@Superfluously
Name: Superfluously
Web: Burlaphead the Stronger
Bio: As cute as abortin’!

My favorite tweets:

Oh, no way! This stand-up comedian is wearing the same sadness I am!

Just caught a glimpse of myself with my shirt tucked into my boxers. I have never felt like more of a threat to society.

I’m not allowed to screenings of my childhood home videos because everybody hates spoilers.

The best cups of coffee come with a change of underwear.

You say, “Busted sink that fires water in all directions.” I say “Advanced future sink that washes multiple dishes at once. And the window.”

Man, that contrarian I just ate did NOT agree with me.

Poop jokes? Self-deprication? An avatar that says “Yeah, I’m up for the lead in the Beakman’s World movie, what of it?” He makes me laugh on the regs and I’m not just saying that because he paid me to.

Leave a comment with your twitter handle and who your favorite follows are, then stay tuned for my next pick.

It seems to be a common assumption that retail girls are easy. I can neither confirm nor deny this. However, we do get hit on. Quite a bit. Now, I don’t pretend that it is because I am beautiful. I am, in fact, quite average looking. I think it’s more about having a girl be nice to you for a period of time (I guess about one to two minutes, average, per transaction). Here’s a hint: While she may actually like you, be interested in what you are saying, or think that the jokes you tell *are* that hilarious, the girl ringing up your purchases is also paid to be pleasant and somewhat charming. Hate to burst your bubble, buddy, but the girl on the phone sex line isn’t *really* getting off, either. I’ve been here *and* there, and I know from whence I speak. But, I digress. On to the stories…

I had a customer about a year ago who was a law enforcement officer. He made sure to tell me this each time we met, as if I might forget but it was important that I not. He was nice enough and not bad looking but came on really strong with the “coptalk” and I wasn’t particularly interested. Besides, who wants to date someone who could REALLY fuck you over, should the relationship go sideways? Anyway, he started coming in more frequently and I, being completely over it, would see him shopping around and find some shelves to straighten or other things to do, so that I wouldn’t have to ring him up. He would hover around, pretending to look at things and waiting for me to be somewhere near my register, and then pull this whole, “Oh, hello! Are you open?” Ugh. Finally, he got up the nerve to ask me out. He was going to some New Year’s Eve party and said I should “Come along and we could have some fun.” It was really sleazy and had this awful “winkwinknudgenudge” feel that gave me a shiver. Listen, when you are a single girl, New Year’s is bad enough WITHOUT being on a terrible date, come midnight. I politely declined and he went on his way. Just two days later, he came back in. With his wife. And his baby. I only wish I were kidding. I also only wish he didn’t still show up every six months or so, asking me if I want to “hook up”.

I had another customer who was a waiter at a restaurant just down the street from the store where I was working. He would come in every few days on his way to work and pick up a few things. I then noticed that he was coming in more frequently, and buying less. I thought to myself, “Couldn’t you get a pop for free at your restaurant? Why are you coming in daily and getting just one?” Duh. One day, while digging up enough change for a 20 oz (sexy!), he blurted out, “If I gave you my phone number, would you call me?” Damn. I gave him a “maybe” and told him that I was just out of something and not ready to date yet, but he just shoved his phone number scribbled on an old receipt (from my store, natch) in my hand and was off. No big deal, right? I wish.

The next day he came in again, and asked, “Why didn’t you call me?” in an unmistakably disturbed tone. “Uh, I don’t know?” was my answer. Then he mentioned that he saw me walking to work sometimes (true), and that it wasn’t really safe for me to walk in that neighborhood, alone. Creepy! I said I would be careful, and again he was gone. I told my manager about it, just in case. After all, I had to walk home after work! The next morning, he showed up just as I arrived, but didn’t come in the store. He sat on a bench outside the store, right in front of the window where I always worked. After about an hour, I called my manager to the front and told him what was going on. The manager stepped outside and asked the man if he could help him. “No, I’m just here to give (me) a ride home,” was his response. The manager came in and told me what he had said. A ride home? In nine hours? I guess so, because he sat there ALL NINE HOURS. It freaked me out and made me uncomfortable and, when it was near time to leave, I made the next manager on duty go outside and ask him to leave and then come back in and give me a ride home. I only saw him a few times after that, when he would come in, look around, and leave. Especially if he saw one of those managers. Still, I was pretty certain that I was destined to end up on the evening news.

