Loving bacon too much might get your dick bitten off.

Okay, America. You win. I’ve tried to talk sense into you regarding your penchant for buying crap. You don’t seem to care about all the lost jobs or the slave factories in China where there are suicide nets to keep the workers alive when they jump due to the horrendous working conditions. America, you love your cheap crap more than you love doing the right thing.

America, I was still willing to fight for you until I saw the following product, which no doubt you’ve all rushed out to buy.

Bacon flavored condoms and bacon flavored lube. Really, America? I love bacon, but your poor choices are almost enough to make me become a vegetarian and definitely enough to make me swear off blow jobs. You would actually buy a condom with the slogan – MAKE YOUR MEAT LOOK LIKE MEAT.

The only thing more depressing than that slogan is J&D Foods not using the slogan – FOR WHEN YOU REALLY WANNA PORKER.

Carry on, America. If you need me, I’ll be over here in the corner weeping as I try to enjoy a slice of actual bacon.

8 (OPTIMISTIC) INCHES OF GROSS ME OUT

The Novinator takes on the Remote Control Terrorist's Asshole Cat

Dear Scerbadoo,

You are the biggest asshole I’ve ever met; which is saying a lot since I’ve been married, have frequented C&W bars, have stood in line at the DMV, have been a legal secretary and currently work retail.

It occurred to me that you’re so fucking fat I could hold a pillow firmly over your face until you’re just another dead asshole and the Remote Control Terrorist will think you expired from a heart attack. (I blame television for these murderous thoughts, since almost the same thing happened on The Following; the difference being that the victim from the show was a grown man and a serial killer and you’re a cat, a bigger asshole and you still weigh more than he does.)

A co-worker younger than my daughter suggested writing you this letter might be a better alternative than becoming a cat murderer. I suppose he’s right. I wouldn’t want PETA (speaking of assholes) going apeshit on me. Am I allowed to say “apeshit” PETA? Am I?

I love cats and honestly don’t think I have it in me to hurt one. But you tempt me, Scerbadoo, you really do.

What is the purpose of all those nipples? Are you planning on breast feeding yourself, Oh, Glutton of the World? Are they the reason for your bad attitude? Or is it your long orange and white fur which causes your grumpiness? It’s your own fault if it gets matted and itchy because you’re too fat to clean yourself. For fuck’s sake, the Remote Control Terrorist takes it upon himself to clean your butt with a wet cloth. This is the same guy who would never scratch my back because it grossed him out.

What did my cats ever do to you? They were here first. You were abandoned by an asshole who obviously didn’t need the competition of another asshole in his or her home. You showed up at our door and stole my cats’ food. I never had a problem with that.

I did have a problem with you pouncing on them from behind and literally trying to kill them. If most of my cats were human, they’d be hippies. They are not into that alpha male shit. You turned poor Vegas from mildly neurotic into full-blown psychotic. She hates me now.

You chased Super Snatch into the closet and the two of you defied gravity as you whirled in the air. Sort of a cartoon Tasmanian Devil effect, with the addition of liquid shit spraying out of her asshole, you asshole! Was that called for?

You constantly terrorize Little Kitten who is the sweetest cat in the world. The Remote Control Terrorist named him, so it’s no wonder he’s cowed by your bullying. LK is black and if I could have named him Fat Asshole Killer of Doom your bullying ways would have ended badly for you.

Somehow this letter is not diminishing my murderous thoughts towards you, Scerbadoo. Could that be because you just walked by me with a mouthful of black fur? You asshole!

Very truly yours,

Kat Nove

I’m a harebrained idiot.  Everyone who knows me can attest to that.  Why else would I approach a mobster and ask if I can not only blog about him, but mock him at the same time?

I first met Joe Dogs Iannuzzi about seven years ago when he did a book signing for Cooking on the Lam.

His Mafia Cookbook is a bestseller.  Note to self:  Learn to cook and become friends with Betty Crocker.

