The Spencer's Chronicles 2: Laser Lights, Tiger Blood, and Salvia

First, I apologize for not writing for a little while. I got caught up in working on that article for Cracked four days ago, and I just realized it was Tuesday. Also, who's Sapphire, and why is her name tattooed on my ass?

Anyway, I was working at Spencer's the other day when my friend Wes and I noticed something rather peculiar: one of the laser lights has a warning on it not to look directly into the laser... but that's not the weird part. It's the placement. Let me show you a picture I took of the warning label:

Warning: Do not look directly into the-- AAAHH! MY RETINAS!!

I can't tell if the person who decided on this location for the label was playing a sick joke or assumed that people would enough sense to not look at the front of the laser device when the lasers are on. But, if that was the case, why put the warning there at all?

Saturday was also the day that our supply of tiger blood energy potions expired. I'm sure you all remember the Charlie Sheen debacle-- right? Well energy drink companies decided to cash in on that by making tiger blood energy drinks, and putting them in IV-pouch shaped containers.

                                                   via candyhero.com

To be perfectly honest, I prefer the Adonis DNA.

So, Wes did what he always does when things like that expire: taste it and dump the rest down the break room toilet  when he confirms that it tastes horrible. The only problem about doing that with this particular product was the effect it had on the toilet: the appearance that someone had explosive, bloody diarrhea  and forgot to flush.

It stained the toilet for three days.

Shortly thereafter, the phone rang and another guy who works there, Chris, answered. from what he told Wes and I later, the conversation went like this:

Caller: Do you sell salvia?

Chris: Salvia? Is that some sort of clothing line or something?

Caller: No. It's a plant. You smoke it.

Chris: No. We don't sell that here. *Abrupt hangup*

Afterward, when the three of us were talking about it (and done making fun of Chris for not knowing what salvia was) we were unanimously stumped as to why someone would think they could buy it at Spencer's.

Pictured: Definitely not clothing.

And now I must bid you adieu, for the sun is coming up, and if I don't retreat to my cavern, I will burst into a ball of flame. Or the sun will damage my retinas or something. God knows that laser damaged them enough.

Writing is Hard. Not Writing is Harder.

Ladies and gentlemen, this may surprise you, but I am a writer. I know, I know. You were under the impression that I just beamed my thoughts straight from my head to the computer, but unfortunately, I write them down. I compose them into tangible and logical trains of thought, with sentence structure, nouns, verbs, and adjectives. Sometimes I throw in the occasional semi-colon; sometimes I don't. Nonetheless, I am a writer, and I hope you can forgive me.

Today, I lounged around the house with one purpose in mind: churning out an article for cracked.com. This often leads to a lot of stress. The editors for Cracked push their writers and can be quite picky. This is a good thing, since it ensures that the content they publish is always of the highest quality. It may prove to also be a bad thing though because after so much banging my head against the wall, I'll either have to shell out a lot of money to repair my walls or induce severe cerebral hemorrhaging.

                                                                               via wall designs.net

And the cost of repairs to my walls will be extensive.

Despite all of that, writing for Cracked is a pleasure. It's one of the most friendly environments for a writer to learn in, and I learn every day. If you submit your work to a writing journal or magazine, you could wait three to six months just to receive a fill in the blank rejection notice. At Cracked, you receive personal feedback from the editors on a weekly basis. Sometimes more often. Plus, rather than be sodomized when submitting work to writing journals,  the Cracked editors only verbally sodomize you. (David Wong, please don't vaporize me for that joke He can do that you know. With his mind). In all seriousness though, the editors are fantastic. And comedy wizards. My fellow writers are the nicest people in the world. And everyone in the community wants everyone else to succeed.

A wise writer once told me "You've got to cut yourself open and bleed on the page. That will give your words power." I tried this once, but I couldn't tell how powerful my words were. It was hard to read through all of the blood. Did I not say the right chant to Sithis or something? But he was right. Sometimes the words just pour out of you like blood from an open wound, or to be less morbid, like water from a river. Other day's there's a drought, or you have a clotting problem (You should really see a doctor about that. It's nasty business).

Earlier today, the words just kept coming. I was a finely-tuned writing machine. I punched those words out of my head like Liu Kang punches hearts out of his enemies.

