me? I wasn’t even on the right shelf. I was far, far away from where I was supposed to be. How was I supposed to get back? Why would she abandon me here of all places- behind a bunch of little boxes of Lotrimin Ultra, and under hanging Dr. Scholl’s inserts? Why did she even bother to get my hopes up if all she was going to do was to leave me somewhere else? Are people really this cruel? Will anyone pick me up if I’m here? I took a deep breath after asking myself that last question and said to myself, “hopefully they will, and hopefully it will be soon.”

Gush, Expiration date: 11 Jun 2014

"You think this is funny, don't you? WHY IS THIS A GAME TO YOU?!?!"

“Woe is my existance.”

Day 2

Dear Journal,

No one picked me up today. Most people barely noticed I was there. I don’t like it here. It’s cold. See, on the other side of the aisle there are shelves sitting in a cooler, and they are filled with bottles of different colored liquid. I’ve overheard them call themselves “Juices.” I wondered if they’re similar to Homo, and was thinking about asking them, but the memory of Homo and the others made me too depressed to speak.

Throughout the rest of the day, I took in my surroundings. I was on a very small shelf- much smaller than the one with all the other Gushers. Despite the fact that I was towards the back of the shelf, I could still see the floor over the packages of Lotrimin Ultra. Speaking of the Lotrimin Ultra, if you ever get a chance to talk to them, Journal, Don’t. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not mean like the produce, but they’re just really, really weird. Anytime a person passes, they feel compelled to talk about the person’s feet. They discuss which person’s feet would have the worst fungus, or which ones had unhealthy looking toenails. I seriously think they get off on it. When one of them finally said something to me, all it asked was, “Do you like feet?”

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly, “I’ve never seen them outside of those things they wear over top of them.”

Several Lotrimins moaned with pleasure, and I made a note to never mention naked feet ever again.

Somehow, the Dr. Scholl’s inserts above me were even worse, all they talk about is how much they want to be stepped on by particular customers. They call some customers “Flatfoot” which sounds like equal parts an insult and a sexy nickname when they say it, and whenever they do, I realize just how out of place I am on this shelf. I really don’t like it here, but I’m hoping that a worker person will pick me up soon and take me back to the self with all the other Gushers.

Honestly, I’m not huge on the idea; I’ve seen boxes come back before, and it’s always embarrassing, but the feeling of embarrassment cannot possibly compare to the feeling of loneliness and rejection from being stuck in a place you don’t belong. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be back over there. I guess we’ll see.

Gush, Expiration date: 11 Jun 2014

Day 7

Dear Journal,

Sorry I haven’t written over the past couple of days, but I was busy trying to figure out how to count the days. I had to guess with Day 2. Luckily for me (I guess) one of the Lotrimins told me that whenever the lights in the juice case come on, it’s the start of a new day. Once I was told that, I had to count backwards in order to figure out how many days it had been, and then find a way to record them. I decided to mark the day with a little line on the inside of my box. I have marked six since I’ve been here, so that means it’s day 7.

Crud, I’ve been here seven days and not a single worker person has bothered to pick me up. I know they see me; I’ve seen them look directly at me. But no, all they do is look at me and keep walking.  I always see the same few too. First there are two women. One is shorter and has red curly hair, and the other is a bit taller with much shorter hair that is always sticking up. They are the ones that usually add more Lotrimin and Dr. Scholl’s to the shelf, so I don’t understand why they haven’t taken me back yet. Then there are a series of people whom I mostly see the backs of, as they deal with the juice. I doubt any of them have even noticed me, despite the fact that I’m at least five inches taller than the backs of the Lotrimin boxes.

