Gold Crown Liquors Employees: Please Stop Creeping me the F Out

Hi, I’m one of your semi-regular customers. I come in approximately four times per month, sometimes to purchase cigarettes (when I allow myself to be an official smoker instead of just rudely bumming them off of my friends) and other times to purchase a six pack of decent beer. I generally don’t want to make much conversation, and I usually have a general game plan as to what I’d like to purchase. It’s a fair relationship that we have where we exchange a few bucks to fuel my vices. So what I’d like to ask of you, Gold Crown Liquors Employees, is this: Please stop creeping me the fuck out.

I get it; you’re trying to build a friendly rapport with the Wrigleyville neighborhood. But the thing is, even when I did go in every day to buy cigarettes, you didn’t remember me. So why pretend to recognize me now during my weekly-ish visits? And also, why ask me if I have the day off? I clearly do have the day off, as I do most days, as I am a portion of the large population that has recently been laid off. Perhaps we should tread lightly around this “day off” question when someone is purchasing alcohol at 4 p.m. One could assume that perhaps circumstances haven’t necessarily been ideal in the working world.

And seriously, why do you stare at me like that? I don’t like to be raped, and, on a lesser level, I prefer not to be eye-raped. We’ve already established that you don’t remember me, so this creepy staring cannot be attributed to any sort of demographic/marketing research that you’re secretly doing as you watch me as I pick up my Spaten six pack. It is abundantly clear that you are most likely staring at my chest as opposed to the beer I have in hand, and I politely request that you at least put out a little bit of an effort to hide this very obvious offense. Once again, I’m paying you a pretty penny for this alcohol, perhaps $3.00 more than I would had I trekked to Binny’s, so I’d appreciate if you leave the mental fingerblast to your non-descript wife sitting behind the counter mumbling about what needs to be stocked.

And speaking of non-descript, where the F are you from? I realize that on some levels I’m disgustingly sheltered and fairly xenophobic by some standards. But I’d like to think that I can normally guess at least a basic geographic region based upon your features and accents. But seriously, all I can come up with is Creepsylvania, where it is apparently cool to stare, creepily ask how my day is going and comb your hair never.
I like having the convenience of your store right by my house, and it’s especially useful now that poor Leo had to close down his pantry. But I would like to politely request that you turn the creep down about seven notches, since you’re at about an 11 already. I have no problem paying the extra few bucks for a decent beer because of the convenience in locale, but I prefer not to leave feeling as if I may have just been videotaped with the purpose of later masturbation. I do dig your UNBEATABLE KEG PRICES!!! and always smile when I see the van trolling around the neighborhood as it’s good to know that someone is getting drunk off of Miller High Life near my apartment. But I do get genuinely concerned as to what other operations you may be running out of this mostly windowless white van.

So in conclusion, GCLE (as I will call you due to time and space constraints) please stop creeping me the fuck out. I’d like to continue purchasing late-night bad-decision alcohol from you, and if I fall off the smoking wagon again, I’d really like to guiltily buy my Parliament Lights without having to wonder, “Was he seriously massaging his bulge while asking me how my day has been so far? Seriously?”