I didn’t. Because I can’t get even that right.

@Schindizzle
Name: Greg Schindler
Location: Palo Alto, Calif.
Web: FunnyOrDie.com
Bio: I’m Funny Or Die’s marketing manager and a plus-sized hand model. I believe one’s character is best revealed by their reverence for Patrick Duffy.

My favorite tweets:

Dear nosy Target cashier: It’s not illegal to buy a teddy bear, Vaseline and Tiger Beat magazine at the same time.

For an organization seeking volunteers, the Boys & Girls Club sure is picky about who it lets give free massages as its events.

The most realistic aspect of Home Alone is that burglars are OK with trying to murder an 8-year-old, but too pious to curse.

Throwing away the lid as soon as I open a carton of ice cream is the most shameful yet honest habit in my life.

How could you not love him?

Give me a shout in the comments with your twitter handle and who your favorite follows are, then stay tuned for my next twitter pick.

From time to time I’ll kick around the idea of leaving behind the glamorous world of the modern supermarket to live the carefree life of someone who works for tips. Why on earth would I do something like that, you ask? Well, I already spend my days being nice to assholes, and my wage isn’t even BASED on that. Why let all that faux-amiability just go to waste? Damnit, man, there are people starving for that stuff in, what, New Jersey?

Not long ago I played a round of “I gotta get the heck outta here” and decided to let my fingers do the walking all over the world wide web to see what was being offered in the restaurant biz. It’s like the internet intuitively knew that I love all things cheesy and USA (all the way!), and returned solid gold (lamé).

Behold, Hooters Girl, a site actually owned by Hooters of America, Inc. Ladies, if you are willing to take a little constructive criticism and leave your self-esteem at the door, this thing is chock full of tips on how to be the best (and most pleasing) Hooters Girl you can be. And, at the end of the day, who doesn’t want to be a better Hooters Girl? Communists, that’s who.

Filed under “Jesus, I gotta tell somebody about this”, I’ve chosen some of the best suggestions to share with you. You can thank me by sending money. Or fried chicken.

The shape and thickness of your eyebrows can completely change your appearance. Be sure to tweeze or wax your brows regularly to maintain a clean look. Tweeze brows if you have any hair growth between the two.

Okay, so no unibrows for these girls but I have to wonder, does this rule include Hooters’ Athens location? That’s right, they are sporting orange shorts with nude pantyhose dangerously close to, you know, the birthplace of Western Civilization. Surprised? Have you tasted their wings? Zeus himself couldn’t conjure a better hot sauce! And it’s not like you can EAT the Parthenon! Anyway, if My Big Fat Greek Wedding has taught me anything, it’s that Greek girls have plenty of brow going on between the brows. And something about Windex.

Also, a “clean look”? It’s like the person in charge of writing these tips has never actually step foot in one of their own restaurants.

We do require that you wear mascara and lipstick or gloss. Remember, you never know when there will be a camera in your face!

In my Mad Men-era opinion, mascara and lipstick are a requirement for any job (ouch! my feminism!), but I’m not big on being told that I have to wear them. Still, these are the people that insist on nylons with dolphin shorts so, really, isn’t makeup just like a uniform for your face? As far as “a camera in your face!”, if you hit the “images” link when you google “hooters” (who the crap would google “hooters”? oh, right), there are tons of photos of people posing with Hooters Girls. It’s like everyone wants a pic of themselves with boobs. Haven’t they seen boobs their whole lives? I have. In fact, if you want to get dirty about it, most of us came out of a vagina and we aren’t constantly posting pictures on Myspace of us with those.

