Words I'd Love To Destroy

They're everywhere. Gas station and convenience store attendants, TARGET employees, you name the business, and you're bound to meet the "language butcherers."

Just who are the "language butchers"? Allow me to enlighten you from personal, first-hand frustration. These are, for the most part, American teenagers on their first job--working out of spite for their parents making them actually "do" something, or these young people want to feel important to their cliques and talk about how we, the older, money-spending generations that have paid for their chances to work, miserable. And buddy oh buddy, can they make my life and yours a walk in Hades if only for about 30 minutes, the length of time it takes each one of them to check you out at their given business. And you only have one pack of razor blades to pay for. See where this is going?

Im not a bigot. Nor am I a racist. I despise bigots and racists to the bone, but I spend hours upon hours wondering where do these annoyances come from? Who creates them to reek havok on the innocent customers of America? Oh, don't get your ire on at me. These are great-looking kids--the girls always have their bottle-bleached hair prepared just right and their three layers of eye makeup looks just like a girl on Tiger Beat, the magazine for teens everywhere. And the teen boys always have a lip or two pierced and hair well into their eyes--how do they actually "see" what the price is for my razor blades anyway? I might be over-paying! And if I should form my mouth to ask, "Is that the right price?" I instantly get a sneer, a sigh of 'what's his problem?' and their hands go to the hips and eyes roll right on cue as if they are programmed by a mad scientist and computer software engineer in a secret location in New Jersey to do this to us, the older consumers.

Oh yes. The girls always have chewing gum snapping like an M-60 machine gun used in Desert Storm. It gets on my nerve (notice I didn't say nerves?). I didn't use nerves because of these particular people on earth and in businesses, I have but one nerve left. Honest to God. And please don't label me as a George Carlin disciple--although that wouldn't be the worst label I could wear, but I'm 57 years old. Worked for my allotted time until I became disabled and I didn't ask for this disease called fibromyalgia, my good buddy who's with me all the time. He never takes a day off or a vacation. For the most part, ask my friends who DO tell the truth that I'm not a loud guy. I don't call attention to myself in public--even when I'm doing a good deed for a homeless person or giving to the Red Salvation Army Santa and his Red Bucket. No sir. Glory Hogs are not my favorite people. I choose to just live as quietly and peaceably among men as I can. Thanks, Apostle Paul for that personal scripture you wrote just for me.

I'm closing now with a typical scenario of me going to Kmart to get some Gillette razor blades. I shave a lot. Thus the razor blades. I cannot financially afford a pretty female barbering specialist to visit my home to shave me. And secondly, my Christian wife, Pamela, would hit the roof at me having an attractive lady of 22 years of age, blonde hair, decent IQ, shaving my face. "What? You're spending "our" money on a lady barber?" Pamela would scream and then get out her trusty calculator to balance our checkbook at the speed of light. She's that fast. No lie.

I go to Kmart mostly in a good mood. Since Gillette razor blades are all I want, I don't spend too much time shopping the aisles for things I don't need. I'm a in and out type of shopper. Guys, for some reason, were wired by God at birth for that trait. I appreciate Him for that also. Now I've found the razor blades. A spark of happiness shoots through my heart. Or was it a mild heart attack? I don't know. I didn't attend Vanderbilt University at Nashville to become an M.D. Wish I had though. Right now, that wisdom I would have acquired at Vandy would really pay off.

With Gillette razor blades in hand, I walk with a spring in my step to the "Cavern of Doom," the check out line--a place who's employees could humble the most hardened United States Marine. I tell you no lie folks. Uh, oh! I'm next. I cannot believe this. It's usually a 30-minute wait even when there are only two people with one item each, ahead of me. There she is, the "Language Butcherer," glaring at me with glazed-over eyes, bottle-bleached hair brushed--this time, turning the pages of Vogue Magazine while snapping her gum. I lay my Gillette razor blades on the black rubber mat that moves when she hits the secret button. She is captivated by the pictures in her magazine. I clear my throat as a civil symbol that I'm needing to pay for these Gillette razor blades and leave.

