Thankfully, they stopped manufacturing Twinkies.

I am a fat ho.  Indeed.  I am possessed of the qualities necessary both for ho-ery and for being considered of an above average body mass index.  Or, at least the little blond, talking Twinkie that came in my liquor store would have you believe.

One of my biggest flaws is that I tend to assume that people will have 'common sense', an ideal that can only be described as a misnomer.  If I planned on engaging in some sort of Government-controlled, or dangerous activity, such as learning to fire a gun of some kind, I would be sure to do a little research first and find out the laws surrounding such a practice.  Am I allowed to carry a gun in my pocket, for example, or do I need to wear a certain type of thigh holster advertising my penchant for shooting small projectiles at people using tiny explosions?
As anyone who has worked retail can testify, if you take as an example the average person, at least half the population will be stupider than this person, and against all laws of probability, every single one of that lower half will find some way to make an impression upon you once they have entered your store.  I'm sure that a study of murders by the killer's profession will list Cashier or Customer Service in the top 3.  It is part of my job to know exactly what The Law says in regards to who can purchase liquor and to inform you, the customer, of that as well.  I can neither change, nor ignore, The Law, much to the chagrin of my entitled customers.

When I'd first started, it was the middle of summer and my area can get quite hot, for Canada at least.  It was an afternoon, I forget which day of the week, and it had been a sunny one.  A gentleman (for, again, I always assume the best of people until they prove otherwise) entered my store and I greeted him with a happy, 'Hello!' The following exchange almost defies understanding.

Me: Hello!
Gentleman: Heil Hitler!
Me: Er.
Man: I was down swimming in the lake and I got kicked out by the police!
Me: Yeah, it's illegal, not to mention disgusting.
Guy: I didn't vote for that law!  It's fascism!  *grabs a bottle of whiskey off the shelf and comes to the counter to yell some more*
Me: Besides, ducks shit in there and it's a man-made lake so there's no drainage.
Angry fellow: I don't care!  I should be allowed to swim there if I want! *leans across the counter to continue yelling at me*
Me: I've had enough of this, *grabs bottle of liquor* You can leave now.
Douche-canoe: Fine!  Fuck you, then!  *continues to yell about fascism and Hitler*
Me: O.O

See, when I applied for the job, the description didn't mention anything about the volume of vitriol that would be spewed towards me.  I was coming from a job that can only be described as de-humanizing and soul-crushing, so it's not like I was a stranger to being yelled and sworn at for the offence of doing my job properly.  At least at this job I can stand up for myself and tell people to leave if they're acting like assholes.

So the other night I was hiding in the little kitchen area trying to scarf a quick bite to eat when I heard the door beeper.  I quickly swallowed, grabbed a drink and my phone and went out front to greet the person.  It was a young lass, most definitely within the range for ID-ing, and she wanted 'a bottle of blue label.'  I wasn't immediately familiar with what she meant, so I asked what it was and she said vodka, Smirnoff to be exact.  I pointed her in the direction of the bottle in question and took up my stance behind my till.  There's a small tv screen there where I can see what's going on outside from the cameras, and I spotted some more young looking kids hanging out around the front windows.

The young lady comes back to the counter with her bottle, a handful of money and ID.  Now, to me, this smells like the one of-age person in the group buying alcohol for the others who don't have ID or aren't old enough.  The Law says that I'm not allowed to sell to anyone who I suspect of buying with the intent to provide alcohol to someone under-age.  The only time someone can buy for someone under-age is if it's the minor's parents.  Yes, it's perfectly legal for a parent to buy their kid liquor, and for said kid to drink the liquor, provided the drinking is done at the family home and the kid doesn't go drunkenly stumbling about town after the desired level of intoxication is reached.

So I ask her.  'Are you with those kids out there?'
Her: 'One of them, yeah.'
Me, seeing there's clearly 3 of them outside huddled together: 'Alright, I'm gonna have to see ID from all 3 of those people, please go out and send them in.'
Her: 'Okay.'  Poor girl, probably scared as hell, probably rarely done something wrong in her life.