Oh, and the use of what really seem like unnecessary exclamation points feels like they are trying to get you psyched up to look and act like a sexbot. Hey, guess what? Most girls who end up at that site are already there, friends. I know I am.

Always make sure to resist makeup trends that make you appear gaudy. Hooters Girls have an appropriate image to maintain.

Gaudy is out? Appropriate is in? These are girls that wear platform high-heeled flip flops in their off time. Even the fairest redheads among them are frequent fryers over at the fake ‘n bake. It’s not their fault, really, they just haven’t felt good about themselves since Spring Break ’08 when Joe Francis spied them doing upside-down margaritas and making out with their girlfriends between cigs in Cabo and offered them the opportunity (and penis) of a lifetime. Don’t forget to throw the peace sign while you are showing nip. Girls Gone Loco, y’all!

Don’t forget to wear blush! Doing so will leave you looking lifeless!

You guys, they want their sexbots to look lifeMORE, okay? Otherwise, these men can just go back to masturbating to the post-mortem pics of Anna Nicole that are all over le web. Jesus, that shit is free and we are trying to sell pitchers of beer here, so please fake a sex flush before going on the floor. Again, “cameras in your face!”

Roots should never show through! You never know when you will be photographed or asked to go on a photo shoot or promotion. Be sure to always look camera ready!

Holy cow, ladies, you never saw Marilyn Monroe with black roots, did you? No, and you know why? Because she was actually an early Muppet prototype. The truth is, I dye my hair and literally wake up the next morning with tiny growth. I’m starting to think it’s not actually hair but Play-Doh that someone is pushing through the holes in my head, but the voices that live up there tell me that’s not realistic. Probably because they are the ones doing it. Anyway, there isn’t enough dye (or, ahem, bleach) in the world to make sure “roots should never show through!” so eat poop, Hooters.

Skunk-like streaks are not permitted. A natural and styled look is the look you are going for.

Yes, absolutely, walk into any Hooters restaurant and “natural” is the first word that pops into your head. The next is “styled”. And what DON’T want from a Hooters Girl? Anything skunk-like. You can make a dirty vagina joke here, but I’m not going to. Because I’m a lady, yo.

I think we can all take a little something away from the suggestions offered at Hooters Girl. Men, I want you to read this and respect your ladyfriends a little more because being tip-worthy is a lot of work. And not cheap, in spite of how it looks. Ladies, really, unless you are Dolly Parton, we all get complacent in the glam department from time to time and could use a reminder that we won’t be earning any singles that way. The men can make it rain, but they need a little motivation, capice? And me, well, no one wants to see me in tiny shorts and a tank, so I guess I’ll stick with what I’ve got. Besides, where else am I going to find a low-paying job with long hours where I’m disrespected by both customers and supervisors alike? Count your blessings, TCG. Count ‘em hard.

Also, it’s Monday, which means a fresh, steaming pile of Off The Clock over at RVA News. This week, when good celebrities do bad endorsements.

I once dated a guy who was a 35 year old virgin. He had learned what little he knew about sex from pornography which, in theory, seemed totally endearing and somewhat hot. In practice, though, it left a lot to be desired. And it took a long, long time to get to the practice. You know, because of the whole “virgin” thing. When we finally got to it (my suggestion, naturally), I ended up the sadclown in a 3 ring shit circus.

We headed upstairs in his parents’ house, which was where he lived (hey! how ’bout them stereotypes?), for my first glimpse of his bedroom. It smelled musty, like an old man’s pockets, and was covered in stacks of comic books. Like, every square inch had not just a comic book on it but at least a foot of them. Also, Toy Story sheets.

He tried to undress me in a sexy way but I wasn’t having any of that. I had waited two months and it felt like this might take two more months, so I hissed, “Stop it! Just take off your clothes!” You know, because I’m a lady. Also, we all know that there was no way a virgin was going to figure out a bra clasp his first time out, right? Right.

