Monday, January 12, 2009

Get Ready for Valentine's Day! (Right F*&king NOW!!)

Wow, look at the time(and date!). A whole lot of time has past since my last Broken-Hearted Bitter Bitches Day. That said, let's get right to the nitty-gritty. Start Now. Buy a box of candy. Hell, Wal-Mart already has big-ass displays of them. You won't have to select from a mangy stack of cards for either your brother or your boss if you START NOW. And did I mention that the Hairy Peeter would be ecstatic to take your motherfucking holiday orders? NOW? It's like a reservation for an exclusive resto, only your quirky, resourceful, recession-proof self is going to wear a chef's hat and nothing else to prepare dinner for your sweet Foofy-tits. We would be happy to reserve you a pound or five of shrimp, scallops, salmon, fil-lay, or whatever the hell you plan on putting that fire extinguisher to good use for that day. We will cut steaks into the shape of hearts, steam your shellfish, even poke an engagement ring into a piece of grouper. (No, I probably can't, but the thought of a smug yuppie cracking her perfectly veneered chompers always needs injecting into my blog.)

What we won't* do....

*Now keep in mind that your state of mind when addressing the staff of the Peeter can greatly affect what kind of service you receive from us.

We will not clean your shellfish. Take your lazy, or unprepared ass to the frozen food section and purchase something RTG. You sadistic son of a bitch. Do you seriously not see that I am the only associate in this department with a line of five? This has never been allowed.

We will not steam fish fillets, scallops, or live shellfish, except lobster. We do not have any other seasonings for seafood except for Old Bay(NOT SPICE). If you want other flavors, buy them, the fish, and take it the fuck home and cook it.

We are not sommoliers. These fucknuggets barely taught me to fillet a fish, much less pair a wine with it! I'm going to tell you to to go to your nearest BP, buy a gallon of Wild Irish Rose, the blue kind because it kinda looks like the ocean, and take it to the neck.

And, in your haste to impress your mate/M.I.L/boo/, Please, PLEASE, PLEASE remember that we are trying to help you. Giving us a funky attitude because we ran out of something that you have planned all week for is not only unfair because you waited 1 hour before your dinner was scheduled to start and did not even have the good fucking sense to call, it will get you remembered as an asshole and we will make a point of letting our co-workers know it, possibly meaning that you will receive less-than-stellar, cold service from all of us. And we know our product. We can pick out a roast that will be talked about for years for it's tenderness, or we can select for you some shit that's best marinade will be one half battery acid and half being run over by an Escalade for about an hour. If you think years of shitty service are worth a snarky comment..... You make that judgement call. Now, I am preparing to go serve the masses, get pissy drunk from Sparks and cheap vodka, and grind my ass suggestively on some random penises at several clubs this weekend. (My SO has better shit to do! =]) Enjoy your Special Day, and yes my eyes just involuntarily rolled, and leave me a comment about your worst Valentine's Day. I wub you guys!

Friday, December 26, 2008

Crab Legs with Exkra Old Spice! And make sure they HOT!

Dear opillio/tanner/snow Crab,

I hate you. God knows, before I had to steam pounds and pounds upon steaming hot piles of pounds of your succulent little bodies in only two pound increments for hours upon end at the LAST POSSIBLE FUCKING MINUTE of my shift, I loved you. In my old stomping grounds at Hell-Mart, with my extravagant twice daily fifteen(ahem,thirty,ahhrgh) minute breaks and one hour lunches, I could easily eat a pound of your tasty claws with a small container of red potato salad. But now, you vile fucking fuck, have turned me against my own race, punched holes into my fingers, and made me want to commit suicide. I hate Mentos for saving up enough vacation and personal time to be able to take a week off when your goddamn asses are on sale. If I ever get enough time, money, and power, I will make it my personal mission to exterminate both you and Tilapia from the face of this earth. Have a wonderful New Year!


