Yes, I Am Aware That This Blog's Tagline Implies A Political Theme.

I know that I'm supposed to regale all of you with witty commentary about political issues, but I've been off the political scene for some time now, and frankly, all of my subscriptions are piling up in Google Reader, and admittedly, I am never going to read them ever again. Clearly, I was kidding myself when I subscribed to 12 sites about Medicare reform.

No, this post is dedicated to my brethren in customer service.

I am a color consultant for a high-end cosmetics, skincare, and fragrance retailer. Yes, it's true, I spend a lot of my day standing around preening myself and having my 10-out-of-10-on-the-Kinsey Scale coworkers tell me how attractive I am. But it's not like I walked out of my walnut-paneled Capitol Hill office and into the fashion industry. Bitch, please. You fuckers have no idea how many hours I've spent reading about make-up artists and fashion designers. I can discuss at length the pros and cons of dimethicone and parabens. I know the history and significance of every major brand in my store. I have quasi-coital conversations about the genius of Kevyn Aucoin. So maybe every one of you assholes who walks into my store and begs me to teach you how to "do a smoky eye" could give me the benefit of the fucking doubt.

When I tell you that the oil-free, preservative-free, paraben-free tinted moisturizer isn't going to make you break out, seriously......who the fuck are you to argue with me? Please insert your brains and take into consideration the possibility that your skin is congested because you don't fucking clean it. And don't complain to me when you're not getting enough coverage out of your water-based makeup. It's fucking water-based. Who are you kidding? I offered to spackle your face with a healthy layer of professional-grade pancake and you looked at me like I had nine heads. Really? Then don't complain when you can still see your fucking disgusting pores.

Additionally, don't come into my store and ask me where L'Oreal is. This isn't a fucking Rite Aid. For future reference, we don't sell Sally Hansen, either. Kindly note that there is nothing under $15 in the store. Find a Wal-Mart.

And as much as I appreciate you telling me what great skin I have and how I'm so lucky that I don't have to wear make-up, you are all full of shit. They pay me to look like this. You're diluding yourself if you think I don't spend an hour applying 12 different moisturizers and serums to my face twice a day. I'm probably wearing more make-up than you are. The difference is that I fucking know what I'm doing and know how to prevent myself from looking like I just walked off the stage at the MGM Grand. There's a reason you're sitting in my chair.

And I swear to fucking god, if one more of you douchebags walks in at 9pm and asks to see the manager so you can complain about some fabricated bad service just so I'll be forced to give you a complimentary consultation, I will purposely give you pink eye.

And yes, we talk about you over our headsets when you're being moronic prats. I'm not working here because I love telling you how much that disgusting Hilary Duff fragrance costs even though the price tile is right in front of you. I'm working here because my life will be much more pleasant if I can convince you to put some industrial-strength concealor on those black and blue half-moons you're cultivating under your eyes. I would love if you bought the glycolic peel and the capillary constrictor, too, so I'd never ever have to touch your face again.

But I won't hold my breath.