Then there is another person that only comes in around the time the Juice cooler lights go off and leaves around the time the lights come back on. This person has long hair, so originally, I was inclined to believe it was a woman. But judging by its voice and how its shaped more like a man, I’ve convinced myself that it is one. It (or, I guess “he”) is usually the one to put the juice on the shelf. He brings the cases out on a large, flat, wooded thing and usually sets it down right in front of me. Because of this, he seems to be the only one to really notice me. Granted, he only glanced at me the first few days, but with each new day, he notices me more and more. I was hoping that he would be the one to take me back, that is, until I heard him mutter, “not my damn problem” after looking at me yesterday. I had never heard those words before, but there was such a cold dismissal behind them that I couldn’t help but feel insulted. When I could, I caught a glimpse of his name tag. “Minigan” it read. Well, you’re a jerk, Minigan. I’m pretty sure that I am your problem, since you work here after all. It’s not like I’m demanding that you take me home with you, just back to the shelf. And that shouldn’t be too far for you because you have legs. Are you really that lazy?

I’m sorry Journal, I got carried away. I think it’s time I end it for the night. The lights in the cooler just went off, so Minigan should be here any time now.

Gush, Expiration date: 11 Jun 2014

Day 11

Dear Journal,

I’m still here, on the tiny shelf behind the Lotrimin Ultra. No one has bothered to pick me up yet. I’m beginning to think that most of the worker people are just trying to avoid me. They must think I have a disease or something. All they ever do is look at me and keep walking. At least that Minigan person has had the decency to give me a reason why he isn’t bothering to take me back to my rightful place. A couple of nights ago (apparently the time that the lights in the cooler are off are called “nights”), he once again saw me on the shelf, standing in roughly the same spot that I had been for the past 10. He chuckled to himself and said to me, “Someone still hasn’t taken you back to eight?!”

I couldn’t answer because I have no lips.

“Well,” he continued without me, “I would, but you’re in Aych Bee See’s department, so they should be the ones who fucking take you back. Plus, I’ve got a lot of damn juice to work.”

I wanted to be angry at him for leaving me there again, but that was the most honest a person has ever been to me. Plus, his use of the words “fuck” and “damn” reminded me of Homo, whom I missed dearly. I hope he was happy at his new home with Big O, Cracker, and HH. It was in that longing that I decided to give this Minigan person the nickname “Homo 2.”

Although they shared some of the same vocabulary, Homo and Homo 2 are widely different. Homo 2 has a tendency to talk to himself, and if he had black things in his ears, sing to himself. One night he spent at least a half an hour singing about a party in the Yu Essay. I don’t know what a Yu Essay is, but he must like partying in it a lot. Also, other than his snappy remarks at the produce, Homo seemed to be pretty peaceful. Not Homo 2. He throws cases of juice across the floor just so that he doesn’t have to carry them, and I’ve watched in horror as he tosses the single bottles up into the air and catch them before placing them on the shelf. It makes me glad that he wasn’t the one to put me on my old shelf. But even still, at least he noticed me, and seeing him come around means that I don’t feel so lonely.

Until tomorrow, maybe,

Gush, Expiration date: 11 Jun 2014

Day 16

Dear Journal,

I hate these worker people! All of them! Every. Last. One! Today, while I was sitting in the same stupid place I had been sitting since I was unceremoniously dropped off by that awful woman, one of those Aych Bee See workers that Homo 2 mentioned came by to restock the shelves, and do you know what she did? She pushed me out of her way! She just knocked me on my side and continued to work, as if I had no feelings at all! And then, when she was finally done, she left me laying here on my side! I can’t even see past the backs of the Lotrimin boxes now. That was all I had; the ability to see what was going on in the world beyond this tiny shelf, and now even that’s been taken from me. How do these awful think so positively of themselves.

And do you know what makes it even worse? Whenever that jerk Minigan (he lost the privilege to be called Homo) came in a little bit ago, he saw me laying on my side, laughed, and then took a picture with his phone. He’s getting some kind of demented amusement from seeing me here day after day. And know that it’s obvious that I’ve been moved, he’s getting an even bigger kick out of it. I swear I would give anything to be taken away from this shelf and never see that long haired “man” again.

An angry Gushers, Expiration date 11 June 2014, tolerance expiration date: Now

gushers 1

“Don’t just stand there grinning and taking pictures, set me back up Minigan!”

