Damn you to hell, Macy's

I woke up early today to brave Macy's jewelry store. Mom has very specific jewelry needs, and though I've been to nearly every store in the city that sells jewelry, I have had no luck. This means I will be spending time at the Rotterdam Square Mall on Christmas Eve, where I spent a good four years slaving away at Arby's in the food court, and later worked at a blown glass kiosk, where I broke at least one piece per day. Good times.

The thing about Macy's jewelry store is that the people who work behind the counter are evil. Extremely, wholly evil. Asking how much something costs will get you a withering look guaranteed to make you shrink at least two inches. After one leathery, bespectacled old woman with a disturbing dye job brought me near tears, I actually said, out loud, "fuck this place" and left in search of solace in the form of fast food.

I had already passed McDonald's, which was my first choice. I thought about going back, but realized that on a day before a four-day weekend, it's really important to actually arrive at the office at some point. So I stopped at Burger King for a bacon, egg and cheese Croissan'wich®. Imagine my surprise when I examine the bag said Croissan'wich® is in and I see this:



Huh? Is the BK marketing department smoking pot and passing around and huffing a bag that once held a cheeseburger? What kind of message is this? I can only hope this particular messaging resulted in the termination of the marketing director, and now they just have a buttload of bags to unload. For the record, I did not save the bag to inhale grease an hour or two from now. In fact, the nausea that has infiltrated my body is reminder enough. I don't blame Burger King for my nausea, though. No, I blame Macy's. Bastards.