No matter where you go to get your music, you can always bet there is one employee trying way too hard to remind you that (a) they hate their goddamn normal job – which they only keep to pay half their rent for the scum loft they share with their burn-out boy/girlfriend (named Eli or Riverrain or something insane). And besides they have to share a kitchen so it’s totally not fair, and (b) they have better things to do like not sleep, drink heavily, forget to do laundry, and generally just keep being a bad-ass to everyone everywhere everyday – “And if you don’t believe them, check their wallet – it’s on a chain!”
When I see these folks, my thoughts run the gamut from Why would someone purposefully shave their head, yet wear a slipknot beanie in the middle of summer? to Are his/her eyes tattooed? My feelings are such: modern rebels are just about the biggest a-holes this side of the Jersey Shore. Raging against soap isn’t productive to sticking it to the man, it just makes my bus ride worse when you fall into the seat beside me.
No amount of obvious sociopathic traits can ever hinder their rule over the store . . . which leaves them in charge of restocking, pricing, shelving, and staying away from your stupid elfin face. They can often be seen hurriedly walking, trying to remember if they have any copies of the new DREKSLOTH* or ARJCAISM* as their disdain for humanity cripples their ability to work the cash or pay attention to customers.
For everything they may lack socially, they make up for it in a way too serious, Howard Hughes/Rain Man approach to dividing what goes where.
If you still don’t know who I’m talking about, you’re more than likely a CHUD, or (gulp) dating one . . . RUN! Run, you fool, while there’s still time!
If you do have a CHUD in your favourite record shop, be sure to avoid them like AIDS and go to a safety zone – probably between Neil Diamond or Best of the ’80s, and for the love of GOD, lose the cardigan, that’s like red to a bull!
The Lifecycle of a Chud
9:12 a.m. – Get to work late because of . . . (sigh) whatever. It’s twelve minutes.
9:29 a.m. – Enter bathroom for mandatory 20 minute fake morning break. I think Bert the manager is calling for me. Maybe I should cut it short.
9:49 a.m. – Screw Bert, I’ll give it five more minutes.
10:14 a.m. – Look at new stock arrivals. All shit. I hate life (sigh).
10:30 a.m. – Who the f*** put James Taylor behind Maiden!
11:20 a.m. – No one noticed my new eyebrow piercing. . . .
11:22 a.m. – No, NO! Apothilysick is CRUST/THRASH not Emo-core and GOZERSUCK goes in FINNISH BLACK not CHURCHBURNERS!! Amateurs . . . .
11:27 a.m. – Re-enter bathroom, wipe tears from eyes.
11:28 a.m. – Quit job. (Sigh) whatever.