Day 17

Dear Journal,

I decided to focus my energy on socializing with the Lotrimins that I was lying behind today. I didn’t learn much, but I did learn that they absolutely hate a group of products called Tinactin. At first I didn’t know what Tinactin was, but then a customer walked by and a chorus of “Booms” came from somewhere along the shelf. One of the Lotrimins groaned and informed me that anytime I hear a “boom” it’s coming from a Tinactin product. Apparently they have a stupid spokesperson. At least that’s what Lotrimin, Expiration date May 21 2015, said.

Later in the day, Minigan showed up for work, pulling his “pallet” of juice behind him. When he saw me, he chuckled, said “still here” mostly to himself, and then stood me back up. That would have redeemed him if it wasn’t for him deciding to take another picture of me. He revels in my humiliation. After all, we’re all just objects to him. We have no feelings, no emotions, no hopes. We’re just things that he tosses around to amuse himself while he’s working. What a sociopath.

Gush, Expiration date: 11 Jun 2014

Day 18

Dear Journal,

I take back every negative thing I said about Minigan. He just picked me up and put me in his cart. He said that the only way I’ll move anywhere is if he goes ahead and buys me, so that’s what he’s gonna do! I’ll have a home today! He’s even picked up friends for me! They’re both bottles of oddly colored juice. One is black and calls itself Dr. Pepper, and the other is green and goes by the name Mtn Dew. It tells me that it’s pronounced “Mountain” not “Mit-in” like I was saying. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be happy with Minigan-

Wait… Oh, God. Minigan just said that it’s been a long time since he’s eaten Gushers. Eaten??? Those paranoid boxes of Gushers that hid behind the Fruit Roll Ups were right this whole time?! We are just food to these people!? This cannot be happening! Please let him change his mind, please! Someone needs to rescue me; he’s theorizing how long it take him to eat all of my six pouches.

Someone please help me!

Someone please help me!

“Not my pouches!” I tried saying to him, “Anything but my pouches! Please Minigan, please don’t eat me!”

But he didn’t hear me because I have no lips. As he marched me down an aisle, I called to the products on the shelves, “Help me!” but none of them reacted to my pleas.

“We’re food!” I shrieked, just trying to get their attention, “All we are is food to people!”

But not a single one of them responded, and my fate is sealed as Minigan wheels his cart into the lane of an open register.

Final entry of Gush, Expiration date: 11 Jun 2014, but it’s likely I’ll never reach that date.


Well, shit. That was kind of grim, wasn’t it? Sorry everybody.

Actually, knowing that Gushers are sentient beings and have human emotions makes them taste even better!

Actually, knowing that Gushers are sentient beings and have human emotions makes them taste even better!


The Most Tolerable Work Self-Evaluation Ever

A couple of weeks ago, I received my annual performance review from my job, and being the absent minded person that I am (most of my brain power at work is dedicated to imagining I’m anywhere but work) I forgot to turn it in. Being the persistent jerks that they are, they gave me another to fill out. So I did, and turned that one in, leaving me with an unused copy to do with what I like. And that is why we are here today. You cannot tell if you’re not in earshot of me, but I’m cackling manically right now. Lightning is even flashing across the sky- so you know this is going to be good.


If this isn't the face you’re imagining, then you aren't doing it right.

If this isn’t the face you’re imagining, then you aren’t doing it right.

Anyway, I absolutely hate these performance reviews, which I suspect are only used to get retail workers in a room with their boss so that the boss can tell them how shitty of a job they’re doing, and talk about the worker’s future in what is, in reality, a soul sucking dead end job. Basically, the worker fills out the form giving themselves a 1-5 for each category (5 being awesome, 1 being just below a rotting mushroom in usefulness, or “needs improvement” as they call it). Then, the worker has about a 1 inch by 4 inch rectangle to explain why they think they deserve the number they chose. Maybe a week or so later, the worker is sat down in an office with a manager, who filled out the same form for the worker with his/ her own opinions, and then “discusses” with the worker why the worker was wrong for choosing those numbers. Finally (at my job at least) the sum of the boss’s numbers is calculated, and if it’s above 20, the worker gets a higher raise.  Because of this, that usually means that I tend to low ball my scores so that my bosses have no choice but tell me I’m doing a better job than that, which is something I already know. Yes, I’m a manipulative prick, but it makes me feel better about myself, so don’t judge.