So, we’re nude. He’s ready. I’m ready. We’re standing next to the bed. I’m a cowgirl and I’m trying to figure out how to get this guy to lay down. He’s standing there, awkwardly grabbing my breasts and kissing me, but in a weird half-mouth/half-face kind of way. Like he missed his mark but kept on trucking like a little trooper.

“Um, hey, you wanna lay down?”

“No, I wanna slide my throbbing love muscle into your beautiful flower.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I want to bury my throbbing cock in your secret garden?”

“No talking, okay?”

“Okay.”

I finally got tired of standing there, naked, staring and kissing in a way that was making my semi into a bye-bye and climbed up on the bed. He was 6′ 7″, I am 5′ 6″. It really was a climb. I laid there as he sort of hung over me on all fours, unsure of what to do.

“Really, if you’ll lie down, I’ll take care of this.”

Still hovering. No laying. Just looking at me.

“Are you going to join me down here?”

“Can I talk now?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I want to snake my tongue deep into your hot, juicy pussy…”

“I gotta go.”

“Please stay.”

I did. For thirty more minutes of Cirque du MakeMeGay. Porn had taught him such valuable lessons as “girls can climax from just intercourse”, “sixty-nine is fundamental so climb on up there and dangle it in her face”, and “hey, she’s got another hole, fill it!” The acrobatics rivaled those of a Russian gymnast and felt desperate and sad. Any attempts I made were half-hearted, at best. In the end, neither the throbbing love muscle nor the hot, juicy pussy met their bliss.

Not even I’m horrible enough to break up with someone after that shit show, so I hung in for another month or so. We never again attempted what he called “lovemaking”. Barf. We still talk from time to time. He says he lost his virginity with me but I contend he could still claim virgin if he wanted to. I don’t think he does. The good news is, I think he’s got a promising future with Ringling Brothers, should he choose it. Me? My future’s in the rodeo.

I have a coworker that, on top of being a close talker, a too-infrequent blinker, a toucher, and inappropriately familiar, might also be a feeder.

Imagine, if you will, Steve Buscemi with a porn ‘stache and coke bottle glasses that really magnify his creepeyes. Now imagine him volunteering to work every Saturday morning and bringing in breakfast for all of the employees. Now imagine him going to each and every person in the store, standing too close to their faces and saying, somewhat menacingly, “It’s Saturday. I brought food. Go get some.” Further imagine him then pulling up a chair next to the food, which he lays out in a spread in the employee break room, and staring at each person as they wander back to try some. “Eat up,” he’ll say, or, “Good, isn’t it?”, quietly, in a way that very closely resembles Hannibal Lecter.

It’s so scary that I had an honest-to-goodness nightmare about this very scene just a few nights ago. Still, Saturday mornings usually involve me rolling out of bed at the last minute, throwing my unwashed hair into a ponytail, brushing my teeth, and applying deod, and running out the door. Brekkies? Okay, creeper, I’ll eat your brekkies and even let you watch. Whatevs.

His usual jam is breakfast pizza from Ukrop’s. While I don’t like bacon, it’s okay w/Tabasco (that concoction is called the “Sat morn wakeup call”!), plus I am a fat girl. The way he watches my mouth, raptly, with obvious anticipation as I take each bite, is a total freakout. The current rumor, which I may or may not have started, is that the coworkers who don’t partake are followed to the parking lot, shoved into his trunk, and enjoyed on the next week’s pizza. People sausage? Spicy!

