Illustration by Bob AulHey, Mr. “Four-Year Floor Manager” at that massive guitar retailer! Yeah, you—with that lame pink button-down shirt and your coifed Poncho 'do. For 18 years, I've come into your store and spent my hard-earned money. All those years I've put up with guys like you—assholes with a rock-star attitude; pretentious fucks who somehow think that because they work around music equipment, they must be MUSIC GODS and should be treated accordingly; assholes dressed in the latest from Hot Topic who have made me ask for help; jerks who have scoffed, given attitude, not returned phone calls when I've made expensive special orders.
I've always been able to blow it off. Then, last night while in your store, I asked a dense fuck about a price I saw advertised one week before. Dense Fuck called you over. You were already defensive. You immediately told me I was wrong—wrong because you're a “four-year floor manager” and you've “never seen that item priced at that amount.” I again explained my side. Then you stumbled and contradicted yourself. Then you began talking to Dense Fuck as if I weren't standing there. I really felt valuable as a customer—especially when you told me to find my item in some other store. Thank you for all your service and commitment to the best gear and the best deals. Thanks for working with me. I'm sorry I wasted your valuable time, time that could have been put to better use, say, out front with a cigarette and checking your 'do in the window. Your store is no longer this musician's choice.
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