As you can tell from these last two paragraphs, I don’t take this process seriously at all. I may have the self-restraint of some kind of superhuman wombat or something while I write out my annual performance review, but all I want to do is make jokes. Because, at the very least, it will make reading my review more entertaining for my bosses and it will make writing it less of a chore for me.

Sure that superhuman wombat remark was a little out there, but if it wasn’t for that this picture wouldn’t exist. And I for one think this picture is too cute to not exist.

Sure that superhuman wombat remark was a little out there, but if it wasn’t for that this picture wouldn’t exist. And I for one think this picture is too cute to not exist.

So below is what I would have written if I had the creative freedom to say what I wanted and not get penalized by not getting a raise. And since that at the time of posting, my bosses had given me my review and my well deserved raise, I have no qualms of posting this to the internet. Prepare your buttholes, because this is about to go in dry:

Prompt 1: Understands and follows company standards on safety.

  • Follows safety and health rules
  • Takes ownership of spills and eliminates unsafe working conditions
  • Works safely with equipment
  • Wears personal protective equipment as required

Team Member Rating: 5

Reason: I make it a point to never bring vials of flesh eating bacteria into the store, despite the store being a convenient place to try and sell them (After all, super villains need to buy groceries too). I always take ownership of spills by planting my personal flag over the spills and treating any situation in which a person tries to clean up the spill or walk through the spill as an act of war. I like to think I work safely with the equipment, that is, if you consider me riding the power jack around the back room while wearing a tri-corner hat and screaming “I’m fucking Nipple-Leon Boner Fart!” working safely.  I think it should count, since I haven’t caused any injuries or loss of product yet this month. As for the personal protective equipment, I would wear them when I’m required to, but I’ve made it a personal rule to NEVER have sex with someone while at work, therefore I have no need to wear condoms. I’m not sure why you guys even allow that. Is it because you can watch on the security cameras, you dirty pervs?

Prompt 2: Understands and follows company standards on sanitation and cleanliness.

  • Follows food preparation/ storage/ return guidelines
  • Properly maintains cleanliness of equipment, tables, utensils and floor
  • Contributes to an organized work environment
  • Contributes to department/ store passing Steritech and health department inspections

Team Member Rating: 5

Reason: Well, I’ve never seen the “Food preparation/ storage/ return guidelines” of legend, but I do have a basic understanding of keeping cold stuff cold, warm stuff warm, and frozen stuff frozen, so I think I have a handle on that one. Thanks for indirectly asking if I’m retarded. I used to do a very thorough job of cleaning the tables, but the folks in Prep Foods demanded that I stopped washing them like I was a sexy coed washing a car, so I stopped washing them all together. Those ungrateful bastards can wash their own tables. I always contribute to an organized work environment. If there is anything that I take seriously at this job (there isn’t) it’s that. In fact, the work environment would even be more organized if you would just let me open all the M&M bags and reorganize them by color and then staple them back together like I wanted. That one’s on you guys. Way to drop the ball. As for the Steritech and health department inspections (I assume you don’t capitalize Health Department because you’re rebels against authority) I have made it a point to never release rats, cockroaches, or lice infested howler monkeys into the store whenever those inspections occur.

Prompt 3: Understands and follows company standards on shrink.

  • Helps control shrink by properly handling product, perishable go-backs and/ or damaged items
  • Adheres to trim standards and portion control
  • Avoids over-production of product or over-stocking shelves
  • Rotates product properly (FIFO)
  • Accurately prices/ scans merchandise
  • Accurately verifies items received in order
  • Conducts regular display case/ cooler temperature checks and/ or scale checks

Team Member Rating: 5

Now, I would have given myself a 4 for this, but your blatant use of the word “Fifo” is offensive to my people, the giants (it comes from “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum” from Jack and the Beanstalk, if you didn’t already know). I was deeply offended by your thoughtless and malicious use of that word, and I felt that my compensation should be a higher score. See, I am a quarter giant (it only shows in the one place it counts, ladies), and as I’m sure you know most of the Giant race were mercilessly slaughtered by your people centuries ago. To this day, we have not been able to get our population levels back up, and many of my species has resorted to inbreeding, which as you could guess, and resulted in some unfortunate genetic mutations, like “Screeching Uterus” and “Arm Pit Testicles.” I escaped that fate only because my human grandfather was really into some big boned women.

