Book of Stupid Questions. Mr Trick examines the public.

In my work, I feel deep rage. Not at my job, you understand, but my customers and their level of unbridled, oxygen wasting stupidity. One of my favourite sayings is that my job would be perfect without the customers. But there’s the problem, most of them are ok, some of them are lovely. But some, some of them make me wish I had Ebola, just so I could infect them and do the world a favour.

Let me explain, I hate stupidity, in all of it’s forms, I hate unthinking blindness. And I hate, I hate, the self-righteous rudeness barely veiled under the guise of straight-talking. And I hate idiots. We have, in my shop, The Book of Stupid Questions. This book is the bible of calming measures, because all the time I’m writing down their moments of moronic derps, I’m not killing them, in a rage of deep-seated hatred for the village idiot breeding programme.

Like I say, most of my customers are lovely, polite, friendly and patient. Some are not. And some are just plain wastes of skin, better used for bear baiting than breeding. Yet for some reason, they keep popping out these godawful excuses for existence that will follow in their parents alcohol drenched, sex fueled embarrassments of lives. I hate it.

I think there should be some kind of barrier, something that stops them bringing in their kids, who aren’t toilet trained but can swear so much a sailor would blush. Children who can’t be trusted to stand still, who rip the shop apart and are just told “leave it Chels, you little shit”. Nice. Maybe a way that they just post their money through the post box, then bugger off to whatever bloody nonsense they insist on doing. I guess it’s just bad parenting. But, I digress, I now present, for your viewing, and wincing, pleasure some excerpts from The Book. It is presented as comments and questions, sections in ** are either my reply or my mental reply! May I remind you that these people are real, they exist. And worse, they’re having children and driving cars. Though not necessarily at the same time.

“What’s in the stupid question book?”

“If I sew these patches on, will I ever be able to get them off again?”

“Do you sell clothes?”
*No mate, we just fill the window, and the rack you’re stood next to, with them to confuse the tax man*

(While standing in front of a 7 feet high, 9 feet wide WALL of them)
“Do you sell rolling papers?”

“Do you sell glass eyes?”

“Can you see through the coloured contact lenses?”
*No, it’s a Darwin test to see if you can survive being blind*

“Isn’t it illegal to sell bongs?”
*Yes mate, it gives me a sense of adventure, and joy when I get to the end of the day without being arrested*
“What?”

“This incense is only 10p in India”
*Well, pay the £500 flight to India and fill your boots with the joy of cheap incense*

“Can I try the contact lenses on?”

“This UV light, it’s not Ultraviolet, is it?”
*face palm*

(Trips over the incense box)
“Have you got any incense?”

“Do you sell bubbles?”
(Not bubble MIXTURE, oh no, just bubbles, in a goth shop, really?!*

“Do you have a key fob that looks like an orange?”

There you go, right there. That is a brief snapshot of why I’m filled with a murderous rage. And that is less than 1% of the questions we get. There is even a section of Frequently Asked Stupid Questions.
These are not children, these are adults. People who you apparently trust to drive your kids to school, to take you to work, to have access to your bank details. I seriously can’t be the only person who feels fear at the knowledge that these people are breeding.

Maybe there’s a place just for them, ah yes, Brain Trust Ltd.

Le face palm.

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