This last week, though, Mr. Mangia changed it up by bringing doughnuts. Having already downed a red bull and an apple (breakfast of champions), I wasn’t feeling a march in the creep parade. “No, thanks,” I said, when he cornered me in my department. “Aw, come on, Pink Sneakers (charming nickname which I worked hard to earn by wearing, well, you know), you know you want some of my doughnuts,” he said. “Okay, okay,” I said, just trying to placate him so I could do my job, “I’ll be back in a bit.” He must have then taken his post next to the Dunkin Donuts box but came back about 30 minutes later. “Come on, Pink Sneakers, you can take a break for one doughnut. Come on. I won’t take no for an answer,” he pressured me. I heard him paged to the front of the store and ran to the back so I could say that I had one and it was delicious. When I got back there, my manager was just closing the box and stuffing a doughnut in her mouth. “I didn’t have breakfast,” she said apologetically, her mouth full. “Shhh, you’re safe now,” I whispered and petted her arm with the appropriate amount of drama so she would know I was kidding, “He’s in the front of the store and can’t hurt you. HE. CAN’T. HURT. YOU. NOW.” She covered her mouth and laughed, “I know, right? He’s so weird.” “At least he’s changing it up from ‘people pizza’ today. Those guys are so spicy,” I said, as I walked back toward my department. Over my shoulder, I added, “Oh, and you know he’s humped every one of those doughnuts, right? Enjoy!” The choking noise from behind me was all the answer I needed.

Also, it’s Monday, which means a new Off The Clock column over at RVA News. As I found myself explaining to the eleventy millionth person what I meant by “double rainbow all the way!” I knew that I had to write about internet memes. Sadly, that was a couple of weeks ago and, as Chaucer said, “Time and tide wait for no man.” So, I am pleased to add to my awesome list the latest and greatest meme: Bed Intruder Song. Get it while it’s hot, then get on over and read my column…

I think that everybody entertains the odd notion from time to time. But most of you are smart enough not to admit to the short circuit in your brain that makes you hear voices, see things that aren’t there, or buy Ke$ha cds. I, however, don’t know how not to share every single thought that crosses my mind like so much emotional diarrhea. I am an open book that won’t. fucking. shut.

Today I wanted to write you an email about some stuff but didn’t because I’m afraid you’ll find out I’m totally crazy.

I’ll listen…

I just want to be friends with you for a little longer before I reveal that I think I might be invisible or one of my other thousands of crazies. Today, though, invisibility.

well, I think everyone’s prone to being invisible from time to time.

It wasn’t “I feel invisible” in an After School Special kind of way. Actually invisible.

…

THEN I was driving home from a friend’s house and the stoplight wouldn’t change, even though I was sitting there. It took 7 minutes. I was like “oh I’m not invisible, I don’t exist!”

like you’re patrick swayze in ghost. but not a ghost. And not patrick swayze.

Just to be clear, most of the time I’m PRETTY SURE that people can see me. But don’t get me started on my theory that gravity is different for me than everyone else.

as in you can float from time to time. because if you can, that’s fucking awesome.

Stop reading my mind! Also, I read minds. Sometimes. You won’t believe it and then you’ll be like “why did you just say that? that’s exactly what I was thinking” and I’ll just say “I know”. Mostly, people hate it.

Hmm…

And it’s more like gravity’s hold on me is tenuous and I might come untethered and float into space at any moment. Hahaha. I am Girl, Interrupted.

That’s right, invisibility, existentialism, gravity-defying, and ESP in one conversation. Yes, I’m a superhero. But I’m also nuts. Wait, maybe that’s my angle. Can you fly in a straightjacket and peepants?

A woman came in today, wearing Coach rain boots, a Coach scarf, and carrying a Coach bag (how do I know this? everything was emblazoned with the very-much-about-being-seen “C” logo). She was pleasant enough, asking about flowers and talking about the weather, until she accidentally misstepped and knocked over a small display. Her whole attitude changed when I made move to help her.

“I wouldn’t have knocked that over if you hadn’t put it in such a TERRIBLE place. How is ANYBODY supposed to get around that? NOT very good planning,” she snarled, loudly.

She then tossed the scarf over her shoulder and took leave of our conversation, as I scrambled on the floor to clean up the mess.

A few minutes later a woman came behind the counter to hand me a dozen roses.

“I won’t be home for a couple of hours. I need these in a water packet.”

“Do you mean a bag?”

“No, a water packet.”

“I don’t know what that is, can you describe it to me?”

