RETAIL WAR JOURNAL

Still not gritty enough for the major studios? Hmm...or perhaps this war journal is simply TOO gritty.

If the commercials for 'Avatar' have shown me anything, it's that people love watching mind blowing, awesome near disasters. Perhaps a more 'modern war camera shaking while the heroes run towards the viewer' approach is necessary.


LETTERS FROM THE FRONT: Part 3


Dear...OH MY GOD! RUN!

I know you're reading this at home, but I don't care! RUN RUN RUN!!!

My God, they're coming at me from all sides! Lunging up and and down the aisles, crying, whining, and asking a never ending supply of ridiculous questions!

I do my best to race down the aisles safely, with return cart in hand, but with each aisle there's another parent thrusting their newborn children face first into oncoming traffic.

I narrowly avoid another stroller, and begin to wonder how 'intentionally' these strollers are being blindly thrusted forward. All I'm saying is that they DO sell life insurance policies for toddlers. It's a possibility.

Racing down the appropriate aisles, with the PA system blaring out automated orders, as enemy fire (and by fire, I again mean stupid questions) flies by my head, narrowly missing by inches. All I have to do to make it to my section is get around...a lady...

To say that her ass was huge, would not convey the orbiting monstrosity that laid before me. Sure enough, she was bending all the way over, and taking up enough space to fit two full grown men with her posterior alone. I crept, like a trooper crawling by barbed wire, knowing that even the slightest touch would be...awkward and weird, to say the least.

Barely making it by with my life, I nearly smack face first into a...person. A person of a...gender, of some sort, I suppose.

"How may I assist you...uh...misssssst..."

The 'thing' mercifully cuts me off. I hear them talk, but still have no clue what gender to associate with them. They're roughly 16-17, with black feathery hair, a slim figure, a high pitched voice, and a vaguely masculine face. My gut said 'guy', but their hands were the most feminine I've seen on a grown human being, male or female.

I quickly excuse myself, knowing that the slightest misspoken word could end with their emo friends (mix of men and women, so no help there) stomping the ever living sh*t out of me with their Hot Topic boots.

I can only pray that either way, that person never winds up in prison.

A bossy, yet friendly mom casually stops to ask me a question, and I gladly...I mean 'quickly' avert my eyes from her chest. The initial glance revealed that 'they' were not only huge and all but exposed to the world, but also covered in a giant, black 'bird-like' tattoo.

Did I mention that her large, 'biker' husband was about eight feet away?

They also had an adorable daughter in the cart, who was wearing...DAMN IT! Caught a glimpse of the mom's chest again, bad Max! It doesn't help that her tattoo makes it stand out even further, which was probably her intention, but at the same time I didn't think her Hells Angel husband would think the same way.

The buxom mom proves to be my savior, by asking if we have a product up in overstock.

"Oh! Overstock UP THERE? Ah, allow me to look UP THERE to see if there's anything..."

Barely avoiding a metal bat to the head (if 70's biker movies have taught me anything), I avoid a few more lunging strollers, and reach another mom, this time with a cheerful teenage daughter.

They ask a few questions about the fashion accessories, and all goes well, right up until I notice the daughter's stomach.

It's the same problem all over again, only this time with a twist. Despite being 13-14ish, I swear to God, that girl was pregnant. She was even doing the lifetime original movie thing, wearing about three layers and a flannel shirt, as if to cover it...but no, that round belly usually meant only one thing.

I stayed cool. Perhaps I was wrong. After all, everything else seemed to be normal...bizarrely normal. Did the mom not know? How the hell could she not know? If I was the girl's father, I sure the hell would have said something!

Or perhaps they didn't think much of it. I could just imagine...

"Okay honey, you can have the fashion design play set, but no more toys until after you have your illegitimate child, and we go on Springer. Then you can get the Barbie nail salon."

I feared for my life as never before, knowing that a single question or comment would be the end of me. All I needed was a distraction.

Ah! A man over here needs help, perhaps I can help this Hasidic Jewish man instead. He was obviously Hasidic/Orthodox Jewish in appearance, although that didn't mean...

"Oi, these prices are so high! How could they charge so much?"

Oh no.

"Are they any cheaper, discount items on sale?"

I bit my lip.

"These discount toys aren't crumby are they? I want to get a good deal on this."

Why must you test me, oh Lord?

Nearly collapsing from the encounter into uncontrollable (yet very guilty) fits of laughter, I mercifully got called away to the manager's office. The woman in HR showed me a paper that everyone had to sign.

It was entitled: BLOGGING AND SOCIAL NETWORKING POLICY

Oh no.

"You see, we need our employees to agree not to say or write anything on the internet..."

I've been made.

"...that might cast the company in a negative or embarrassing light."

I'm screwed.

"That also goes for comments that may cast the customers in a negative or embarrassing light."

Game over, man! GAME OVER!

"Just sign here."

With the best poker face I could muster, I took the pen, and signed my scrawl.

Lord protect us all...

(Squad Sgt Max went missing in action shortly before this letter was aired, although evidence suggests he suffered a vicious attack from a giant giraffe-like creature wearing a red shirt)