I watch them on the camera and I can tell the other 3 aren't pleased.  The tallest of them is clearly angry and comes to the door.  He pokes his head in and yells, 'IT'S OKAY, WE'LL JUST GO TO [Competitor across the street],' and he leaves.  Young lady comes back in and takes her ID and tells me that one of the people did, in fact, have ID, but the other two 'forgot their wallets.'  I'm sure you can hear the belief in my voice.  She quietly takes her money and ID and leaves.  I quietly think that they're perfectly welcome to go try their luck across the street.  In a way, they had almost done it right.  The ones without ID didn't come in the store, but unfortunately, I could still see them and since she admitted they were with her, I was stuck in the fact that I like having my job and not breaking the law.

A quiet hour or so passes.  Regular people come and leave happy with their beer in hand.  Again, the door beeper sounds and I emerge from the kitchen area.  There's an actual chair there, so it's comfier than sitting on a case of booze.  What do I find?  A young girl.  She's wearing the tightest grey lounge pants I've ever seen, has her long bleached hair done up in a poofy, high ponytail, and her overall impression is of a certain light golden coloured, over-sugared sweet treat that has recently gone out of production. She is standing about 2 feet in front of the door, staring at it in a manner that instantly reminded me of this picture:

I don't say anything so as to not break the magical spell the door has cast upon her, and slowly walk up to the till.  I tend to wait for eye-contact or acknowledgement of some kind, anyways, before greeting people.  Twinkie stares at the door a moment longer and then says, 'Just a sec,' and shuffle-drags her feet as she heads to the exit and leaves.  My right eyebrow was raised by this point and my only thought was, 'Oh.  Goody.  This is going to be fun.'

Twinkie comes back in, two similar age males in tow.  I say 'similar age', they all looked to be a few pubes shy of 16, but, hey, that's what ID is for, amiright?  They grab a 60-ouncer of Captain Morgan and bring it to the counter.  I give them my speech:

Valiant Up-holder of The Law: I'm gonna need to see ID from all three of you, please, before anyone can buy anything.

Wannabe Gangster #1 and Twinkie both apparently have their ID, but the Wannabe Gangster #2 shuffles away a bit and pats his pockets.

WG2: 'Aw, man, I left my wallet at home.'
VUotL: 'You wanna go home and get it, or... '
WG1: 'Yeah, we just live down the street, go home and get it man.'
VUotL:  'It's all good, I can wait.'
Twinkie: 'Aww, really?'
VUotL: 'Yeah.  Anyone comes in a liquor store, you've gotta have ID, even if you're not buying anything.'
WG2: 'Yeah, alright, I'll be right back.'
Twinkie: 'Let's just go to [Competitor across the street].'
WG1: 'Nah, let's wait.'

At this point, one of my regulars comes in and heads for his regular bottle.  I call a greeting, and at that moment, the remaining Wannabe Gangster and The Twinkie decide to leave, declaring once again their intention to go to the competitor across the street.  Honestly, I would be hard pressed to care.  They're more than welcome to go try their luck at breaking the law across the street, as I quite enjoy having a job.

Regular Customer, otherwise known as Not Too Shitty Henry, due to his preferred answer to me asking him how he is, is now at the counter and thus was graced by the display of 'class' that followed.

Twinkie: 'Ho!  Ho!' - as if she were doing a belated Santa Claus impression - 'Fat ho!  BITCH IS A FAT HO!!'  I'm sure her poofy ponytail was simply quivering in rage.

I had my back to her, which is good, because then she couldn't see me holding in my laughter, which I'm sure would have only served to further inflame her verbose repertoire of insults.  Not Too Shitty Henry is staring at her,  mouth dropped in shock.  I turn to him casually.  'Don't you wish you had my job?'  To which he responds, 'Want me to hit her with my car?'  'Sure, just make sure you do it far enough back that the cameras don't see you.'

And thus, The Fat Ho was created, forevermore to tell tales of hilarious stupidity, laughable happenstance and, hopefully, the occasional story of faith in humanity being restored and strengthened.