There ain't no stopping this train to Complain-ville.

I've been on a roll with the bitching and bellyaching lately. I'm rolling twenties. But I feel that it is my responsibility in life--my destiny, if you will--to gripe about everything, no matter how trivial, so that the rest of the world doesn't have to. Nothing escapes my disapproval. And through my steadfast dedication to discontent, others may be free to focus on the happier aspects of life's rich pageant. It's a service I provide for the benefit of the universe, and I do it all for free.

Now that the preamble is out of the way, I hate Guitar Center employees with a vehemence often reserved for fascist dictators and members of the KKK. I hate their smug condescension and their blatantly sexist attitudes. Every time I walk in to a Guitar Center with a male, I'm completely ignored as if I couldn't possibly be the one guitar shopping. When I ask a question, the associate will direct his answer to the man I'm with, rather than me--the one who asked the question. When I venture into GC solo, I am forced to deal with Mr. Rock God Extraordinaire--the sales associate who thinks he can impress me to death and win my affections by wailing on whatever instrument my eyes happen upon at any given moment. Mandolins, ukes, xylophones, hurdy-gurdies--his talents know no bounds.

So congratulations, douche bags. You just made Jtron's top ten list of the world's finest asshole employees, sandwiched ever so comfortably between those smarmy Gap sales associates and the Borders employees who try too hard to be more intelligent than god.