I noticed that the weeks when I do the most self-medicating are when these crab legs are on sale. Lovely, frozen, thirty pound boxes of the spindly, cheap things. When they are not on sale, they are ten bucks a pound. WTF?? A drinking straw's worth of crab in one skinny leg. It's their money and they should buy whatever they want, right? Not with fucking EBT. Otherwise known as "The Food Stamp Card", aka the Bane Of My Exsistance. The state and federal government tax the holy fuck out of the two paychecks I recieve every four days for these lazy assholes. The last time I bought crab legs, they'd been reduced to $2.99 pp. I fucking hate people who walk up to me with designer purses that probably cost more than my car payment, shiny new sneakers, and dirty, ashy kids in tow, having the nerve to whisper, "Can I get steamed seafood on EBT?" I make a point of shouting back, because of the noisy fans in the department, no doubt, "SURE, YOU CAN USE YOUR FOOD STAMPS FOR ANYTHING BACK HERE, MAAM!!!" With a big, forced, grin. The reason I get so many asks is because the card cannot be used for "prepared" food. 100% void in the deli for hot chickens, subs, or ribs. God, it's money given to these goddamn people to pay for food to take the fuck home and cook. By the time they get it there, it's going to need reheating again. I'm not talking about folks who hardly ever come back to my department, who you see with kids or a disability, buying fish or meat, or even shrimp. I'm seriously upset by the motherfuckers who come in constantly, gripping their EBT card in one hand and an iPhone in the other. Cheap bastards. I can barely afford a pack of ramen some weeks, and I have to wrap up 40 dollars worth of lobster for these shmucks. Overheard on the phone: " You need anything from the store girl? A steak? Don't worry about it, I got my EBT... Just pick me up an Icehouse (beer) before you come home." He knows that he needs his ass beat for that shit.

(Waves Politely)

HEY EVERYONE. Mmmm. A hell of a long, shitty year! I can't believe it's almost over. A greeting, for yall, to say welcome back to seafood. I miss this place. Sigh.... =]

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Man, I Can't Even Do It.

I can't believe I'm still doing this! Six months since the stank ass car accident that threw my finances into the shitter, I'm still at the Kang and the Teet. Hell, there were a few moments when I was sure I'd be fired. One morning I came in almost comatose from lack of sleep, and was giving the task of "cooking" the bacon for the sandwiches. It's pre-cooked, and comes in a large pack of normal sized bacon strips. Our "job" is to cut them in half and nuke the shit out of them until they perfume the air and are no longer limp. I placed the bacon on the cutting board, started slicing with a serrated knife, rested my forehead against the cool microwave, and was jerked awake about a minute later, still cutting, by Mr. Dilbert's voice. "Shuflayn!! WHAT the hell are you doing??" I sucked in the puddle of drool that threatened to jump from my lower lip and looked at what i was doing. I had managed to shred about sixteen strips of bacon into sad, smoky ribbons that were all less than a half inch in width. I tried to laugh it off and hurriedly shoved the mess into a trash can next to the waste bucket. Wrong move. I had no idea that Fancy does regular dumpster dives, allegedly to find out why we have so much waste. This fish took all the bacon out of the damn trashcan, put that shit in a paper bag with my name on it, and saved it for the district manager to see when she gave us a store walk the next day. I was not in trouble at all. Fancy just gave me funky looks for the rest of the month.

