A plea to the employers of millennials
Please. Raise the minimum wage to $15/hr. Why? Because it’ll likely end up unsustainable and you’ll replace us all with machines. And right now, I am completely on fucking board with that.
I have been abused, mocked, humiliated, and threatened during my time in retail. People intruding into my personal space is only the least of it. I’ve had a manager spreading ugly rumors about my personal life because I’m “naive” and “stuck up.” (His definition of stuck up? Being tired during the night shift. Apparently this proves I’m weak and can’t hack it, thus coddled and snooty. I am not even fucking kidding right now. He said it to my face.)
I’ve had people screaming at me, calling me a lazy idiot, when I fail to notice them right off the bat because I’m busy answering the phones, manning the register, and working in the aisles all at once.
Day shift managers shift their duties onto us because they oh-so-diligently refuse to clock overtime hours that would be expensive to the company–leaving us to work the overtime and stand the heat.
People leave biohazards jammed in the sink, hidden on the shelves, sitting in the aisles. People come charging in at 1:58 AM, wanting to purchase an armload of liquor from the liquor section when state law prohibits sales after 2 AM and the liquor department takes five minutes to unlock. (This is my fault, by the way.) People sop up stolen tequila with diapers and, yes, leave them for us to find. People get in fights in the aisles and the cops have to be called. People accuse me of racism for asking for clarification. Note: I don’t hate you for the color of your skin, I’m just not very strong on AAVE and need to be sure what kind of cigarettes you wanted!
So please. Replace us with machines. Yes, it will suck for those of us being unemployed. But right this moment, I welcome our new automated-checkstand overlords, because it will piss all these people off.
The screaming bitch can’t argue with a machine. A computer lets you into the liquor section then refuses to sell you the alcohol because whoops, now it’s after 2 AM, can’t do it, doesn’t care. Calling a robot a racist, a retard, or any of the various charming modern equivalents of “poxy whore” won’t move it a fucking inch. And the managers can sexually harass Checkerbot 5000 to their hearts’ content, but it will never give them the satisfaction of flinching.
This is how the machine war begins. Not with a bang, but with a “May I help you?”