A few months ago I asked Joe Dogs if he would consider being interviewed for a blog entry.  I told him I write satire and would definitely be making fun of him.  Although he seemed puzzled as to who I could possibly be, he agreed.

In the meantime, my stupid life got in the way of hanging out with a made man, but last week I called him to confirm a time and date to meet.  I thought breakfast in a crowded restaurant would be appropriate.  Once again he was agreeable, but seemed to think my name is Pat.

I neglected to mention to Joe I’d be bringing along a wingman.  Rebecca is a cynical smartass who recently graduated from college and hopes to join the Navy.  She’s a fellow writer with a great sense of style and has a formidable weapon I don’t possess when going up against mobsters, law-abiding male citizens and your occasional stray lesbian – a great pair of boobs.  I told her to wear a blouse that revealed a lot of cleavage and wouldn’t you know it?  A fucking Texas Norther blew in and some people don’t want their boobs hanging out in freezing weather when the wind is blowing at over 25 mph.  Some people won’t take one for the team.

It turned out Rebecca impressed Joe even though she wore a jacket and scarf.  He kissed her hand when he left and told her he’d give her a copy of the Mafia Cookbook.  My hand remains unkissed and terribly dry and I paid for my copy of his book.  Now that’s a great wingman.

Joe’s quite the storyteller.  He ran away from New York at the age of 14 and hitchhiked across the country to California.  With only seven bucks in his pocket, he bought a kid’s wagon, some paint and brushes and knocked on the front doors of wealthy people.  He told them his parents were sick and offered to paint their mailboxes for a quarter; a lot of money in the forties.  Some gave him as much as ten bucks.

Joe Dogs testified in several trials against fellow Mafia members and he’s quite clear why he did it.  Revenge.  His mentor Tommy Agro, along with two of Tommy’s eggplants, beat Joe almost to death.  A priest performed last rites over him at the hospital, but he came to with a clear mission.  Get that sonofabitch!

If you go to the 19 minute, 50 seconds mark in the following video from the History Channel, you can watch about 15 minutes featuring Joe Dogs Iannuzzi from something called Mob Rats.

History Channel Mob Rants

Joe demonstrated for us with hand gestures which left no doubt in our minds the location of the FBI wires he wore when setting up his compares.  He had balls of steel and what kind of tape did the FBI use to affix those wires anyway?  Oh, the weird things I wonder.  What he did was pretty amazing and according to at least one FBI agent, Joe was one of the best at undercover work he’d ever seen.  And he can cook!

Joe got his revenge on Tommy Agro, who went to prison and later died of cancer.  The Mafia Cookbook is dedicated to Tommy.

This book is dedicated to my good friend and compare Tommy Agro-Without you this book would not be possible.  Rest in pieces.

The rest in pieces comment is on my mind as I finish writing this.  Joe told us that if he ever saw any of the old mobsters who tried to have him whacked, he’d definitely whack them first.

Here’s our conversation:

Kat:  Are you saying if one of those guys hobbled up to you with a walker, you’d whack him?

Joe Dogs:  Hell, yeah.  I’d whack him over the head with my cane.

Then I commented that it would make a funny tv series called Aging Mobsters.

Joe went nuts.  He thinks I should write it and pitch it and he wants in.  That’s not the nutty part.  The nutty part is how many times he told me Aging Mobsters is a great title.  Below is my response to his enthusiasm for that title.

Aging Mobsters is not a great title, Joe.  It just happened to be the first thing out of my mouth during a random conversation.  A great title for a tv series about octogenarian mobsters is Whacking Off.  But if you think for one second I was going to stand up in that restaurant, point my finger at you and shout, “J’accuse you of not knowing a great title from one a poodle could have thought up, you have no clue how strong my sense of self-preservation is.  After all, I have no idea where you keep your cane.”

To be continued…unless I get whacked.