....... And after that, I started realizing that in the position I am in at the Fling, I can pretty much do whatever the fuckity fuck I want as long as I show up. When I come in, I do exactly $6.55 worth of minimum wage ass shit per hour. After that I pretty much loaf around, bullshit with customers, and play on my new Palm Centro. Occasionally, I can hold an intelligent conversation with one of my co-workers, but more than often, not. One of our regular old guys who comes in the morning, Mr. Happy, was getting his senior turbo coffee refilled by LaPain, a girl who's been working at the Fling for almost 2 years. She'd had gastric bypass surgery a few years ago, too. Her kangaroo stomach and ass that looked like cottage cheese crammed in a holy trash bag were the cause of many a chuckle at our small store. Not to mention one of her previous sex partners, an ex-employee, kindly let everyone who would listen that her vag was "haunted" and smelled like "a sewer". Suck.... But anyfakelezzie,, Mr. Happy had a red, white and blue sticker that proudly proclaimed "I Voted Today!" Of course, conversation quickly slid into politics. "So who'd you vote for Mr. Happy?" LaPain simpered in a voice that made me want to drag her into the cooler and bash her skull against a holding rack. "Well, I'm a Republican, sweetie. I voted for McCain this year." Her features instantly clouded over. Before she said a word, I chimed in, "Me too!" and smiled at him winningly(with a wink.). "Good choice there, Mustang Sally! Y'all have a good morning." He plodded off with his warm cup. LaPain cut her eyes at me bitterly. I smiled again. "You are going to fuck around and get your tires slashed voting for McCain." I actually physically stepped back against the force of her words. What teh hewwww???? I cocked my head to the side like a hungry parakeet to listen to her rant. "That's why your dumb ass is going to be working at Burger Fling for the rest of your life." I felt my own speech bubbling up inside me but instinctively held back. This is fucking bullshit! The reason why we are allowed to vote is to give us that freedom that Malcolm fought ferociously for. You ignorant god-damned whale! McCain is fucked anyway. He's not going to win!.... All at once I felt discouraged. I'm sure we would make Mr. Obama proud, threatening to go to blows to ensure my vote in the election. I felt disgusted with my race. I went and "bothered" Fancy, so she would take the necessary steps to ensure that this fuckwad didn't mess with my car or my person. Now, discussion of politics at the Fling is strictly forbidden. This is fine with me. If, when asked why you are voting for a candidate and the only reason you can manage is "Cause he Black," to the amusement and acceptance of your peers, you should not be allowed to talk about it. Fucking idiots.

Sunday, October 12, 2008


man I miss my blog. I hope you guys have not fogotten about me despite my false promises and spotty posts. five comments on this post and I will return....

Monday, June 23, 2008

How NOT to Steal From the Peeter.

Sufferin' Succotash! (yeah, it didn't work for me either, but I'm running out of cute exclamations to begin posts with.) Yesterday was a painfully slow Sunday. We didn't have jack shit to put in the seafood case. No more fresh sea scallops, sole, Alaskan salmon, or even space fillers like the creepy frog legs or fetus-like baby squid. So I had to keep busy. I re-arranged the sad selection of fish fillets and sprayed them with distilled water for an attractive sheen. I scrubbed every exposed section of the case with bootleg Windex. I prepped entire pans of frozen tilapia and mahi-mahi for tomorrow's lazy-ass opener. Finally, I made it around to the outside of the case, making sure every can of crabmeat and package of sausage was OCD-straight. I was about to head back into the fort when I saw a target. YAAAAY BUISNESS. I bounced right on over to him, wishing I had not when I got closer. He was not going to buy a damn thing. A Black dude in his early 40's, wearing a stained red t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of bustdown sneakers. "HEEEEY! How are you today? You finding everything..." I trailed off as I watched him grabbing steaks and throwing them into his hand basket. He appeared to be on his cell phone. "Yeah. But do you know where the charcoal at?" Um... It's the middle of grilling season. We always have stuff like that on huge displays. Usually at either entrance of the store. I then notice the TYPE of steaks that he was carelessly nabbing. Porterhouse steak, which is not on sale. He had completely cleaned the section out. And he had not so much as glanced at the price, weight, thickness or anything. My heart started beating fast. "Yeah, charcoal is over this way sir! I'll show you..." While I frantically tried to think of the best way to alert someone that foolio was going to make a break for it very soon. "Nah, I'll find it. I need to get some cooking oil anyway. Thanks." Meanwhile, the phone he had jammed to his face vibrated and rang at the same time. I raised my eyebrows and a shadow of guilt passed over his face. Fuck. I perfectly executed a quick about-face from my brief stint in NJROTC and started speed-walking up to the manager's office at the front of the store. True to form, Hee-Haw was sitting in front of the computer in his office, frowning at the screen like he had just smelled a fart. He looked like he was mildly irritated at me as I walked in, out of breath. "I think there's this guy trying to steal and he got a whole bunch of steaks and he is looking for charcoal and..." (fuck, I hate how easilyI turn into a babbling idiot in front of these douchetarded managers.) He literally leapt out of his bendy office chair. "Okay, now do What? What does the guy have on?" I told him, and he got on his house-phone style floor monitor handset. He strolled off, leaving me feeling slightly embarrassed and lonely, so I went back and waited in my department, where of course in the two minutes I was gone, I'd aquired a line of five fuckin' people. Time passed quickly as I wrapped up the customer's shit and sent them on their merry way. About ten minutes after I was damn near comatose from pure nosy-ness, Hee-Haw and Deyshawn,(a grocery manager) walked through the back door in the meat department, smiling triumphantly with the basket of expensive steaks, topped off by a bottle of cheap Peeter brand vegetable oil. "$189 worth of steaks," he pronounced in his syrupy drawl. He reminded me to call his extension the next time I saw a stealer. I smoked so much pot when I was a kid, I'm lucky I remember how to use the bathroom. Sweet black baby Jesus in Detroit....