But as I said, if it wasn’t for that horrible slur you used, I would have given myself a 4 because while I do everything else perfectly ( I handle the shit out of product until that fucking shrink is no longer interested in it) I do have a problem with rotating. My problem is that I’m not sure to what orientation do you want me the product. How much do I rotate? 90 degrees? 180 degrees? 270 degrees? No one ever told me; I was just told to rotate and was left to stare at the product and figure it out like some idiot. Since everything fits on the shelves so perfectly, I assume that you didn’t mean along the x, y plane, but instead along the x, z plane, so I’ve been rotating all the product so that the labels face the shelf. It seems kind of dumb to me, but hey; it’s your rule, not mine.

No one ever said that I was going to have to know fucking geometry for this job.

No one ever said that I was going to have to know fucking geometry for this job.

As I said, I do everything else correctly (you refuse to let me price or scan merchandise, so I don’t do that perfectly as well), but I want to give another example just to drive that point home. I check the temperatures in display cases/ coolers by hiding various alcoholic drinks in them for me to retrieve and consume throughout my work day.

Prompt 4: Understands and follows customer service strategy.

  • Welcomes and acknowledges customer with a smile and/ or friendly greeting
  • Asks and fulfills customer’s needs
  • Goes the extra mile and gives customer full attention
  • Thanks and invites customer back
  • Diffuses situation when an unpleasant shopping experience occurs
  • Seeks out customer contact
  • Solves customer problems
  • Answers and uses telephone/ intercom professionally

Team Member Rating: 4

Reason: I think we all remember the situation I’m referencing when I say “The Troll Fight Incident,” but in case you forgot, here it is. One day back in March I was going about my business, rotating the cereal so that you only saw the backs of the boxes, when a troll wandered into the store. For those of you who are unaware, trolls are the natural enemies of giants, and we had been at war with them long before Hu-mons walked the earth. So naturally, I grunted at it menacingly to let in know that it had stepped into giant territory and that it should leave, but it ignored me. As standard practice of my people, I cried my war cry, and then hopped on its back and attempted to bludgeon its head with my club. Well, hilariously, it turns out that it wasn’t a troll at all, but instead a rather large Hungarian woman named Ivana Hurkelmonchiconk (that isn’t her real last name; I just slammed my fingers on the keyboard. It produces the same effect of having a Hungarian last name, so I’m sticking with it.) I’m sure she’s laughing about the mix up now just as much as I am. Maybe more because I bet those prescription pain killers she got are probably very strong.

Other than that, I tend to think that I treat customers very well. I never spit in their faces (despite how much I think they deserve it), and I always answer the phone and use the intercom professionally after I’m done whispering “hard nipples” into it. However, as I mentioned earlier, I have made it a personal rule to not have sex with anyone while at work, and that has always included customers. But when I look at this review, it dawns on me that I might be not following one of the store’s rules by not having sex with them. After all, this prompt does ask if I, “Fulfill customer’s needs,” “Go the extra mile and give customer full attention,” and “Seek out customer contact.” Clearly, you want me to perform the Spring Break Tumble with our customers, so I promise to start propositioning them at my first opportunity.

Prompt 5: Attendance and Punctuality

  • Reports to work for scheduled shifts
  • Comes to work on time
  • Follows break and lunch guidelines

Team Member Rating: 2

Reason: I come to work whenever the hell I feel like it, I take my breaks whenever the hell I feel like it, and I leave whenever the hell I feel like it. You like that I’m a rebel, don’t you, baby. That’s right, I’m bad news. Also, I have no clue what my schedule is like each week, because you guys have forgotten to put me on the schedule for the last two years. If you fix that, then I will know what time to come it (and I will promptly ignore it).

