"Store Security Guard Pinup?" Yeah, That's Me

I lamented about this on my late blog and I'll bring it up again, because somehow it is worth mentioning twice...store security guards love me. Not in a healthy way and the word "love" is not really an appropriate word for how they feel about me. They stalk me like mental patients do Letterman and I really don't want to delve to close, into the rest of their psychosis.

I mean they will literally stop in their tracks or whatever it was that they were doing, and they will follow me around. I have yet to see a store security guard stop in the middle of arresting someone, just to tail me, but it is as inevitable as the sun setting. It doesn't matter how I am attired, be it ragged cut-offs and a t-shirt, be it a suit, they will follow me. It doesn't matter if I am clean-cut and clean-shaven, or sporting five days worth of growth, they will follow me.

What brings this post up is this article in the San Francisco Chronicle about organized shoplifting gangs. The gangs are going about it all wrong; they need to have me on their payroll. Yes, me, "Cormac Brown, Store Security Guard Pinup #1." For a limited time, I will gladly clear the way for these gangs in order to get those store security guards that follow me from the produce section, all the way to the check stand, fired.

If you think I am kidding, this past July found me at a supermarket with The Kid and as we walked into the store, a woman actually put luncheon meat in her overcoat...right in front of a security guard. Why didn't the security guard see this? Because the asshat had his eyes on me.

San Francisco gets cold in July, but not so cold that anyone would need an overcoat and I had on jeans and a t-shirt. Do you see where I'm going with this? Do you see why that security guard will (hopefully) never get a real job in actual law enforcement?

I did not appreciative this moment at all, because I had to explain security guard profiling to The Kid and he really shouldn't have to hear about this kid of garbage at twelve years of age. Not to mention the screenwriter in me despises it when anyone clearly profits off of me and walks away, counting their profits like a hack producer.

So, ladies? Go into a supermarket as skinny as an Olsen Twin and leave the store with your clothing going every which way, like Kristie Alley after a two-week chocolate bender. They won't touch you as long as I am there.

Fellas? Batteries? DVDs? Jumbo-packs of Advil? They are all free as long as you roll with "Cormac Brown, Store Security Guard Pinup #1."