After hearing that, I once again made a mental note to be thankful there have never in our long history been any white criminals in America.  (Cue the theme music to COPs: Domestic Disturbance Edition and turn on C-Span.)

prejudice – an unfavorable opinion or feeling formed beforehand or without knowledge, thought, or reason.

racist – a person who believes in racism, the doctrine that a certain human race is superior to any or all others.

The man in the convenience store who didn’t mean to sound prejudiced proved beyond any doubt he is a racist.  Apologizing ahead of time by calling me lady does not get him off the hook; in fact, his sick world view means he’s probably skewered by it for his lifetime.

I truly don’t get racism, but I’ll make no apologies for my prejudices.  To quote Rizzo from the musical Grease, … “that’s a thing I’d never do.”

I’m an equal opportunity hater.  You cut me off in traffic, I’ll call you an asshole.  I don’t give one tiny shit what color you are.  In my world, you’re a bad driver who should have never received a driver’s license.

If I’m approached by a black man in a deserted parking garage, or in an otherwise empty elevator, or on a hiking trail in the woods, I get nervous.  The exact same thing happens if I’m approached by a white man.  I don’t slouch through my idiotic life being terrified, but it’s common sense to be wary of any stranger who is physically stronger than me; even aliens.  And no, I’m not talking about Mexican citizens on this side of the border, I’m talking about extraterrestrial beings who have been waiting years to get me alone so they can anally probe me.

My favorite quote is – You’ll get nothing and like it. – Caddyshack

My second favorite quote is – Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity – Martin Luther King, Jr.

Note:  The only reason the Caddyshack quote is included is so I don’t have to individually respond to the thousands of readers who will want to know what my favorite quote is after they read this.

I wonder if Dr. King thought the world would be a less dangerous place by now.  It might have been if a sincerely ignorant and conscientiously stupid man hadn’t killed him. We’ll never know thanks to racism.

Prejudices are more subtle than racism.

My Personal 50 Shades of Prejudice, Plus or Minus 43 Shades

DWI – Dressing Without Instructions – A wispy teen wearing a lime green leotard, funky plaid sneakers, a New York Yankees t-shirt and a hot pink tutu looks adorable, even if it’s a wispy male teen.  A 273 pound woman does not look adorable in the same outfit.

Butt cracks should only be used as a roadmap/funnel to direct shit from our bodies.  They should not be used as a fashion statement by either super models or plumbers.

People whose vocabulary is devoid of the words please and thank you.  Were you raised by self-centered, ungrateful cats?

Walking up to me at the book information desk and saying only two words.  For example, those two words might be:  Glenn Beck.  How am I supposed to respond to that?  Are you introducing yourself to me?  I doubt you’re Glenn Beck because you smell way too old.  Do you think I’m Glenn Beck?  I can’t be because his boobs are bigger than mine.  Right away you’ve hit the Prejudice Trifecta.  1) You didn’t ask me to please direct you to books by Glenn Beck contributors.  (I’m not being a bitch here; the guy really doesn’t write those books.)  2) You pay money to read books not written by someone whose name is plastered in 30-point type on the covers, thereby indicating a level of sheeplike stupidity; and  3) Like the cult member you are, you race to buy anything Glenn Beck recommends.

Neighbors who don’t understand property lines and minding their own business.  Neighbors who think they are living a daily episode of Everyone Love Raymond.  Guess what?  You’re not funny.  You make me want to strap on my fat ninja suit and inject liquid ghost chili pepper into your tubes of Preparation H.

Get off your fucking cell phone while driving.  I mean it.

Owners of giant poodles who think it’s a good idea to turn their dogs into walking, pissing topiaries.

I guarantee that there’s not a person alive who doesn’t have prejudices, but I’m weary of this racism shit.  People are different, people.  Embrace their differences.  Share yours with them.  If you can’t do that, then at least keep your moronic thoughts to yourselves.  They are not welcome in my world.