Prompt 6: Grooming and Apperance

  • Presents a professional appearance
  • Adheres to the dress code policy
  • Personal hygiene
  • Appropriate body language
  • Approachable
  • Has a positive attitude about his/ her job
  • Wears a name tag

Team Member Rating: 5

Have you fucking seen me? I’m glorious. Every time I enter the store, I am carried in by millions of butterflies as golden beams of light wash over me and celestial horns ring out a melody so heavenly, that even the angels fall to their knees and weep tears of exuberant joy. Instinctively, customers, coworkers, bosses, and security guards  bow to me and avert their gaze, knowing that the embodiment of perfection is before them, and that their puny, mortal, Hu-mon eyes could never register something so beautiful without catching on fire.

And since no one looks directly at me, go ahead and assume I’m properly dressed, and not at all naked 100% of the time.

Prompt 7: Job Knowledge and performance

  • Knows his/ her job responsibilities
  • Understands and follows department and company policies
  • Communicates well with others
  • Uses time wisely and effectively
  • Gets along well with fellow team members
  • Adapts well to change

Team Member Rating: 1

Reason: Let’s be honest, I have no clue what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing when I come in to work. I assume it’s to test the delicious, delicious food for poisons to protect the customers. I don’t have the slightest knowledge of the department or store’s policies, let alone understand them, I don’t communicate well with others (no one here speaks giant), I only use my time wisely and effectively if taking regular naps and poop breaks are wise and effective uses of my time, and I only get along with my fellow team members if they respect my glorious image and remember that are lowly Hu-mons deserving of my hatred. And as for change… Change? WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT CHANGE?!?!?! MINIGAN FEARS CHANGE!!! AAARRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!

OK, who mentioned the word “change” to Minigan again?

OK, who mentioned the word “change” to Minigan again?


Alright, that’s all for now. Peace be with you-violently.

Product Placement! (I Expect That My Check is in the Mail.)

If any of you have read my whole five paragraphs in my about section, you already know that many of my ideas for writing comes from my mind ranting at The Geagle. Most of the ideas that I come up with are genuinely bad, but I am able to rework them into pants-shittingly awesome ideas (see: The Adventures of SuperStocker.) Well, a coworker and I randomly got onto the subject of which brand would beat the shit out of its competitors in a fist fight. It slowly evolved from there to this strange, fascinating, and (in my typical fashion) offensive story. Naturally, I view you, nameless computer screen, as my best friend, and I would like to share the story with you.

Now, what you are about to read is part one in a ? part series that will probably make food companies orgasm at the free promotions. I will add another part  to the story over the course of whenever the fuck I feel like it. Oh, and in case you want to keep track, every word that is in bold is a brand name, or a product name. I only bold them on their first use in each part as to not confuse you with thick lines. You could use this as your shopping list, that is, if you need exactly what I write, and want to plagiarize me.

Enjoy bitches, and Enjoy, bitches.

Bob Evans and Jimmy Dean, two respectable, sought after suitors, live in the town of Chiquita. Surprisingly enough, Chiquita is not in a tropical location, but is a Podunk little town in the Midwest. Anyway, One day, Mama Michelina decided to have the two suitors battle it out for her daughters. (Normally, this type of feud over a woman was customary in 16th century Europe, but apparently it also happens in current day America. Don’t question it; just continue reading.) The winner of the fight between Bob Evans and Jimmy Dean would win Marie Calendar’s fine ass. The loser would have to settle for Marie’s sister, Shubert.

The fight begins at noon in the town square. The entire town of Chiquita shows up, and forms an impenetrable ring around the two men. With their swords drawn (they duel old school), the men start slashing, and gashing, thrashing, and flashing at each other. After several minutes of epic dueling that I don’t feel like describing to you, Bob Evans stood over his opponent, sweat dripping from his brow.

The referee ran over, lifted Bob Evans’ hand up and yelled, “The winna of the hand of Marie Calendar’s fine ass is Bob Evans!”

The crowd roared with overacted applause, and Jimmy Dean slunk back towards a tree and began to cry like a little bitch. Marie Calendar and her sister, Shubert, went over to congratulate Bob Evans when a yell came from behind.

