Pointless having staff in these places.
They seem to only employ thickos who cant talk to answer a question, or 6-week-old fetuses, With huge pulsating zits. You see them scrabbling around but you can’t catch the little fookers.I mean your eyes meet & they scarper.
I hate the places. You can’t find anything. They have every colour of paint imaginable, except the one you want. The queues at the till stretch several miles & the whore on the till always closes it,when it is your turn. She also smiles at you as she does it. I want to ram a door down her throat.
The only positive thing about them is the humungatarian rows you hear couples have in there. The best was yesterday. He was adamant they needed red wall plugs. She was positive they needed brown. I mean just buy both the fookers. They are merely pence. Anyhoo after 5 minutes of screaming, she got her own way. He had the strop & I just knew they were in for a nasty evening. Made me feel all warm inside did that.
Occasionally if you are lucky you get to witness a toddler getting battered. If not by the junk left lying around, then by the irate parents. I prefer it when the mum loses it. I like the way they often try to hide the fact they are beating their baby. Eg. Bashing them with a tin of paint, then stating, "Bloody place is a death trap. Did you see that tin fall on my buba?"
I nod eagerly, stand in the queue for 3 hours. Wait for the slut to close it. Join another queue. Take my wibbly wheeled trolley into a few parked cars. Load up the colour paint I did not really want & fookoff home.
