Hello, Christmas Shoppers.
We, the retail workers, write this letter to you in a time of dire need.
You see, our feet are burning. Our ears are ringing. Our minds are playing a monotonous loop of Mariah Carey‘s All I want for Christmas. We haven’t seen our families in weeks. We’re existing solely on a diet of Schnitz chips and Coke Zero. WE ARE BLOODY EXHAUSTED, OKAY?
You see, overnight trading hours (AKA 36 hours of pure, unadulterated hell) are imminent. And after that? Boxing Day (AKA the day we fight the urge to stick coat hangers in our eyes).
That brings me to our collective plea to you, Christmas Shoppers. You see, you can help us.
Why? Because you’re the ones who are SLOWLY BLOODY KILLING US.
Listen up, ya filthy animals. We are sick of you. Yes, y-o-u. We’ve had enough, and it’s time for you to hear the cold hard truth.
See that neatly folded pile of T-shirts in perfect size order? We just spent the last 37 minutes immaculately sorting them to our narky area manager’s impossibly high standards. When you waltz over, and fling them all over the shop and floor, a small but very real piece of our soul dies.
This is not a farm. Have respect for the stock and try to retrieve your size without leaving the area looking like a crazy-ass mountain goat on Stilnox was just let loose.