With the grace of molasses and speed of molasses, I might add, she takes the Gillette razor blades and rubs them over the laser-LED, check out system of lights and then the famous "beep" goes off. I'm semi-happy as I reach for my wallet for money to give "Confusion Queen" her money. Suddenly, without word of warning, she picks up the Gillette razor blades and mumbles a "huhhhh," and then does something completely unnatural: she gets on the always-loud and staticky PA system to my gasp of surprise and says, " . . .uhhh, like, I have, like, a package of you know, like, these, razeeeer blade thingies, uh, like, need a, like, you know, (sigh), price thingy check!" I stand and return the glare of disgust at her. I don't speak a word because troublemakers and lovers of free speech cannot speak honestly in public in America for fear of the police and later anger management classes. "What's this," I ask nicely. "Whutt?" bottle-bleach blonde replies snappin gum right on time.

"You already check the price. I heard the beep," I try to explain to her as her face is glazed over as if being controlled by her creator in New Jersey. Actually, her secret headset, placed there by her engineers in New Jersey are saying to her, "That's it, Buffy! Make this guy angry enough that he leaves red faced. Keep up the confusion, Buffy" I cannot prove this or disprove this. The engineers in New Jersey are far beyond intelligence levels of even the C.I. A. or Bill Gates.

A scratchy voice over the P.A. says 'something', a code that only Buffy can understand and she says, "Like, uh, (snap, snap, gum), that's gonna be, like, you know, like, (gum snap or two), $3.78. Cash, like, or check, uh, what'll it, like, be?" "Cash," I humbly reply feeling the cash in my trembling hands. I've been in Buffy's check-out line for now 25 minutes and there are hordes of people behind me with huge amounts of items in their baskets. Let me stop here for a minute and ask, "I see empty cashier lines way to the end of the store. But the line I'm in, Buffy's line, is getting full fast. Why?" Just be thinking of this story next time you go to Kmart to shop for Gillette razor blades who, by the way, are not paying me to talk about their product.

"Uh, like, see, like, I can't take a bill over a five dollar, like, bill," Buffy sternly says.

"Okay, I chuckle to cover my anger, here's four-one-dollar bills. Will that work?" I ask with fading hope for some decent treatment in my eyes.

"Uh, like, Im gonna, like, see, you know, talk to the, like manager guy thingy, like, wait here," she says and walks as slow as a hundred-year-old tortoise to see "Chuck" the Ivy League manager. Then Buffy halfway smiles, returns to her post and replies, "Like, got driver's license-my manageeeer, like, you know, is doing his part, like, uhhhh, (gum snap), to help Homeland Security prevent false mo . . .mo . . .like, yeah, moneeeeeee, from gettin' in our, like, country." I'm stiff with anger. My face is the face of someone passed on to Glory Land. Then, reluctantly, I show Buffy my driver's license.

I've now been in Buffy's "Torture Line" for 48 minutes. The C.I.A. could have used Buffy's check-out line as a way of torturing, oops, I mean, interrogating the 9-1-1 guys who blew up the World Trade Center. I can assure you, they would have talked right away. Buffy takes my four dollars in one's and asks, "Like, you do want, like, you know, me to, like sign you, like, like, up, for our, you know, like, senior citizen's dis...like, count, card?" I shake my head gesturing "no." I now cannot form words due to the frustration caused by Buffy The Language Butcherer.

I did return home that fateful day and try to call their Customer Hotline to lodge my complaint at the unneeded treatment I received at their store, but the girl who struggled to talk and understand me at the same time must have been Buffy's BFF . . .best friend forever. I hung up in mid-complaint.

I would, if Congress would listen to me and for a brief moment, honor my one, simple request of destroying words and phrases like: LIKE, YEW KNEW, LOOK, WHUT, NO WAY, WAY, THINGY, OMG, BFF, IKR,OOPSIE, DOWN WITH IT, UP WITH IT, WORD, WORD UP, GIVE YA THE 411 ON DAT, DAT, DIS, FOR REALS, and friends, I could go on but I would need another hub.

Like, it's tough living in the present, but remembering the past when REAL words and REAL American Language, proper usage of American Language was taught in schools.

I give up.