I want to talk about customer service

Hello I want to talk about customer service.  I want to talk about customer service, because there are few instances in my life I can remember where I can walk into a room, be instantly uncomfortable, but not be able to pinpoint the source of it.  When I walk into a retail store, it is a race between what is going to ruin my day first: the customers I have to talk to, the coworkers that I hate, the management team I can't stand dealing with, or new company policy that was seemingly generated by a retarded kid after he was spun in circles on a playground for six hours.

I can't talk about this for stand-up comedy, though.  You know why?  Because I would have a really difficult time making people relate to how much we all suck.  I would in essence have to stand on stage and say: "hey fuck-ups, did you ever have a time where you were a huge fuck-up and ruined some innocent person's day because you felt entitled?"  Then the whole audience would be lost while I hurf durfed my way through some angry diatribe about retail.  Here is that diatribe:

Screwed if you do, screwed if you don't.

I had developed this awesome coping mechanism of "not giving a shit" when I sold things.  The whole, like, "I'll give it my all, but if my all doesn't work, I'll relax and let it be."  But when I do that, the management calls me into the office and says "hm, well you know we have noticed that you're not Mr. Happy-go-lucky anymore, can you tell us why that is?"  I don't know, it could be because I'm in a professional environment, being identified by management as "Mr. Happy-go-lucky?"  And it was announced like they had uncovered some grand espionage by me.  I would walk into work everyday looking like the most depressed guy on earth for six months straight, and they finally decide "hey folks, maybe something is up here?"

They are keen, so very keen.  I can't slip anything past these people.  I tried really hard to conceal the rain-cloud that was following me around by wearing one of those fuckin' bearskin grenadier hats that a british royal guard wears, and I only polished my suicide-revolver during my break, but somehow they were still able to figure it out that I wasn't too happy.  Even my more subtle indicators like attempting to relocate to another store for five months while simultaneously requesting certain shifts on certain days that would make my life a hell of a lot easier.

I can't imagine a person choosing this life, which is probably why they look miserable most of the time, as well.  It could be that, or maybe it is the constant stream of shit-kickers that walk through the doors high on the idea that if they have a bad experience, they are allowed to treat other people like dirt.  "My [whatever dumb shit I bought] doesn't do [whatever dumb shit I expected it to do] and because of that, I am entitled to take my anger out on you."

I get tired just ranting about it, I can't imagine someone enjoying jokes about it.