Jerks of the Week - June 28, 2010

Jerks of the Week for June 28, 2010


JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 1: Geriatrics at the Gym

If you've been reading Jerks of the Week for a while, you know how unbelievably awesome my gym is. From the lack of hot females, to the old naked guys walking around the locker room with their balls flailing everywhere, to the basketball courts that are rented out by communist soccer players, my gym is just packed things that make for great writing material.

As you may also know, I only go to this gym because of my friends and the fact that it's the only facility in the area that has a regulation-sized swimming pool. I like to swim because it's a great way to keep in shape. Unfortunately, my gym rents out the pool during the summer to snobby campers who poop and pee everywhere, leaving the members only one hour on Friday (11:45-12:45) to work out.

Fine. Whatever. Going to the gym at an inconvenient time once a week is no big deal. Or so I thought. When I stepped out of the locker room Friday morning (shielding my eyes from all the old-man balls of course), I was awestruck when I looked at the pool.

There were old people everywhere. And I'm not just talking about a couple of dozen old people. I'm talking like 60-70 geriatrics literally stacked on top of each other. Have you ever seen those movies that portray hell and have shots of people piled on top of each other reaching out for help? That's seriously what it looked like.

It took me about five minutes, but I finally picked out a lane with only six old people swimming in it. And I'm using the term "swimming" very loosely. Some of them were actually moving, but others were literally just floating there. I wasn't even sure if they were alive. The lifeguard didn't seem to care; she was more concerned with painting her toenails.

About half an hour later, I completed the most frustrating mile of my life. The 80-year-old men who were actually moving in my lane would just suddenly stop and talk to each other (probably asking where and who they are). Old Russian ladies constantly yelled at me for making too much "splishy splashy." Evading all of the Band-Aids, loose hairs and old-man skin was really annoying. But navigating through all the floating, rotting corpses in my lane was probably the toughest part.

At 12:45, the lifeguard chick told us to get out of the pool. Everyone obeyed, begrudgingly, except for this fat man who flopped down the pool staircase and just sat there for three minutes as the lifeguard shrugged her shoulders in confusion. Once those three minutes passed, the fat man rolled out of the pool and into the locker room.

Before I went to get changed (and subject myself to more old-man balls), I spotted my friend Gina, who runs the pool on weekdays. We were just talking, when a butch lady strolled out of the women's locker room. This lady, perhaps Zangief's mother, looked like she hunted bears in her day. She was wearing this awkward baby-blue bikini that made me gag because she had a gut. At any rate, the following conversation ensued:

Zangief's Mom: Oh iz pool closed? Can I svim just five minutes?

Gina: No, the pool is closed.

Zangief's Mom: Please, just four minute?

Gina: No, the pool is closed.

Zangief's Mom: OK fine, tree minute?

Gina: No, the pool is closed.

Zangief's Mom: Just two minute. I svim very fest (unlikely).

Gina: No, the pool is closed.

Zangief's Mom: I svim just six minute, bop ee bop and I done?

Gina: No, the pool is closed.

Zangief's mom eventually gave up. I don't know why she went from two to six minutes, but I guess that's how bear hunters negotiate.

At any rate, after praising Gina for laying down the law, I went into the locker room and then into the steam room. There was an old Russian guy in there wearing a weird-looking flower hat (not that there's anything wrong with that). As soon as I sat down, he began complaining about the pool hours.

"It gets verse every year. First zey give us tree hours, iz OK. Then two hours, iz bad. Now only one hours. Zey don't care about members. Zey... zey... spy on us. Like pwuh!"

"Zey spy on us?" Something obviously was lost in translation. I tried my hardest not to laugh when he said that. I know he meant "zey spit on us," but I don't know where spy came from.

As his rant was over, Zangief's mom stormed into the steam room. She started yelling at me until I assured her that I wasn't working at the gym. Like Russian Flower Hat Man, Zangief's mom went on a long rant about the gym.

"Vee need to make some noise and complain to director of club. If nasing happen, vee vill unplug refrigerator (I think that's what she said) and then unplug every day! Vee all need to do zis!"

Hear that, gym? The old people are going to revolt and unplug your refrigerators every day! And who knows, maybe they'll actually do this quickly instead of just floating around and looking dead.

JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 2: Carmen the Customer Service Rep

Speaking of refrigerators, Sears has really been pissing me off. I'm moving into a new house, so I bought a new refrigerator, washer and dryer last Sunday. The guy who sold those appliances to me was pretty helpful and even gave me some discounts I wasn't even aware of.

However, for the past five days, Sears has repeatedly called me for directions to my house. What's so bad about that? Well, they keep calling before 11 a.m., and I'm never up that early (I work late updating this site). They keep leaving the same message, and it's the same woman each time. At this point, if you're that chick (who sounded kinda hot), wouldn't you think to call at a different time instead of between 10:20 and 10:45 every single day?