“Okay, well, it’s a bag…”

Not kidding.

She kept saying “The girl”. As in “The girl always does the water packet for me” and “The girl always gives me extra flower food” and “The girl always ties a bow around them”.

A little too loudly, I finally interrupted, “MA’AM!”

“What?”

“I AM THE GIRL.”

I put the flowers in a bag and added a some water. She watched me perform the whole operation, including turning the faucet first on then off. And, the bag is clear. It looks like you won the flowers like a goldfish at the County Fair. There should have been no more questions. But there were. She held the bag up to her face and said, “So, did you put water in here?”

I was really bummed out from dealing with the rude and the obtuse. I took a ten minute break, wherein I consumed two cups of coffee and caught up on twitter. It was a mean day there, too. People were taking little jabs at and mocking each other. It felt very high school. I shut it down and texted my friend with just this, “I wonder if being nice will ever be cool.”

She was right on board with this (her name IS Kindness Girl so duh) and we had a good text dialogue going about how revolutionary it would be if being kind were cool. I wondered if it even mattered since so many people were determined to treat others as less than.

A customer came in and interrupted the conversation, slightly annoying me. She said she was going to a funeral and needed some flowers. I am just about the worst at flower arranging, being better with the business end of selling flowers than the artistic one, and hate doing it. I cut some roses to fit the vase she had brought with her and was fussing with them when she asked me if I remembered her. Once she reminded me, I did. Too well.

She had come in the store just about a year ago, looking a total mess. She told me that her mom was dying. That day. She had been battling cancer and they were going to terminate life support and let her go. She had started to cry when telling me, but then began to sob. I made out that she wanted some flowers in the room for those who came to be with her and they had to be yellow in case there was any chance she might open her eyes and see them before she went. Yellow was her favorite color.

I died. I didn’t know this woman, and it certainly would not be looked upon favorably by my supervisors, but I put my arms around her and let her cry. She only needed a minute or two, then she composed herself, bought her flowers, and went on her way.

Here she was again, telling me that my sympathy that day had made a difference. She said that her mom had passed and she had returned to her hometown. She said that she thought about me sometimes and had shared with a few people how nice I was. Now she was back in town. With more sadness.

“I knew I had to come see you.”

Jewel said, “In the end, only kindness matters.” She might be a little bit of a snaggletooth and I don’t know that it’s the only thing that matters, but it does matter. People notice if you are nice, and it’s cool.

Also, it’s Monday, which means a new Off The Clock over at RVA News. This week, appropriately, tales of take this job and shove it.

Yep. See also: PMS

I’ll have to take your word for it.

In high school, a teacher told me that an orgasm was the best cure for cramps. I just thought she was coming on to me.

Is there anything orgasms CAN’T do?

Cuddle. whompwhomp

They’re probably not great at doing taxes either.

I am going to blog this conversation.

They are terrible typers and never comment on things friends post on their FB wall.

They make terrible cabbies, because they’re always getting lost.

I think I heard one mutter something anti-Semitic once.

They’re as confusing as an episode of Lost and, like George Bush, they don’t care about black people.

They leave their sprinklers on when it’s raining and take up two spaces in parking lots.

They can make you feel lonely, even on a subway car full of judgy people telling you to pull your panties up.

They executive produced Sex and the City 2.

They greenlighted Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami and keep telling Kathy Griffin that she’s funny.

They write all of Justin Beiber’s songs AND cut his hair.

They eat all the cookies and act like they’re doing you a favor because you “said you wanted to lose weight”.

They almost ended Tiger Woods’ career.

They failed to end Willie Aames’ career on the grounds that “Charles in Charge was a delight”.

They bought Liz Taylor her first whiskey and water and horse tranquilizer cocktail AND they directed “Cocktail”.

They gave Pam Anderson and Tommy Lee the hep, then filmed them having sex and released it on the internet, making men everywhere feel inadequate.

Not everywhere. I’m going to cuddle with my orgasm. Text ya later.