Beach Volleyball - The Sport Requiring Lotion Even at Home

I just got home from a long day of being abused by corporate America to find that Hugo Chavez died of cancer.  I’ve written quite a bit of political satire, but only one thing that included Chavez.  This was written at some point during the George W. Bush presidency.

The other day, my British friend Dill suggested we play drunken beach volleyball for domination of the world’s oil rights. I thought the idea incredibly funny and immediately began imagining such a game.

The rules to my fantasy drunken beach volleyball game are rigid. I get to pick both teams. No professional volleyball players or professional drinkers will be allowed. Obviously, Dill is a teammate. Tim Duncan, the seven foot power forward of the World Champion San Antonio Spurs basketball team, will play the net. Next to him is George Clooney, not because he has a fine ass, but because he’s a political activist and seems athletic. Truly, I have no interest in his exceptionally fine ass. On the other side of Clooney is the only other girl on my team, my über gay friend Moses. He probably sucks at volleyball, but he’s a vicious bitch and would be the designated hurler of invectives at the other team. My final teammate and ball server throughout the entire game is Jesus Christ. The official cheerleader for our team is Lewis Black, who refuses to wear shorts, sweats a lot, and rants more than usual. My teammates all look very attractive in their Hawaiian print shorts. I’m wearing a bikini and temporarily using Angelina Jolie’s body out of respect for my teammates’ delicate sensibilities.

The front line of the other team consists of a pasty white Dick Cheney, clad in a red, white and blue Speedo and nothing else. Next to him is Hugo Chavez, who even in my fantasy, refuses to give up his red shirt. King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia is the final player on the front line. He is wearing a flowing white kandura and a keffiyeh on his head. The remaining three players are Abdullah’a bodyguards, all dressed in westernized business suits and carrying automatic weapons manufactured in the United States. George W. Bush is the cheerleader for the other team. He’s wearing nothing but a short pleated red cheerleading skirt and cowboy boots. He enthusiastically shakes pom-poms made of hundred dollar bills.

The referee and line judges are scantily clad male models who aren’t there to call the game so much as to keep my team supplied with beer.

Half the stands are filled with drunken slackers who save their loudest cheers for the vendors handing out free beer. The remaining seats are filled with anal retentive neocons whose ersatz faith in Jesus is shattered as he serves ace after ace over the net at the feet of the team they support. As good an arm as he has, our superiority isn’t all about the holy service. Chavez is rendered useless because Dick Cheney has him in a headlock. King Abdullah sits on a throne pouting because everyone else is drunk and he’s not allowed to drink – at least not in public. His bodyguards mistakenly think the purpose of the game is to blow the shit out of the harmless volleyballs hurling toward their charge. They fire their weapons wildly and often, occasionally taking out a conservative right-wing spectator in the crowd.

At one point during the game, Jesus loses his temper and serves one right into Bush’s face to keep from hearing “Is we winning, yes we is! Is they losing, yes they is!” Bush goes down and Secret Service agents tackle Jesus, stirring up sand which gets in my beer. As the referee declares us the winning team, I pull Jesus out from beneath the pile and then turn to observe what appears to be a rugby scrum rather than beach volleyball.

On her way down from the top of the stands, an outraged Barbara Bush trips, rolls and bounces all the way to the beach, causing almost as much destruction as the day she gave birth to her eldest son.

Moses pauses in his flirting with Clooney long enough to perform a dancer’s high kick which instantly gives Cheney a deeper understanding of enhanced interrogation techniques. As the Vice-President releases the throat of one of America’s biggest enemies and clutches what are left of his testicles, the hapless Chavez finds his relief is short lived. Followed by his bodyguards, the Saudi Arabian king uses the Venezuelan as a red carpet to exit the game.

To the delightful sound of the wailing of a bunch of sore losers, my team triumphantly staggers off the beach to open a keg and celebrate the new world order. Mission accomplished.

