Service Industry Store Etiquette Directive: S.I.S.E.D

For those of you who don’t know, I work as a salesman at Staples. And I’m fed up with people who are complete morons. I’m going to get right to the point on this one, people need to learn that when you enter ANY store of ANY kind, it took a lot of work to get it nice and clean and organized. Since I’m giving everyone the benefit of the doubt and forcing myself to believe you people just have no clue, I’m going to write the Service Industry Store Etiquette Directive(c) or the S.I.S.E.D..

If you place an item down in any location other than the correct shelf space, I HAVE TO FIX IT. Yes folks, as stupefying as this little fact is, the store does not have little robots that speed around when you’re not looking to tidy things up. Staples is too cheap for that. I spend a good 2 and half of a 9 hour shift straightening shelves up and returning items back to their original location. I have better things to do than to play nanny to a bunch of adults. Act like you’re in somebody’s house and only touch what you plan on buying!

Leave ‘em or Leash ‘em. This is my policy regarding your little brats. Either leave them home, or keep them on leash. Contrary to popular belief, stores are not meant for children to play around in. The items on the shelf are also NOT meant for your little brats to play around with. Don’t apologize and walk away with the kid, apologize and fix the damn shelf. I definitely don’t get paid enough to babysit your kid.

I have a name tag, use it. Don’t call me guy, sport, tiger, buddy, and/or any other ‘cute’ nick name you have. Chances are I have much more colorful names I can give you.

I got my own life’s story and it’s just as boring. I’m a salesman, not a psychiatrist. I don’t care to hear that your boyfriend broke up with you, that you hate your wife/husband guts, how much money you don’t have, or that computers are evil. I really could not care less.

State what you need, not the obvious. I already know the reason why you’re in the section labeled Printers. And yes, I think you’re a retard for trying to “fix” your old printer. I also think you’re even more retarded for complaining to me.

I just work here. I didn’t make it, I didn’t buy it, and I sure as hell didn’t sell it to you. Don’t complain to me when whatever it is that you stupidly bought, breaks.  There’s a 1-800 number in the last page of the manual you threw away to call people who get paid to listen to your whining when it breaks, complaining to me is just going to make me think your even more retarded.

I don’t get paid enough to babysit adults. Look, when I say I’m helping someone else that’s not an invitation to get ‘one quick question’ in. ‘One quick question’ always turns into another quick question. Please, act mature and don’t fight over me. Countless times I’ve had to settle a verbal confrontation between grown men AND women. You’re making us teenagers look good when you do that.

My mommy and daddy told me to never talk to strangers. Jerk faces, I’m not going to give you a discount because you took the time to talk nice to me for two minutes. Unless it’s in our newspaper, I’m not giving anything to you for free. I’m not going to risk my job for a pack rat looking to save a couple bucks. Also, I’m not going to come to your house and fix your computer as a favor. 

Knowledge is power… and usually produces quicker, less painful shopping trips for both of us. Don’t come in my store looking for ink without either your model printer written down somewhere or your old cartridges. I’m not a mind reader; I can’t whip your printer cartridge out of my ass after you tell me you need ink for your printer. Odds are you’re not going to remember my four letter name when you leave the store, so don’t try and guess your four digit printer model number.

Ask me, and then argue with me? There’s a decent chance (100 percent) that I’m right and you’re wrong. By testing me to see how much I know, you only show just how much an incompetent person you are. If I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, I’ll let you know. Until then, I don’t need to argue with you, I know I’m right.

Your bad days make me laugh. It’s a sad, but true hysterical fact. When people come prancing in my store with fire in their eyes, behind the plastered smile stuck on my face, I’m snickering with girlish delight. Nothing makes me giggle more like a little school girl than a grown man/woman throwing a tantrum.