Working at the shopping mall is a Hell that only a small lot are lucky enough to experience, and I am one of those fortunate few. Some may wonder why retail workers are at times rude and inconsiderate. Finally the time has come for you to know the truth, and I am just the miserable, bitter, minimum-wage slave to spill the beans.

As one who is forced to spend more time in the mall than a teenage girl, or one of those elderly "mall-walkers", I can tell you that the reason we are often impatient, or "ornery", is very possibly your own fault. I have found the average consumer to be ill-informed about his purchases, to say the least. At times he is evil, possibly spawned from Satan’s loins, and brought to Earth to make my life, and the lives of my co-workers, miserable.

The worst of you are the White Women With Strollers, who we refer to as the DUBCUBES (W.W.W.S. = W³S = "DUBCUBES").

Do you believe you rule the planet? Every day I see you stomping through store after store with your enormous strollers, knocking down shoppers and display units in search of the elusive "bargain." You never say, "Hello," or "Thank you," or God forbid, "Pardon me." I've seen more politeness in a drive-by shooting.

I remember one night in particular, while shelving some merchandise, I heard the carriage coming my way. She rolled up on me and asked for a fifteen-percent discount. When I told her that I couldn’t just give price breaks to everyone who asked, she responded by telling me that she wasn’t "just anybody." She had shopped here before. She then threatened never to return if I didn’t mark down her merchandise.

Promise?

Of course, back at the register, my manager buckled and gave her the discount, apologizing profusely for my error in judgement--another victim of the SUV-driving, Baby-Gap-buying, smoothie-drinking, fake-ponytail-attachment-wearing DUBCUBE.

Jezebels!

I went home that night convinced that I would never go back; that I would take an early retirement from the retail trade. I went to bed with a heavy heart, thinking about a possible career move into the burger-flipping industry.

But that very night, Jesus ("the" Jesus!) came to me in a dream. He touched me on the shoulder and said that he had seen what had happened to me at work. He said he realized that this must have been happening for years now, and that God was sorry for creating the DUBCUBES.

He offered some advice: "When the women go on a rampage, speak to their husbands. They seem to be calmer, if not nicer, than their wives. Or, make scary faces at the children. Make them cry, then direct the DUBCUBE to Toytown."

I decided to give it another try. Needless to say, that didn't work for shit. The DUBCUBES are unstoppable, like the Goddamn Terminator, but worse.

Much worse.