SOON-TO-BE FUTURE OF REMOTE CONTROL TERRORIST IF HE DOESN'T QUIT STARTING EVERY SENTENCE WITH "YOU LIBERALS"

“I’ve decided the problem with humanity is we surround ourselves with crap,” the Remote Control Terrorist said.  “Everything is crap. That’s why I want to be a brain in a jar. But then I’d decide the jar is crap so I’d have to get rid of the jar.  I’d just be a brain on a shelf. But the shelf is crap as well so I’d get rid of the shelf and become a brain on the floor. But why would I need the floor when I could be tossed outside in the dirt? That’s probably best. I want to be a brain in the dirt.”

Oh, Rhett. Promise me we'll still be together 50 years from now.

I guess this story would be considered fan fiction.  It’s included in my new book, If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess I Must Be a Loser.

I’m not going to embarrass myself by mentioning how many times I’ve read Gone with the Wind. (20.) If that seems insane, get this – I’ve read the sequel Scarlett at least ten times. There has to be other Gone with the Wind junkies out there so I’m probably not the only one who wonders what happened to Scarlett and Rhett as they grew old together.

Rhett opened the door for Scarlett and they stood in the foyer looking at the familiar sight of their former home.

“Well, here we are, Scarlett. I first met you fifty years ago and now we’re back in Atlanta on Peachtree Street in this monstrosity of a house.”

“Hush, Rhett. You know I always loved this house. I’m so happy you were able to buy it back.”

“Yes, and I’m sure all the orphans who had to relocate are happy as well.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee! They’re orphans. These living arrangements were entirely too grand for the likes of them. I’m sure they’ll be much more comfortable in that converted warehouse.”

Rhett rolled his eyes. “No doubt you’re right, my dear.”

“Oh, Rhett. We had some happy memories in this house, didn’t we?”

“We certainly did. That staircase hasn’t changed a bit. Do you remember that night?”

Scarlett blushed.

Rhett laughed. “These days I can’t remember that nice old O’Hara family retainer’s name, but…”

“Mammy.”

“…I can certainly remember how my body reacted to the feel of you in my arms the night I carried you up that staircase.” He leered and fumbled for his manhood, missing it by a significant margin. In his younger days, his cornucopia-of-plenty would already be seven inches further north.

He gave up in his search for wood and continued racking his brain. “Damn! That drives me crazy. What was her name?”

“Mammy.”

“I can see her as clear as if she is standing right in front of us, shaking her head in disapproval at our shenanigans. She could be a judgmental old bitch.”

“Mammy.”

“Do you remember her massive breasts? Man alive, those things could inflame the loins of even the staunchest of Klan members.”

“Mammy.”

“She always used an ingratiating Negro dialect to curry favor with your family. I’m really surprised y’all fell for it. When the two of us were alone we had intelligent conversations in the Queen’s English. Mony? Mattie? Meggie?”

“Mammy.”

“I’m pretty sure it was something like that. Do you remember her name, darling?”

“Christ on a crutch! Her name was Mammy! Mammy! What the hell is the matter with you? You damned old fool!” Scarlett crossed herself and furtively looked around. Her years in Ireland had taught her the pleasures of cursing, but she was still Catholic enough to expect the local priest to leap from beneath a Victorian couch and demand her confession for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

“Mammy. That’s it! You’re such a clever girl. It’s the main reason I’ve always been attracted to you; that and your succulent cantaloupes and savory pumpkin pie.” He gave her a feeble wink.

“Rhett, you know damn well I can’t cook.”

He grabbed her and pulled her close. “That may well be, but even so, you have always caused my blood to boil.”

She jerked out of his grasp and said, “Fiddle-dee-dee, Rhett. How you do go on about the silliest things.”

Rhett grabbed her again and this time planted both gnarled and arthritic hands on her buttocks. A puzzled look came over his face as his hands roamed freely without his wife striking him.

