SELLING BOOKS SUCKS GATOR-GRUNDLE

Welcome to my TED Talk on how being a retail bookseller sucks gator-grundle. 

I've been selling books at my current for job for a while, a little over a year actually. And MAN, if I have one more person ask me for a book- WHEN THEY DON'T KNOW THE TITLE OR THE AUTHOR, SO HELP ME... It leaves me in this weird position where I'm left to decode an obscurely hick-yocal accent filled with jargon of southern hospitality and sayings, where I haven't the slightest clue of what this person is saying or wanting. 

And lo and behold, like 85% of the time we don't have it. But man, we sure do have about a gazillion copies of Twilight and 48 Laws of Power. 

Anyway, back to the point. We are a used bookstore, where we sell things at least 50% or more off the original listing price on the back of the book. So most of our items range from $2 to $14, not bad really; like that's a great deal on a hardback book which typically costs around $24 to $36, like it's almost a steal. 

WELL.

Today, I had this daughter-father duo walk in around One-or-so, and I think nothing of it, right? Well, I'm going around shelving books, helping customers, trying to be productive but also do the bare minimum as this some corporate soul-sucking hell hole where hopes and dreams come to perish in an oversized bookstore. Back to this duo, she beelines for the romantsy (romance fantasy) section while he slugs towards the history section, a natural herding ground for men of his stature and age. I mean, what is with middle-aged white men and their odd obsessions with history? Specifically either the American Civil War or World War Two? Like, is there some secret national test that these fucks are studying for? 

Is this what I have to look forward to in my twilight years? Male-patterned baldness, beer gut for days, and an odd yet charming appreciation for two very specific historical events? 

This dude, the father of this, the one who slugged off to history, well, he's back and comes up to me as I'm crouched shelving Jonathan Maberry, and proceeds to stick his fat-fucking southern-pride-labeled shirt that's bursting at the seams with a multi-keg-beer-belly basically on top of my head. 

Like I am under carriage height. 

The Grundle. 

And fuck. 

He's sweaty too.  

I wish to be put down like a dog at this very instant; I pray that the softly-buzzing fluorescent tube happens to snap from its cords and slam into my skull at 35 mph, rendering me in a bloody unconscious heap with various pieces of glass and filament embedded into my skull. 

This does not happen. I am beset with questions about historical events and documents of which I am not aware, nor have I read about them while working within the confines of the Cog Machine, Master does not permit Dobby to read.