by SamuraiPlatypus

If you don't know what a mini-disc player is, don't worry. It's cool. Unless you work at Best Buy. In which case grab a spoon and follow the directions blue-printed out for you at the top of this page.

Which I had.

However, I could not be so kind to the morons at Best Buy, who were about to give me the worst case of deja vus I'd ever had. And that includes the white rabbit incident.

I figured I'd just hand the mini-disc player (that the children had finally broken) to whoever happened to be the Best Buy employee behind the repair desk at the time and they'd fix it. I was not fortunate enough to have this occurrence, however, as the one gentleman behind the counter - soon to be known as "The Best Buy Retard" - didn't know what my mini-disc player was. I then made the mistake of thinking that I'd tell him what it was and he'd go get somebody who wasn't afraid of it and its soul-sucking powers. He didn't. In fact, he still remained there, trying to figure out what this thing I handed him while saying "here's my mini-disc player" was.

Best Buy Retard: I'm still not sure what this is, sir.

Me: It's a mini-disc player, which you sell right over there. It doesn't close. Fix it.

Best Buy Retard: I- I don't know... *looks inside it* let me see what Ray thinks

about it. Hey Ray! HEY RAY! Come here for a second.

Best Buy Raytard: Yeah?

Best Buy Retard: You know what this thing is?

Me: I already told you what it is! It's a mini-disc player!

Ray: Oh? What does one of those do, exactly?

Me: It...plays...mini-discs.

As if it weren't enough these fucking morons were still not getting the simple sentences that were coming from my mouth, they now DOUBLE insulted me by snickering and performing the WORST Dr. Evil impression I've ever heard sparked by the word "mini-disc."

Best Buy Retard: Ha ha ha! Mini-disc! "Mini-Disc! Stop humping the 'laser!'"

Ray: Ha ha! "Mini-Disc, you complete me!"

Both Retards: HA HA HAH!

Me: Right. Anyway, Ray, do you know what's wrong with-

Best Buy Raytard: Uhp uhp uhp! If you want me to help you, call me "Dr. Evil."

Me: No.

Best Buy Raytard: Fine! I won't help you.

Ray crossed his arms over his chest and turned away from me, pointing his nose towards the ceiling. His cohort, whose name still escapes me from his dangly, scruffy hair hanging over the device which would, in essence, give me his name - which these geekboys called a "name tag" - smiled smugly in my direction. Head cocked arrogantly, he seemed quite interested in what I'd do now. And, unless you're one of my readers, I didn't disappoint.

Me: Fine..."Dr. Evil"... do you know what's wrong with my mini-disc player?

Best Buy Retard: Hey, if you're going to call him Dr. Evil, will you call me Worf?

Me: Sure. Whatever. Anyway, what's wrong with it?

Ray: Oh, I have no idea. How much did you pay for it?

Me: Well, I don't see how that matt-

Ray: Was it a million dollars? HA HA HA!

Best Buy Retard: HAHAHA! That was a good one!

Ray: Thanks.

Me: Listen, clearly neither of you have any idea what this even is, so will you just go get somebody else?

Best Buy Retard: Okay, let me go get Roy. (Don't worry, I just said Roy this time off the top of my head. I'm not going to make the lame-ass "Rname-tard" joke again)

The dumbass geekboy left to the office behind him to retrieve Roy. I was hoping to count the “I’m an idiot” wrinkles on Ray's sloping forehead, but instead was interrupted by his incessant impersonation of Dr. Evil.

Me: Think you could stop that?

Ray: Oh, what's a matter? You don't like Daddy's impression?

I dove over the desk and socked Ray right in his jaw.

From what my female companions DO tell me of this hitting thing is that it usually not only makes you feel good, but works in your favor. I can honestly say that this is completely wrong. Though I thought at first they were right; Ray was now unconscious and therefore not talking, and the blood he left behind on my fist made my fist look like it was smiling. I didn't see how things could go wrong, until Roy, apparently and amazingly these kids' manager, came out.

Best Buy Roytard (SUCKER!): I told you boys, this is your department. Two of you are supposed to deal with the customers while I sit in the office, drink my soda, and download pornography on the internet. That's how it works.

Best Buy Retard: But Roy, Ray's unconscious again.

Roy: Oh, in that case, how can I help you sir?

Me: My mini-disc player is-

Roy: Did you say, "Mini-Disc?"

Me: Oh God... not again.

Roy: I think I'll call him... Mini-Disc...