The hot Sears chick did leave a number, so I called it on Tuesday. After pressing a long series of buttons (do we really need an English-Espanol option?) I was finally connected to a human being. I knew I was in trouble though when the lady answered, "Hello dis iz Carmen how may I asseest you senor ariba ariba?"

OK, she didn't say "senor" or "ariba," but she had this super Spanish accent that was difficult to understand. Unfortunately, she couldn't comprehend what I was saying either, and it took me about 10 minutes to explain that I needed to give Sears directions to my house.

Carmen: What city is your house in senor?

Me: Feasterville, Pennsylvania.

Carmen: Ah is zis in New Jerrzey?

Me: No, it's in Pennsylvania.

Carmen: Ah si and what intersection iz it near?

Me: Well, you drive down Bustleton Avenue until...

Carmen: Did you say Buffalo?

Me: No, Bustleton.

Carmen: Can you spell zis Buffleton street senor?

** Frustrated because it's one of the largest streets in Northeast Philly. **

Me: B-U-S-T-L-E-T-O-N

Carmen: B-U-F-T?

Me: B-U-S-T...

Carmen: Ah senor, we are having problems, can you give phone number so we can call back?

So, I gave Carmen my phone number, but Sears has since continuously called during that 10:20-10:45 window. And I'm reluctant to call myself because I don't want to get trapped into another conversation with Carmen again.

Seriously, if you're going to hire someone to help on the phone, wouldn't you at least make sure they speak English somewhat well? Shouldn't that be some sort of requirement?

I can almost hear the artsy-fartsy new-age hippies yelling, "It's America, she doesn't have to learn English!" after reading that previous sentence, but that's just silly and naive. If you're going to work as a customer service rep over the phone, you have to be able to communicate with people who call up. You just have to be able to do that. It's in the freaking job description. Does a dental office hire a person who has no idea how to fill cavities? Does a sports network hire an analyst who can't keep himself from butchering the English language every two seconds? Oh wait, ESPN did that with Emmitt Smith.

At any rate, it's Saturday evening as I'm writing this, and I still haven't spoken to a normal person from Sears yet. My delivery is due Tuesday, so it looks like I won't be getting that refrigerator for a while. On the bright side at least, Zangief's mom won't be able to unplug it.

JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 3: Samantha the Shift Manager

If you're unfamiliar with what a Wawa is, it's an awesome convenience store in the Eastern Pennsylvania-New Jersey region. It's basically a 7-11 and a deli combined. They make awesome food, which makes it the ultimate destination for people coming home from a bar at 2 a.m.

Wawa makes its own iced tea, lemonade, fruit punch, etc. and I was in the mood for the latter last Sunday. So, I made the 5-minute car ride over to my local Wawa.

As I parked my car, some idiot driver nearly crashed into me because he for some reason felt the need to cruise through empty parking spaces to get out of the parking lot instead of using the predetermined path they set up for cars. I was already in a bad mood because I just listened to Jay-Z ruin yet another song on the radio (Forever Young), so this just made things worse.

** Side note: I may go into this in more detail in a future Jerks of the Week entry, but Jay-Z absolutely annoys the hell out of me. He's such a talentless hack who has somehow made a living off of taking old songs and making them 100 times worse. There's no plausible reason why he should be successful. Essentially, he's the Keanu Reeves of music. **

However, I forgot all about Jay-Z and his crappy rapping as I entered Wawa and looked at the counter. There hasn't been an attractive worker at this particular Wawa in a few years, but that apparently wasn't the case anymore. The chick working the register was this cute girl with reddish-brown hair and some freckles.

I grabbed my fruit punch and proceeded to the register, opting to get into this chick's line (her nametag read Samantha - shift manager) instead of the old lady's (I've had enough of old people for one week). Unfortunately, I quickly learned that Samantha the Shift Manager's personality didn't even come close to matching her looks...

Me: Hey, how ya doing?

Samantha: Ugh.

Ugh? What did I do to deserve an "ugh?" Did I have a booger on my face?

At any rate, she rang up the fruit punch, and it was $2.02 or $2.03, or something. Don't you hate it when that happens?

Me: Crap, I don't have any pennies on me.

Samantha: Beh.

She actually went "beh" like she didn't care. Most cashiers will just round it down so they don't have to give you 97 or 98 cents in change. But not her royal hotness. I handed her three bucks, and sure enough, she gave me about a dozen coins in return.

Me: I'll see ya later.

Samantha: Blegh.

To summarize, she said three words to me: ugh, beh and blegh. But before you try and console me, know that I'm extremely encouraged. She started with three-letter words early on, but went all the way up to a five-letter word at the end! I'm very confident that soon enough, she'll be saying six-letter words to me. Maybe seven if I'm lucky.