Hmm, a problem buying bras at JC Penney’s? I ran into a problem buying bras there yesterday. I found some priced at 2 for $24, or 1 for $14.99. However, prominently displayed throughout the department, including on the rack I shopped from, there were signs which said all bras were buy two, get one free (excepting sale priced bras.) I decided to buy six, under the impression that two of them would be free. However, at the register they all rang up for twelve dollars apiece. I called a manager and asked to be allowed to pay $14.99 for four of
them, but she said that the register would not allow her to do that.
I’m still not sure whether I was right or wrong about what the price should have been, but I e-mailed Penney’s about it anyway (politely). If nothing else, I think the way the signs were set up was misleading.
Oh, oh! Something really icky happened this morning. It’s my birthday, you see, and I was on my way to work. (Yes, that’s icky, but it gets worse.) The DJ on the radio was doing the local birthday announcements, and I was listening to hear if there’s anyone else I know who has the same birthday. I was very surprised when I heard him announce my name…or at least, what my name was before I got married. I thought it over carefully, but I can’t think of anyone who knows my birthday that would call me by the old name, except…my ex-husband. Ew! Ew! Ew! Bastard.
[quote=Nava]
I hereby rant on the Spanish Minister of the Interior, who has recently declared that ETA’s extortion letters to business owners or high-level workers do not exist.[/quote
For my rant I’d like to bash Trader Joe’s stores. Why the fuck can’t you keep your suppliers in shape so that you don’t run out of Carnitas or Almond thin biscuits or whatever for several weeks at a time?
Dear Lord. Take a gander at the response I just received from the store manager.
Where to begin? I’m speechless. I don’t care much about the original issue, but the fact that JC Penney’s allows themselves to be represented by monkeys with keyboards has me stunned.
Speaking of trying to buy sale bras, I wasn’t allowed to get the sale price on bras at some department store in the U.S. because I was visiting from Canada. See, it’s a mail-in rebate thing, and, well, it just got complicated from there. I suspect a monkey with a keyboard may have been involved in that policy now.
Gawd ain’t that the truth? I tried hard to give them a thousand dollars for some blinds a few months back, yet their salesperson was too stupid to navigate throught their intranet. I ended up behind her computer after watching her “submit” time after time after time and not understanding that she was cancelling them out with all her pecking. Fool woman.
When I emailed my displeasure “surely you’d like to have my thousand dollars, right?” they couldn’t care less and were adamant regarding my not deserving a discount due to poor service.
I’ve not purchased anything from them since, cancelled my credit card after telling them I’d not give them another dime and have told anyone who’ll listen that Penneys sucks.
I can be reasonably sure that when someone around the up-town part of my town drives like a dipsticked, slackjawed, crosseyed twat, that they will have a Not of This World sticker somewhere on their cockmobile. Usually on their rear window. I hereby propose that these dumbshits instead use a mobile billboard fitting on their car roofs, thereby alarming all the rest of us, and especially ME that some zit-biter I’m about to cross paths with entrusts all of his safety to praise!!! JESUS, and not, you know, ACTUAL DRIVING SKILL.
All of you jamfuckers that sport that sticker need to be rounded up and removed. Those stickers don’t make you edgy and hip, or make us heathens think your particular brand of worship is cool enough to come running to join. It makes you look like you are the kind of person that thinks Debbie Boone is an acceptable substitute for Led Zeppelin, no matter how that acronym with its lower case letters and barbed wire theme might try in vain to belie that fact.
Someday, I will have enough insurance to go around pulling a Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes on each and every one of you that have cut me off, tailgated me, or (most often) drive 20 MPH under the posted speed limit on a two lane road with plenty of turnouts for you to get the hell out of my way when it is not safe to actually pass due to oncoming traffic.
I have so much hate. Maybe I should find Jesus?
Bah.
To: The lady two tables over from me in the restaurant where I got my lunch
Re: Your very long conversation featuring an agonizingly detailed play-by-play of a party you hosted, including notes on which cups were used more (styrofoam or ceramic), how your husband had trouble distinguishing your cutlery from the co-hosts (and how his similar mistake re: distinguishing the china was much less understandable), the fact that someone invited everyone inside for dessert before the cake was cut (and how you felt about it), and other points too mind-numbingly vacant to remember
For the love of all that is holy, please try to make your conversation more interesting.
I was praying for death by the time my lunch was ready. The only thing keeping me from gouging out my brain with a chopstick was the comfort in knowing that I was not truly the worst off person in the room: that would have to be your poor benighted companion. You are blessed to have a friend who would continue to sit across from you, and even to appear to be interested in your drivel.
I hate people who show such little consideration for their eavesdroppers. Happens more often than you’d think.
My doctor, for making me go from about three pots of coffee and a gallon of iced tea per day down to zero, thanks to an irregular heartbeat and chronic dehydration.
Really cute, really sweet, really interesting women who I exchange phone numbers with, talk to on the phone for a long time and who then suggest I come to their church for a first date.
I haven’t talked to the poor girl since. I can’t do it. She’ll never get a call back.
It’s one of those churches where they attract 20-somethings with edgy-sounding one-word names (REFUGE, or THE CENTRE, or in this case THE ROCK) and music videos and guitars and young, ridiculously overenergetic pastors doing their best Little Richard on Sunday afternoons. So I guess she figured it was a cool place to bring other 20-somethings to hang out. I could even understand inviting me to play pool at her church on Friday night. But she said we should meet up there on a Sunday. At a freaking sermon.