He grinned and said, “You know my dear, this bustle makes your bottom look big.”

Scarlett shrieked like a legendary banshee of her Irish ancestors. “God damnit, Rhett! You know good and well bustles went out of fashion back in 1893 and I haven’t worn one since then.”

“Just how would I know that? I haven’t seen you naked in over ten years.”

“Take my word for it. You hound. Ashley would never insult me like that.”

“That damn Ashley. After all we’ve been through, in moments of intimacy you still bring him up. When are you going to get it through your silly head that Ashley is a poof and he’s always been a poof? Just because he married Melanie and then that fat schoolteacher after Melanie died, doesn’t make him any less of a poof. Remember when I joined the Friends of the Widows of the Glorious Fallen of the One True Right and Just Cause so I could get in good with all the old harpies in the neighborhood? At one of the meetings that poofer put his hand on my knee and asked if I would like to join him in the hallway for a private viewing of his most prized possession. I punched him in the nose during the taking of the minutes. I pretended to be inebriated to spare poor Melanie any embarrassment.”

“How very considerate of you. Now if you don’t let go of my bottom right this minute, I shall scream!”

“Scream all you like, my dear. Scream like you did when we were floating down the Nile on a barge. Remember the carved ivory phallus? I seem to recall you were screaming in pleasure back then.”

“Well, I seem to recall you didn’t look like an Egyptian mummy back then.”

“I seem to recall you weren’t even close to being a world class bitch back then.”

Scarlett swung and delivered a stinging slap to Rhett’s shriveled face.

Rhett released Scarlett’s ample buttocks and took her face in his hands. He lowered his trembling lips to hers. She struggled for only a moment and then gave in to her growing passion. Their soft tongues and pruny lips dueled for supremacy. Old feelings came flooding back to the couple. Rhett was almost positive his trousers had become uncomfortably tight and Scarlett could have sworn she felt a bit of moistness in her bloomers.

Scarlett broke free and looked up at Rhett with her mermaid eyes. “With the exception of that bartender in the pub in Dublin, you always were the best kisser.”

Rhett silenced her with another kiss. If he gave her a chance to talk about all the men she slept with during the time they were divorced, he’d never get her upstairs for a little slap and tickle. Their mouths as one, Rhett swept his wife into his arms and attempted to run up the majestic staircase. Momentum carried him to the fifth stair before his knees buckled. Scarlett made a vain attempt to save herself by grasping for the banister. They slowly rolled down the few stairs. She landed first, her skirt and petticoat up around her waist. He thudded face down between her shapely legs and his tired lungs let out a whoomp!

He raised his head and gave her that charming look she loved so well. They both began to laugh.

“Piggy back again, my dear?”

Scarlett smiled and said, “Piggy back it is.”

He cautiously rose, reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. The two hugged and Scarlett turned to face the staircase. Rhett pressed his manhood against her buttocks, wrapped his arms around her neck and gingerly hopped onto her back.

As she struggled up the staircase with her heavy load she asked, “Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“Frankly my dear, it’s a banana. But when we get to the bedroom, I’ll be more than happy to see you.”

Cover shot of Poster Girl for Kat Nove Relief Fund

The Remote Control Terrorist  is sitting next to me suggesting I give this blog entry the title MILEY CYRUS NIPPLE SLIP as click bait.  He says that Fox News does that sort of thing by putting up a teaser that says Is Miley showing too much? That’s creepy.  Not that Fox News does it, but that the RCT knows about it.

Frankly, after that Vanity Fair photo of her sitting in her dad’s lap, I try to never think about what Miley Cyrus is doing. Now that Hanna Montana is grown up, smoking weed and has boobs, the Disney Channel Harlot Factory will just churn out another one.

The only reason I decided to go with the RCT’s suggestion is that Hanna Montana is featured in my new book, If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess, I Must Be a Loser, which is now available on Kindle.