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

... The Hell?

After a four-day long vacation from the Fling, it was almost fun pulling into the parking lot, filled with cigarette butts and debris from other fast-food joints. I carefully backed my Mustang into a space with the passenger's side away from the windows, so none of my co-workers could see the sizeable ding in her side, stemming from just one (or three) sips of cheap brown liquor on my birthday's eve. Apparently it clouded my judgement enough to make me slam into the side of a concrete wedge sticking out of a median next to a gas pump. Surprisingly, I felt hungry when I smelled the hash browns and inevitably burnt bacon this morning. Probably because when I'm home and up that early, I eat. Mr. Dilbert was completing a drive-thru order as I walked in. We exchanged greetings and Wigga grumbled a "Good Morning" from the kitchen. I looked around, and as usual, 45453 things had changed since the last time I'd been there. We FINALLY made the switch to trans-fat free oil for the fryers. Most other fast food establishments changed months or even years ago, but I think the Fling was right in keeping it for as long as they legally could. The fries, onion rings, and hash browns will probably taste like shit now with that healthy freakin stuff. And FYI: I would not consider anything except for the Veggie Burger, which is cooked in it's own special pan, safe for a vegetarian. The Pork Sausage Patties are fried in any available grease, which sometimes infuses the other products, like French Toast Sticks, with a strange, rich, hoggy flavor. We also starting using the Trans-fat free crossaint-wich bread. I'm counting minutes until some hillbilly brings back their "Sawseh en Chaise Kussaint-wik" complaing of it's lack of grease. The prep was already totally finished when I came in at 6am, so we just waited around for customers and filled up sugar, dipping sauce for nuggets, and ketchup.Car pulls up. "Fancy", our General Manager, pre-recorded a message of her saying, "Good Morning, how may I help you?" to play within 3 seconds of a car tripping the weight sensor. "Hold on." said a deep, country voice. "Sure, let me know when you are ready!" I said in my disgustingly cheerful morning voice. About 60 seconds passed. I gently prodded- "Need a bit more time, sir?" A loooong pause. "A'ight. We ready." Another hellishly long pause. Mr. Dilbert poked his head around from the manager's office, where he was eating his daily biscuit with syrup. "What the hell do they want? Jackasses.", he snapped, running to the handwash sink to rinse the sweetness off of his fingers. "What can I get you??" he carped over the tinny drive-through microphone. "Ummmm...... We need fo' crassaints. On 2 of them, though, I just want the egg and the cheese." I tapped two Egg-Cheese Crossaint-wiches into the POS and waited. Another pause.... Mr. Dilbert cracked back down. "What are the other two?!" The drive-thru timer crept up on 2:30. "Uhhh..... with whatever else it come with!" At this, I collapsed. Tears sprung to the sides of my eyes as I screamed with laughter in the small window. My mouth wide open, I drooled on my arm slightly and Mr. Dilbert tried to stifle a chuckle as he sternly demanded, "What kind of meat?" But it didn't come out the first time, only "Meat??" to which they responded, "Sausage." But he didn't hear them, so he fairly shrieked, "WHAT KIND OF MEAT?!!" the second time. They again told him, "Sausage?" in a frightened voice. By this time, I was crouched on the floor next to the trash can, weeping and holding my aching abs. He hollered the total through the speaker, and immediately a car pulled into their place. I attempted to take their order. "Two Cini-Minis, please." I tapped the order in and spoke. "Okay, that's two Cini Minis; $2......BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!" I was no more good for the next ten minutes. Later on, after Fancy arrived, she started making the schedule and I noticed a new shift. Oh, SHIT. We are now moving to 24 hours. I immediately volunteered for a spot. Hurrah for drunks and 3rd shift factory workers!! The best blog fodder I know.