The Customer is Often Wrong

The single biggest issue with today's consumer: they can do no wrong.

Literally. Those five words have given the average human carte blanche to ride roughshod over these wretches that have volunteered their time to accept this abuse for paltry sums.

Oh, the five words. Of course: the customer is always right.

I beg to differ.

For this exercise, I will play the role of customer servant. Observe.

My fault: putting a can of spaghetti in the cereal aisle and leaving it there. You now have every right to make a huge stink. Knock yourself out. Get it out of your system. Whatever terrible, horrible nightmare of a day you've just experienced, please take it out on me. I have nothing better to do than taste your pain.

Your fault: Yelling at the cashier when something you thought was 3/99 cents is actually an entirely different price. She doesn't set the prices. She's a girl running a basic computer and thinking about everything else in the world OTHER than your issues with the baked beans. Yelling at her will only upset both of you, exacerbate the situation, and make everyone in the lineup behind you hate you. Maybe they'll hate you because they recognize an ugly side in themselves, but right then, they'll hate YOU.

My fault: giving you a short espresso when you ordered a venti mocha. Whoops-a-daisy. Let me just make you a new one, and inconvenience you for a few more moments. If you've got enough time in your day to consume 500 calories of chocolate, whole milk and whipped cream, you've got enough time for me to make it. Hold your horses.

Your fault: Taking a sip of your so-called 'dry' cappuccino and slamming it down on the counter in front of you with a disgusted 'I said a DRY cappuccino!' See above to find easy, painless solutions if you can only find the patience to make it happen. My name is not Jeeves. I am not your slave. I did not pledge fealty to you or your forebears, swearing my life into an endless drudge of servitude. I do not bring a tithe of grain to your manor once a month so that I may continue to dwell in my leprosy-stained hovel on your seven hundred thousand hectares of land. I work in a coffee shop. A clever little cup sits in front of the till with a thinly-veiled beg for tips hidden as a joke taped to its edge. You may give me your spare change (minus the twonies and loonies) if I ask you a personal question and show a reasonable amount of interest. Let's just get through this, shall we? Pack the yelling and anger back into your 'Stuff I Haven't Dealt With and Need to Take Out On Someone I Don't Care About' box, and take your 'dry' cappuccino back to your Acura.
Next time you come in for your 'dry' cappuccino, I think I'll put a handful of coffee grounds into the bottom of a cup and fart in it. Dry roasted, just for you.

The customer is often right. Bad signs, lazy service, someone having a bad day, and at the end of it all, you are the one paying for the stuff.

Complain. Complain away. If it makes you feel better, make a stink. Just don't keep complaining, berating, and yelling until someone else feels stupid. You know when you've done it, and if you get a sick little swell of satisfaction from it, you need more help than I can offer.

Now, who do I have to kill to get some service around here?

Movie Review Wednesdays: Willow

Every Wednesday I will review a movie.
These will get better in time, I hope.
Not hope.  Swear.  I swear these will get better.
That being said, let's begin.
In future, I will also take requests and or suggestions for reviews, but for the time being, I will start with a nostalgic favourite: Willow.

The Skinny:  The world is in a dark time.  Nice start.  The evil queen, Bavmorda (terrifying, horrible lady with veins popping out all over her hands) is hunting down all the newborn girls (female version of the JC story, am I right?) to destroy the one who is prophesied (100 dollar word of the day) to overthrow her.  Enter Willow Ufgood (played by your favourite Ewok, Wicket) to save the day. 

Cast:
Willow...Warwick Davis (you might also recognize him as GRIPHOOK, that nasty little goblin)
Mad Martigan...Val Kilmer (about 200 pounds ago)
Sciorsia...Joanne Whalley (she dumped Val Kilmer about 250 pounds ago)
General Kale...Pat Roach (the big dude that gets chopped up by the plane in Raiders of the Lost Ark)
Bavmorda...Jean Marsh (I know literally nothing else about her, but she scared the crap out of me as a kid)

My grading scale:
A= Awesome
C= Crappy
H= How the heck did this get the greenlight?
W= Watch it now, it will change your life.

Grade for Willow: W

Willow gets a W because I am unfairly biased.  I watched this when I was eight, back in 1988.  The effects blew my mind, I wanted to be a Nelwyn, and all big people were Daikinis for a while.  It hasn't dated as well as other movies of the day, but I will always have a fond spot in my heart for Willow.  Next week's review will be less swayed by judge's childhood.

The Love of Old Music

I'm going to out myself here. 

I'm not a hipster.

I wouldn't know how to be hip if someone wrapped me in horn-rimmed glasses, a scarf and faux-hawked my hair into oblivion.  All the while off-the-beat dancing to some unpronounceably-named band from a small town in the midwest.

Rap is beyond me.

I get the message, or at least what the message was when there was a message.  I'm pretty sure Public Enemy, Grandmaster Flash, and early NWO weren't all about money, cars, and how sweet it is to be a rapper making fat cash.

That's all been said.

My question is for those poor, maligned miscreants like myself who have a soft spot in their hearts for retro music.  It doesn't have to be classic rock.  I don't pull my greasy hair into my eyes and weep for the nostalgic loss of Kurt. 

Old music is good.  Trust me.

Part and parcel of being a teenager is to hate all things your parents love, correct?

I think not.