“Marie Calendar is a whore,” the voice said in a saidy fashion, “And we’ve got a tape to prove it. Two new men entered the circle of town’s people. One was an older gentleman with thick classes, a bow tie, and white jerry curls, and the other was a gruff looking man, sporting a brown leather jacket, a red scarf and a 70’s porn stash.

The older man stepped forward, pointed to Marie Calendar and called out, “Hi, I’m Orville Redenbacher, and I layed a massive fudge log on that woman’s bare chest. And it was massive. My shit is twice the size of my competitors.”  “Pop Secret, Pop Secret,” he then coughed into his hands loud enough so that everyone could understand.

(note: I was totally going to make a “Poop Secret” joke here, but I did not want to patronize you with cheap poop jokes. No, I will patronize you with extravagant and complex ones.)

“He’s right,” the cheap Freddy Mercury look alike cried in a thick (and probably inaccurate) German accent, “I am ze Red Baron, and I bring to ze stupid American town of Chiquita a video from ze motherland of Deuchland.” He began to flail a VHS over his head.

“More like Doucheland,” a stupid American from the crowd called out. I would not normally call Americans stupid, except that we totally are, and these people did not know what a VHS was, and this story takes place in like the 90’s, so they totally should.

“Shut your filthy American mouth, you filthy American” the German said stupidly (because every nationality is stupid, not just Americans), “Or I will bring the Hagan Daaz Nazis to take over this town.”

The town’s people gasped in a predictable fashion and began to whisper amongst themselves.

“That’s right,” The red Baron warned, “The Hagan Daaz Nazis will be all over this town like Jiffy Peanut Butter on Schwebel’s bread.”

The gasps became more frantic, and the whispers now consisted of “Food reference” and “the fourth wall is broken”

“Hey,” Orville yelled as he snatched the movie out of the Red Baron’s boorish hands, “I’m Orville Redenbacher, and I want attention put on me again. I shat on that woman, and I shat on her good. I guarantee that I did or else my name is not Orville Redenbacher.” He put the VHS onto the VHS player and hit the play button on the TV that had been sitting in the center of the ring the entire time. What, you didn’t notice? Well, you were obviously not looking hard enough. It was right there. Also, I changed my mind. The town’s people did know what a VHS was.

“This Orville Redenbacher made people appear in the magical talking box. HE’S A WITCH, BURN HIM!!!” one town’s person cried, completely contradicting what I just said (what a douche). I guess it was too much to ask, though. This story is set in the mid 1700s.

Light piano music comes on, and the words Café Steamers (Marie Calendar gets pooed on) fills the screen. The movie then cuts to two men, one being Orville Redenbacher and the other being The Red Baron squatting over a nude Marie Calendar. Redenbacher squeezed out a foot long chocolate hotdog which landed in between the lady’s lady boobs. The tail end of it whipped back and slapped her in the face.

Now that I have burned that mental picture into your head, I shall continue.

The crowd gasped, held back screams and their own vomit, and that creepy Hispanic guy, Snyder Del Monte, began touching himself.

“Turn it off! Turn it off!” Bob Evans screamed, “I have seen more than enough.” “Marie,” He said, turning to her, “I cannot love anyone who was in a German Schiza video with Orville Redenbacher. And I refuse to marry you.”

Jimmy Dean, who apparently stopped sobbing like a little bitch Stepped forward and said, “Marie, I love you for who you are, not what you’ve done, and If you are willing to marry a loser, I would be happy to be that loser.”

“Oh, Jimmy!” Marie cried as she ran through the center of the circle (the TV and VHS player disappeared let’s just say to keep the plot moving). When they met, they met with a passionate kiss. Even though Jimmy Dean was disappointed that he was not going to be the first one to pop Marie’s cherry, he hadn’t gotten laid in a while, and he was up for anything (and I mean anything).

They were married, in the St. Ives Baptist church- the only church left in town that did not refuse to allow the shit whore Marie Calendar inside. One day, the happy couple welcomed a son onto this planet. Sadly, he was mentally retarded, so they named him what every good parent would name their mentally challenged child: Special K.

End of Part One.

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