 

                                                            via GamingBolt.com

Pictured: The writing process.

But then, when I sat down to work on my blog, the words stopped coming. I'm having trouble formulating this very sentence. Seriously, I revised that sentence three times. If I didn't flapjack, revise my sentence bacon, they would be almost water-buffalo to understand. I'm going to stop now before I hurt somebody with the wildly irresponsible way I'm flinging these words around. Someone could put an eye out is what I'm saying.

Let me close by saying what you've already read in the title: writing is hard, but not writing is harder. It's one of the only things that make my life worth living. The sense of fulfillment I get when I complete something... not to mention when someone actually likes it... That feeling is indescribable. And I hope you can all feel it someday- in whatever it is that gives you purpose. Find that something and strive toward it. Punch hearts out of people's chests-- figuratively of course, and never lose sight of what you love and the people who helped you along the way.

And just one last thing: a tip for the aspiring writers out there. Caffeine is your friend.

                                                                               via msn.com

The nectar of the Gods.

The Spencer's Chronicles: Lying About Dildos

For those of you who don't already know, I work at Spencer's. In my opinion, it's the coolest part-time job ever, and the only one that involves selling both penis-shaped lollipops and a remote controlled helicopter shaped like the word "fuck."

                                        via Spencersonline.com

Do I look like I give a flying fuck?

But there is something about my workplace that perplexes me. We have an entire section devoted to the more promiscuous part of human nature: sex toys, lubes, and other things that I'm not even certain on the usage of. I don't have a problem with this because people have to buy it somewhere. Why not Spencer's? But the thing that gets me is: why do they have to be so goddamn embarrassed about it?

Let me give you an example. The vibrators that we sell are battery operated. Because of this, we're supposed to ask someone who buys one if they want to buy batteries too. The most common response to this question is: "No thanks. It's not for me."

First of all, it's for you.

Second, I don't care if it's for you or not. Everyone who walks into the store knows that we sell them and isn't going to be surprised to see someone buying one. They aren't going to give you the evil eye as you shamefully shuffle past them and back out into the mall. Hell, they probably aren't even looking at you in the first place.

And third (but I believe most important), even if it isn't for you (and it is) doesn't it seem like a dick move to buy something for someone that requires batteries and not get them batteries too? I remember being ten years old and getting a remote-controlled car for my birthday without batteries. I had a special name for the people who did this to me: assholes. And I was ten. I think, no hope, that the person (you) that you're buying this vibrator for (again, you) is older than ten, and if they are, they'll probably think you're an asshole for not shelling out an extra 2 bucks for some AA's.

                                                    via Spencersonline.com

Where the flying fuck are my batteries?!?

One time, I was ringing a woman up who was purchasing one of the objects in question, and the second I scanned the bar code, she swept it off the counter into another one of her bags. There wasn't even anyone else in the store, so I don't know who she was trying to hide it from or why it needed to be done quicker than it would take me to reach under the counter and grab a bag. Does the Spencer's logo carry that much social stigma that people who pass her in the mall and see the bag will whisper in disgust? Was she embarrassed by the mere fact that it was laying on the counter, in plain view? If that's the case, there's an entire rack of clitoral massagers on the counter. She's not embarrassed that those are right there? Sure, she's not buying them, but no one's even looking, remember?

Even more baffling is the woman who denied that she was trying to buy a vibrator. I told her "that particular vibrator needs batteries, would you like a pack of those as well?" and she said "Vibrator? I didn't know this was a vibrator." She promptly returned it to its shelf and left the store.

                                       via Spencersonline.com

Vibrator!?! I thought this was a back scratcher!

Let's be clear here. This wasn't an innocent misunderstanding. She knew it was a vibrator. That box has the phrase "g-spot vibe" on every face, plus an image of the vibrator:

                                        via Spencersonline.com

The only conclusion that I can come to is that my mere mention of the word "vibrator" embarrassed her so much that she just had to get out of there. Immediately.

But the strangest vibrator-related thing I've had to deal with at Spencer's is the time a woman asked me what vibrators were best. Because I've obviously tried every one of them at least once and can give in-depth reviews about their individual performance. Seriously girls, why would you ever ask a guy that question? More importantly, what kind of answer are you expecting?