T-Rex.  Bang a Gong.  Came out ten years before I was born, and I loved it the first time I heard it.

Paul Simon.  Anything he's ever done.  Most of it before I was born.  Amazing artist.

Sex Pistols.

Sabbath.

Zeppelin.

Mozart.

Beethoven.

Miles Davis.

Sam Cooke.  That dude can (could) sing.

These are just a few of the bands and artists that were awesome before I was born.  Many more were awesome in my early years, and admittedly so, fantastic artists emerge every day. 

I'm just a little tired of having someone's eyes roll into the back of their head when I admit to liking CCR. 

Another dude that could sing.  Can. 

Sugar-coating, Part One

I propose to remove all floral language from our day-to-day lives.

Instead of ordering a grande latte, I will now order a 'big milk.'

When I go out to clean my water feature, I will call it my 'puddle.'

Decor will now be 'stuff.'  As in 'look at my stuff.'

Pilates, yoga, P90X, aquarobics, cardio, and all other forms of exercise will go under the umbrella of 'working out.'

Brunch will be eliminated altogether.  Just stop it.

Chance of precipitation will revert to 'it's gonna rain.  Maybe.'

Canine companion will be 'dog.'

Now, you must excuse me.  I need to go and figure out how 'Facebook' became a verb.

What's In a Name?

Disclaimer:  These are the thoughts that pollute my brain most of the time.  My brain and I both apologize.

Connie.  Constance.

Bonnie.  Bonstance?

Jim.  James.

Tim.  Tames?  (or Jimothy for that matter.)

Brad.  Bradley.

Chad.  Chadley?

Bill.  William.

Jill.  Jilliam?

Nic.  Nicolas.

Rick.  Rickolas?  (or Nichard, I guess.)

Again, I apologize, but these are the things that keep me up at night.  That, and several cups of coffee.  And a two-year-old.

Bathtub Racing - Insane Tradition or Jolly Good Time

Bathtub racing.

This year marks the 44th anniversary of the first bathtub race in Nanaimo, BC, the birthplace of bathtub racing the world over.

A fun-filled event for the whole family involving fireworks, a parade, city-wide festivities and lest we forget, the tubbed racing itself.  Not a bad way to spend a weekend.

Tradition is a strange beast, is it not?  What one person might deem insane, another chalks it up as a necessary ritual on an otherwise dull July Saturday.  What possessed those first racers 44 years ago to strap the old clawfoot to a pair of waterskis, lash the whole thing to Grandpa’s Evinrude, and fling themselves pell-mell into the Georgia Strait?

Is it the same thing that sends Spaniards sprinting down the streets of Pamplona year after year?  I can only imagine that day. 

Pablo: Hey man, I’m bored.  What do you want to do?

Jose: Play cards? Do a little gardening?

Pablo: No.  Let’s go make some bulls crazy and then run away from them down narrow city streets.

Jose: Yes, I think that sounds like a good idea.  I will join you.

Traditions can hit much closer to home than the bathtubbers.  Why is it, year after year, that we choke down Grandma Hepzebah’s Christmas pudding?  Would you serve that mess any other time of year?  To your worst enemy?

You:  Ah, hello, Bobby the Bully from my third grade class who used to make fun of me for not having the right brand of shoes.

Bobby: Jim, hello.  I’d like to make amends.

You: Of course, of course.  May I offer you some pudding?

Bobby:  Ooh, yes please.

You:  It’s a generic sludge, choc-a-bloc with maraschino cherry carcasses, bits of nuts, I swear there are rocks in the recipe, at least gravel, and I’m going to soak the whole thing in enough brandy to get a whale shark drunk and light it on fire.

Bobby:  (moment of silence) Your shoes still suck.  (runs away)

We choke it down once a year, and then sneak away to various rooms in our celebratory houses to devour copious amounts of stocking chocolate to wash away the foul paste of Hepzebah’s Last Insult.

If you manage to see someone loading themselves into one of these bathtubs this year, or any year for that matter, send them well wishes.  They are following in the long-hallowed footsteps of insanity set before them by tradition, and our need to follow suit.

Next year, I’m going to tie a rope around a bull’s manly bits, tie myself to his back, and hope I can hold on for about eight seconds.  That should start something new.

Wait...that’s been done?

That Doesn't Make Any Sense

zAh ha!Welcome, one and all, and so far only one, me, but I can welcome myself, can't I?  Half the time I'm the most interesting person I'm talking to, so welcome, me!
All that being said, I would like to kindly welcome you to Maher's Bizarre Bazaar. 
If you haven't figured out that my last name is meant to rhyme with the rest of it, then more power to you, and you can go ahead and call me any old thing you'd like.
I am not here to offer sound financial advice.
I have no idea which colour chaise longue goes best with this season's water features. (read: couch/hose)
No great recipes (although I may provide some eventually, there is no guarantee for quality).
Romantic advice?  Not here.
No, my blog will most likely not help you in any way.  My intentions are simply to write about things I didn't know about before, in a way to become the least knowledgeable person about everything in the world.  Perhaps one day, the universe.
The topics will be mundane one day, epically bizarre the next.  I'll keep it clean, because I want this to be family friendly (even if the topic one day is how to gut and clean a Jovian landworm, it will be informative, educational, and no blue language, darn it).
So, there we are.  And there you are.  And there I is.  Am.