As in Mouse (Titmouse?)

My register froze. It does this from time to time, but this was the fourth time today, and there had been a string of difficult customers. Venting my frustrations, I eululated a low-volume high-pitched cartoon-Cartman-calibur "Meeeeeeeeeh!" from my pouty face. When the display screen kicked back into gear, with my pussface I called out "Next!", only to look up and see a woman in her mid-to-late-forties who had been botoxed into a perminent pussface under her bleached blonde straw mop. When she spoke from her pixienose she berated me in a perfect reflection of my whiney impression.
"You know I think you're very rude and I'm calling corporate to complain, what's your name?"
"Minnie," I said. "Next."

Free Wanks Ick.

At least five times a day, there have been hang-up phone calls to the store phone. The caller stays on the line long enough to hear us say our monotone bisentence speach about the store they've reached, the big promotion going on, whom is speaking.
Hang-ups happen, it's a large store with a public phone number. But a few of us have heard breathing before a click. One girl swears she heard a moan. None of the phones have caller i.d.

Now, we always make the new girl pick up the phone.

It skips a generation.

I saw two people, a man and a women, both in their mid forties, and both pushing themselves in rented wheelchairs. A 7-or-so-year-old boy trailed along with them, on foot. And I wondered, why isn't the boy in a wheelchair? Then I decided, wheelchairs are probably a recessive gene.

Well, maybe she is.

"No, you don't get it - this is why I won't marry you. You're. Wrong," a Don Juan commented to his sweetheart over his blackberry.

The comedy is in the usage, you see.

"So I said 'Don't you fucking understand that? You can't fucking exchange it! It's a fucking prom dress! Read your fucking receipt, and get it through your fucking head!'", a classy lady explained to her friend over coffee and window shopping.

They're really 60 year old dwarfs.

A pack of 13-year old cool kids were walking. One was adjusting himself. The other calls: "Hey Sully, why don't you stick your whole hand down there?"

Still messing with the four inches of Tweetiebird shorts killroying themselves out of his Levi's, he yells back in the most New York way, "My boxers fuggin' itch, whatayawant me to do about it?"

Capitalism perplexes the youth.

Mall landlords usually jazz up vacant lots. Advertising, coverings, window displays; anything to beautify what would otherwise be a big empty dark reminder of the current hard times when many companies just can't afford the rent.

A young entrpeneur passing by the store commented to her companion "I don't understand why there's all these curtains. They should just put more stores in."