Worse shopping through chemistry
I have a very marked distaste for intoxicated people coming into the store. By "marked distaste" I mean that it should be perfectly legal to spring over the counters screaming like a scalded leopard to seize them by the throat, beat them ruthlessly into unconsciousness, rifle their pockets for all their cash, and then dump their broken, bleeding carcass by a handy dumpster. For the extremely drunk or stoned, carnage unto death followed by maxing all their debit and credit cards should be allowed. Either you wind up with less drunks and junkies visiting your store or your customers can enjoy one hell of an improv show so I'd consider that a net win. That's entirely setting aside the increased benefits of team building, employee fitness, and high profit margin.
Some might think that a disproportionately harsh stance to take. After all, who are they hurting if they're just a little buzzed or stoned? They should be mellower, more prone to suggestive sales for anything and everything the store might want to move. It's OK, they're "maintaining."
Reality is they are so rarely cruising through with their edge slightly dulled as to be a practical never. Instead, they seem to get all boozed up or spiked up and then decide to check out the good old porn store while they're full sheets to the wind. That is NOT a victimless crime.
Their balance is fucked. They may not be weaving and tripping over themselves, but they'll still try to lean on fixtures or make the odd awkward movement which at a minimum results in picking up knocked over merchandise, but could just as easily culminate in sweeping up broken glass and blood.
If that isn't enough fun on its own, their volume control disconnects. Internal monologues are suddenly running commentaries on par with a schizophrenic horse race announcer. Emotional displays will flare and erupt without notice, much to the delight and comfort of their fellow shoppers.
In addition, whatever shreds of common sense and judgment they might have had fly right out the airlock. Sealed packages must be investigated further, doors must be opened, and blocked off areas must be explored. There's a high enough percentage of functional morons gadding about society as it is, getting them intoxicated just throws them into active demonstration.
However, it's the last facet of them which throws it over the top for me. Their behavior is unpredictable. A great example of this happened not that long ago.
A guy came into the store carrying a framed backpack and muttering to himself. In the space of four feet, he'd changed direction six times and carried himself with a twitchy, jerky manner. It was readily apparent this individual was cranked to the eyeballs. They needed to leave. Not wanting to chase them around, I waited until he seemed to have committed to a general course. He dropped his pack in front of a display case and went out to the parking lot.
About the time I got to his pack, he came back in, ignored me when I tried to get his attention and fidgeted in front of the arcade for a minute. At this point, I was headed back to the front counter and the phone. I had a feeling this might need it.
Moments later, he asked me, with the body language and tones of a five-year-old, if he could use the restroom. I wanted him gone already, like fucking hell I was going to give him the chance to do something sketchy in the bathroom. So I played the odds and said our restroom was reserved for customers only figuring he didn't have a cent to his name.
What do you know, I was right. He sputtered, finally asking me if I wanted him to crap his pants. To which I replied that I didn't care as long as he left the property first.
He stormed out the front door sans backpack so I followed him phone once more in hand to confront him squatting behind the store with his pants around his ankles. I started "dialing" the phone to the police and informed him he needed to get himself and his shit off the premises immediately or the police would be having a chat with him once they arrived. I promptly turned on my heel and went back inside.
The final touch had me waiting not far from his backpack where I captured a stunning photograph of him for our wall of undesirables.
Apparently that was one indignity too many, for he threw down his pack and started wheezing like a bellows. For those who haven't already guessed, he was pumping himself up to "give me the whole can of whoop-ass." Not being entirely without gorm, I knew it was coming and the clumsy hay-maker only managed to snag (and tear) my shirt. He then bravely ran away running as fast as his wasted legs could carry him with his grubbing pack clutched to his chest. I gave chase and briefly considered tackling him, but decided against.
Got to love work days that end with filing a police report. Thank the gods it's actually a rare occurrence.
Incidentally, in case anyone is wondering, the critter was collected.
Some might think that a disproportionately harsh stance to take. After all, who are they hurting if they're just a little buzzed or stoned? They should be mellower, more prone to suggestive sales for anything and everything the store might want to move. It's OK, they're "maintaining."
Reality is they are so rarely cruising through with their edge slightly dulled as to be a practical never. Instead, they seem to get all boozed up or spiked up and then decide to check out the good old porn store while they're full sheets to the wind. That is NOT a victimless crime.
Their balance is fucked. They may not be weaving and tripping over themselves, but they'll still try to lean on fixtures or make the odd awkward movement which at a minimum results in picking up knocked over merchandise, but could just as easily culminate in sweeping up broken glass and blood.
If that isn't enough fun on its own, their volume control disconnects. Internal monologues are suddenly running commentaries on par with a schizophrenic horse race announcer. Emotional displays will flare and erupt without notice, much to the delight and comfort of their fellow shoppers.
In addition, whatever shreds of common sense and judgment they might have had fly right out the airlock. Sealed packages must be investigated further, doors must be opened, and blocked off areas must be explored. There's a high enough percentage of functional morons gadding about society as it is, getting them intoxicated just throws them into active demonstration.
However, it's the last facet of them which throws it over the top for me. Their behavior is unpredictable. A great example of this happened not that long ago.
A guy came into the store carrying a framed backpack and muttering to himself. In the space of four feet, he'd changed direction six times and carried himself with a twitchy, jerky manner. It was readily apparent this individual was cranked to the eyeballs. They needed to leave. Not wanting to chase them around, I waited until he seemed to have committed to a general course. He dropped his pack in front of a display case and went out to the parking lot.
About the time I got to his pack, he came back in, ignored me when I tried to get his attention and fidgeted in front of the arcade for a minute. At this point, I was headed back to the front counter and the phone. I had a feeling this might need it.
Moments later, he asked me, with the body language and tones of a five-year-old, if he could use the restroom. I wanted him gone already, like fucking hell I was going to give him the chance to do something sketchy in the bathroom. So I played the odds and said our restroom was reserved for customers only figuring he didn't have a cent to his name.
What do you know, I was right. He sputtered, finally asking me if I wanted him to crap his pants. To which I replied that I didn't care as long as he left the property first.
He stormed out the front door sans backpack so I followed him phone once more in hand to confront him squatting behind the store with his pants around his ankles. I started "dialing" the phone to the police and informed him he needed to get himself and his shit off the premises immediately or the police would be having a chat with him once they arrived. I promptly turned on my heel and went back inside.
The final touch had me waiting not far from his backpack where I captured a stunning photograph of him for our wall of undesirables.
Apparently that was one indignity too many, for he threw down his pack and started wheezing like a bellows. For those who haven't already guessed, he was pumping himself up to "give me the whole can of whoop-ass." Not being entirely without gorm, I knew it was coming and the clumsy hay-maker only managed to snag (and tear) my shirt. He then bravely ran away running as fast as his wasted legs could carry him with his grubbing pack clutched to his chest. I gave chase and briefly considered tackling him, but decided against.
Got to love work days that end with filing a police report. Thank the gods it's actually a rare occurrence.
Incidentally, in case anyone is wondering, the critter was collected.
posted by Lanius at 6:38 PM
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