A statistic waiting to happen

What is worse than a loud, annoyingly chatty customer? A drunk, loud, annoyingly chatty customer. And what exacerbates even that? When they lock their bloody keys in their damned car in your parking lot.

Oh it is a situation to be savored, much like I would theorize one would savor passing a kidney stone while experiencing gastric torsion and snorting Capsaicin-laced porcupine quills.

Not only is the sorry bastard an obstacle toward helping other customers by crowding the register area and erratically attempting to maintain a conversation, but his rude self-deprecating comments soon provoke a desire to bludgeon him to death with the nearest object to hand, not excluding other patrons.

He hoped to acquire a wire coat-hanger, which aside from being an increasingly rare object in this age of ubiquitous plastic, we do not actually have. This was a state of affairs he found staggering and told me so at numerous moments.

His next idea was to call a locksmith. Alas he either lacked to whit to call those able to arrive here or balked at the price they quoted. He would make two calls, neither of which would provide him the information he desired, make a self-deprecating comment, mention the damned wire coat-hangers again, and leave vowing to cease bothering me. Then about ten minutes later, he'd hold an encore performance.

The FIFTH time he popped in to make his last curtain call, the world had taken on an alarming, if rather fetching, shade of red.

Apparently his friends were much more inebriated than he was and refused to pick his sorry ass up.

I just wanted him gone. For good.

It makes for a vexing conflict of interest. He's soused so I prefer he is not motoring on the roadways. I wouldn't put it past him to mistake my store as a solid patch of fog and obliterate the she-male videos with his grill. And yet, his existence has become wearing.

*Sigh*