Thanks to Jeni Decker for formatting the book.  I hate that shit.

While I just said I wouldn’t specifically bitch about 2012, try to remember that I’m a writer and I lie.  I have to mention the last two days.

Yesterday, in an effort to have a better year in 2013, I applied a face mask.  My mind tells I’m still 19 and my new driver’s license photo tells me I could be the new poster girl for AARP.  I rinsed my face for a really long time because the lamps in the bathroom are barely flickering and I couldn’t see if all the mask had been removed.  Then I proceeded to go to a convenience store, a department store and a grocery store.  I ended up at the bookstore to buy a meditation cd to keep my head from exploding in the new year.  A co-worker and really good friend asked what the hell was on my face.  Apparently that shit was everywhere!  My cheek.  My ear.  My neck.  So now I’ll probably be known as the crazy old lady who is proud of her money shots.

Tonight is New Year’s Eve.  Luckily I’m not at work so I’m able to watch The Walking Dead marathon.  Zombies always cheer me up.

But a few hours ago 2012 got me again.   I had just come in from outside where it’s been drizzling all day.  Typical last day in a sucky year.  I was really putting some muscle into cramming the overflowing garbage into a trash bag. The soles of my sneakers were slick and my feet slipped.  The plastic kitchen garbage can fell, my knee landed on it and 2012 slammed the top of my head into the corner of the wall.  Hard.

It’s now 12:01 am on January 1, 2013.  I made it!  Now I can say what I’ve wanted to for 365 days.  Bite me 2012.

To make your experience more efficient and pleasurable  this year, I’ve compiled some helpful shopping tips which might prevent a skull fracture and trip to the emergency room for you and a lengthy stay in prison for me.

When asking for a specific book, I don’t need to know why you want it, who it’s for, or how it changed your life.  Give me the title of the book and/or the name of the author.   In a perfect world, consider supplying the ISBN.  Then shut up so I can find your damn book.  You’re not the only customer in the store.

Please don’t come in looking for a book without the above information.  Mentioning you heard about it on the radio guarantees you’ll be going home empty-handed.  If you happen to remember the name Jesus is in the title, consider prayer.  This might be difficult to believe, but there have been more than a couple of books written about the man.  Telling me a book has a white cover and is a certain size isn’t helpful, but feel free to roam the aisles in your quest for the Moby Dick of books.

Don’t monopolize my time.  When looking for a Bible as a gift, quit expecting me to pull out every single one on the shelf and show it to you.  I’m not a game show hostess.  Why are you asking the atheist anyway?

Suggestive selling doesn’t bother me.  If you’re looking for a book for a forty-year-old single woman, I’ll be happy to direct you to self-help books.  If you’re searching for a gift for a forty-year-old single man living in your basement, I’ll point to the shelves filled with porn and then run to wash my hands.  If you want something for a teenage boy who reads at a fifth grade level, I’ll give you the phone number of a tutor and a box of condoms. But if you’re a grown man and you come in expressing interest in a Miley Cyrus book for your daughter, I’ll roll my eyes and mutter under my breath, “Pervert.”

Do not attempt to con me with shocked outrage when you come in on December 24th and we’re sold out of the book you want.  It’s Christmas Eve.  Shopping instead of spending time with your family indicates you’re either an idiot or an allergic reaction to Aunt Minnie.  Either way, do me a favor and find someone else to bother.

At all times, and especially during the holidays, I try my hardest to find what you want in the least amount of time with the pitiful clues you’ve given me.  I do it with a smile on my face, eyes that died on Black Friday, and murder in my heart.  I’m not Sherlock Holmes.  The least you can do in return is work up the energy to say please and thank you for my efforts.

Don’t demand to speak to my supervisor when you see me rip off my official corporate t-shirt and replace it with one that says HO! HO! HO!  GET YOUR SHIT AND GO! She’s already wearing hers.