Roy and the Retard laughed hysterically while steam came out of my ears, a trick I learned from The Great Linguini, an Italian magician.

Me: Can you two stop for just one damn minute and tell me what's wrong with my mini-disc player?

Roy: Your what?

Me: THIS THING! RIGHT HERE! IT PLAYS MINI-DISCS!

ME: Don't you fucking dare.

Roy: Sir, is this a bong? I'm sorry, but we don't allow bongs inside Best Buy, sir.

Me: It's electrical! It's small, blue and square with HEADPHONES coming out of it! How in God's name could you possibly confuse this thing for a bong?

The Retard: Why's he so mad?

Roy: That's what marijuana does to people; makes them all crazy.

Me: It's not a fucking bong!

Epilogue: My torment continued on for another few minutes before I left that end of Best Buy a bloody mess of my rage. I took my mini-disc player home and decided to just try and fix it myself, finding that I was almost as big a retard as the Best Buy employees for all that was needed to fix my mini-disc player was for me to unbend the hook that keeps it closed.

With the force of a court order encouraging me, I embarked on a search for a job. Knowing that a normal job search would require me to move from this Samurai seat, the wonderful world of yahoo helped me out again with a new search of "jobs." However, it failed to provide the results I was hoping for, as I wasn't in the mood for a blowjob from Mistress Becky. And though Steve the Erotic Plumber's offer intrigued me, I knew it just wouldn‘t work. It was time to go the official sites of local companies, starting with the most high-tech one there is; casino poker video game producing IGT. A visit to their website ended up taking me to their "career center" where about 10 different job openings were listed.

"Seeking hard-working individual. High School Diploma or equivalent GED necessary..."

Well, THAT isn't so bad! I can at least fake THAT. Let's just pray that they don't ask for any "skills".

"We ask that our employees show up on time and almost every day. We prefer that you really not break things. Employees who steal from the company will be harshly warned. Please don't spit on the floor - we have cups for you. Also, please try to fart into the bags or outside the building. Our fire alarms aren't that good."

Billy Bob: Hey, Ma! I think I found me a job!

Ma: Does it offer ben-ee-feets?

Billy Bob: No, not really... but they give me a cup!

Ma: Whooooo dog!

I was given a special, inside look into why standards seemed to be the way the are when I went and applied for a job in person.

On a totally unrelated subject, I think my former boss may have be enacting some hatred upon me. I don't know what the exact problem is, but I don't see how I could possibly fail to get one call back from any job. Perhaps the upcoming, make-believe conversation (which I assure you is no more than 95% true) may clear things up:

Inquiring Manager: Hello, I'm calling to ask about Brandon Menard.

Old Manager: What would you like to know?

Inquiring Manager: Well, I guess I just want to know if he was a good employee or not...

Old Manager: Well, I have a good sense of humor and I like my employees to have one as well. In fact, I've even let one employee get away with hitting the hood of my convertible with a water balloon, because that really was pretty funny. Menard, however, decided to do it when the top was down. He also decided to fill the balloon with chili and Pepto Bismol. Now, I'm a nice guy, so I might have just let him off and told him that that was going too far. However, after an hour of cleaning my car, I drove home and found a "surprise" consisting of eggs and toilet paper on my doorstep. And then there was ANOTHER on the other side of the door, mainly being a large pile of bricks, presumably dumped from the back of a truck. Yet another in the form of fire on my bed, a dead cow on my roof, and one in the dishwasher which I still don't see as even being humanly possible and thus refuse to talk about. Had he tried to deny his involvement in the ‘presents‘, it would have been futile in every sense, considering the tiny, Roadrunner-and-Coyote-esque numbered signs he insisted on sticking into each one, each with their own personal message. My favorite to this day is "This has been a special announcement brought to you by *THUD*." When my wife and 3 children came home and asked me what the fuss was about, he burst out of the closet and said "ME! THAT'S WHAT!" and then spit as he stormed out of the door. I would have loved to have fired him the next day had he actually showed up to work. Oh, and calling him was out of the question, since I soon found my phone to also be a victim of his unholy rampage.

Inquiring Manager: Did he use a cup?

Old Manager: Excuse me?

Inquiring Manager: WHEN HE SPIT, DID HE USE A CUP, DAMN IT?!

Old Manager: Um...no. No he did not.

Inquiring Manager: Well, that's all I need to know...filthy floor spitter...thank you for your time.