WARNING: THIS RANT MAY SOUND STUPID AND PETTY.
So I’m shopping for groceries yesterday and get all of my crap up to the checkout, the girl is running it through, rings up the total, and asks:
“You got a Preferred Customer Card?”
“Um, no.”
“That’ll be an obscene amount of money for what you bought.”
The store started this thing this week, and it appears to be an excuse for the store to jack up prices in order to catch people (Me) who don’t have a card and make them pay more. So I ask where I can get a card. The gum chewing girl of my dreams points to the customer service desk. I get an application.
Here is what they want to know about me:
Name, address, home and work telephone numbers, e-mail address, names of other family members, amount of money I make, and whether I own my own home.
WHAT THE FUCK? It’s like I’m applying for a damned credit card. I was pissed. Not angry. Not upset. Pissed. And not a normal pissed. This is a fart in the Volkswagen pissed. This is a failure to flush after taking the dump pissed. I filled it out and lied about everything but my name. The manager of the store used his card to scan my stuff until my card arrived at my home. Well, whoever lives at the address I picked out can have it.
Being me, I went home and dug out my old receipts for this store and compared them to my new “savings.” Prices on the items were the same as the “Specially Priced” items. Exactly. To the penny. So my card actually “saves” me nothing more than a shafting.
The “special” deal on soda brought the price down to the same price it was before they started this program. Ditto cheese, salsa, chips, bread, and milk. Fucking hoodlums.
It appears that if I don’t have a card I don’t deserve to get a good price on the things I buy. So let me say this, you fucks:
I will not shop in your fucking store. I won’t even piss on the sidewalk in front of it. This is the grocery store equivalent of a subway mugging. I despise this trend of “VIP” cards and everything that it represents. If I had the time I’d organize a protest in front of your fucking store and march and shout and day nasty shit until the customers were terrified to come into the parking lot, much less the store.
I don’t want you to know who I am, where I live, how much I make, or my phone number. I want you to sell me the things I need at the best possible price so that I shop with you instead of your competitor, though you’ve lost that battle for good.
I have no desire to be put on your fucking mailing list; I get enough junk mail already. I really don’t need you to call me at work to tell me that tomatoes are on special today. I certainly don’t need you jacking up the prices on the products you sell unless I give you personal information about myself.
If I knew who came up with this idea I’d kick him in the fucking nuts.