Generation Y is Short for Whiney

One of the best things about my job is working with young people. I'm getting old. I'm 36 going on 37. It's nice to be around all that youth. It rubs off on you. Keeps you young. Not only do I work with young people, I also get paid like them. It usually takes them just a few days to figure this out. When the kids figure it out they start bossing me around. They tell me how to bag groceries like I wasn't a bagger back in 1988.

"I've never bossed around someone older than me before."

I get told that a lot. Along with "So, if you are 20 years older than me how come I make more money than you and you still have to ride a bike or the bus every where you go?" I have to punch people after I hear that. If you think I might be losing control of my impulses, you're right. I was told I had "lost control" after I screamed at my 20 something bartender that she was a "Misanthropic bitch for placing the needs of animals (i.e dogs) ahead of humans." I was kindly asked to leave the premises. I did, but not before describing in some detail the latent pathology inherent in her world view.

I was sent to training this week to become a cashier. Something about how customer service is not my forte I think. I hate customers. They ask for shit all the time. I don't like that. I wished I was born in Russia or France. The people in those cultures hate customer service. I find a certain civility in that.

So now I am to be cashier. I must learn produce codes. Green Bell Peppers are 4065, etc. I am stuck in what is essentially a repeat of my customer service training class. My class has three persons. Myself. A 17 year old who graduated from high school at 15 and who then spent the next two years smoking pot. And a portly wanna be drama fag Gen-Y'er.

Drama FAG found me at lunch break. I had hoped to scarf down a cheeseburger and read my paper unmolested before returning to work. Instead I looked up from my paper when I heard Drama Fag standing next to me. I wanted to avoid him because he has an extremely annoying habit.

He has this constant running dialogue under his breath describing his every reaction to any incoming stimuli. Being seated next to him during training was like being connected via USB directly into the RAM instruction set for his brain.

"I don't like being away from home. I'm not used to people not caring about what I say. At home I'm surrounded by people who care. I lost my bus pass, but you probably don't care."

"I know I don't." I had my own problems. I had lost my wallet the day before. When I tried to get a new I.D. I found out that my drivers license wasn't just suspended it was revoked. If I want to drive again I will need to get a psychologist to document to the state for me that "my drinking problem" does not interfere with my ability to drive. I think we all know how hard that is going to be. Also I just got an email that Charles Scwabb, despite my massive talents and impressive resume, didn't want to schedule an interview for me. "We have decided to pursue other candidates whose skills and experience more closely fit the position’s requirements. "

I guess that's why they chose to hire a friend of mine for the job opening, instead of me. He has exactly 3 weeks of work experience as a Blockbuster employee. So you can see how I can't compete with that. I won't be stock broker now. I won't be getting my Land Rover, or Porsche Cayenne. So I am not in the mood to hear about your lost bus pass.

I left him in the Jack in the Box. I tried ditching him with the excuse that I had to go look for my wallet. I thought I was safe when he went back inside to the training class. I decided to stop for ice cream before continuing my search for my lost wallet.I grabbed my chocolate Cold Stone Creamery ice cream and sat at a patio table outdoors. I was reading the paper, when the sun was suddenly shaded over.

HE stood next to my outdoor table for 20 minutes. I never said a word to him, but I learned from his Gary Shandling voice overs that he thought it was hot outside and his neck itched. I never offered him a seat at my table and he never asked if he could join me. He simply stood a foot away from me merrily texting away to his girlfriend. He seemed content just knowing he was near human contact. I assume his helicopter mom was keeping track of him from the GPS function on his phone. He took several pictures of me as I ate. The chocolate ice cream stains down my shirt amused him. He wants to be my best friend.

I want to vomit on him after I learn he has been working as a video store clerk for 3 months.
"Blockbuster?" I ask. "You should be a stock broker. Get your series 49." I tell him. He smiles back at me. "Thanks. I'll think about it."