Friday, December 26, 2008
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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
....... 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
Monday, June 23, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Listening To: The Silent Treatment
Current mood: okay
today was a slightly awesome day...... waiting on the manager at harris teeter to get up with me on that criminal background check, so i can get this drug test over with. thank goodness i passed on that reefer last week!!!! lol.
That was a post I made last year on my myspace blog. Jeebus, I was happy! On May 5th, 2008, I celebrated(suffered through) my 1-year anniversary at the Hairy Peeter. I got my bonus check. We (Hee Haw) failed another fuckin LP audit. He's good for a chuckle or two on a seafood-related work blog, but he is not fun to work for. I saw his cheap ass in drive-through one morning at the Fling, where he ordered two Ham Omlette ($1 for each one and you buttfuck us about using too many DISPOSABLE gloves? Miserly ass-goblin.) sandwiches and a "swait tay".
Dammit, I need to stay on track. I wish that the Teet was a music-free establishment. Muzak is one of the worst methods of torture I can think of. That, combined with a 5 hour shift is enough to make me want to kill myself by wandering around a busy highway while blindfolded. The music of the moment is completely up to the MOD. When Slim's aggravating ass is working, the Muzak is tuned into a station that sounds like a compilation of "forest scenes" of every Disney movie ever made. One busy Thursday, Tattoed Tim looked up from the pile of ribeyes he was trimming to ask, "What the hell is that? Isn't it from Bambi?" Next, if Hee-Haw is calling the shots, it's straight up hits from the 80's, highlights being "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone" and "Yah Mo B There". Not the worst ever. Frangela, however, takes it upon herself to "update" the sounds a little, with the tired-ass "Pop" station. I swear to fuckity fuck, if I hear this song three times in one hour again, I'm leaving the Teet and never looking back. I had to go and make it ten times worse by looking up the video on Youtube this morning. Now I'll be able to picture the douchebag at the end of the video bouncing his ass on an excercise ball when I hear this shit. The squid is coming! Also, reviews of some Burger Fling Food...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
What you don't see is the struggle to lift heavy boxes of fish and the pain of falling with said boxes on an icy cooler floor. You don't see the scars on my brown hands from being stabbed repeatedly with shrimp tails, crab legs, and sharp knives. You don't see my ashy, puckered fingers at the end of a night, wrinkled from chemicals and cold.
You hear the loud hum of bone saws, cutting your porterhouse steaks, bone-in pork chops, and depending on who's there, frozen salmon. The friendly, helpful banter between employees and customers, and the P.A. system advertising the pharmacy and the discounted chickens in the Deli department.
What you don't hear is the soft, under-my-breath swears of frustration, the muted moans of pain as your muscles slowly cramp due to months of refridgeration. You don't hear the hateful shouts from the management that make you feel worthless and dumb. You don't hear my unconsolable, child-like weeping in the arms the love of my life, hopeless because he can't heal me.
You smell the ocean-y scent of fresh, succelent sea scallops, and the clean, watermelon-like odor of organic Irish salmon. You smell the honey-soy-ginger marinade of chicken and vegetable kabobs, and the coconut and oreganato panko coating of the probably too old mahi-mahi fillets. You smell the strong, mouth-watering affair of steamed peel-and-eat shrimp and snow crab clusters, heavily spiced with Old Bitch Seasoning.
You don't smell the ammonia-based cleaner on the bathroom floor, snorted in, because of the severity of your sobs. You don't smell the expensive cologne on the store manager as you essentially beg for some type of feedback on what kind of job you are doing. You don't smell my nervous sweat as I wonder with every small mistake, if this will be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Because you don't have to. Every time I work, I deal with a fierce internal struggle between my pride and my common sense...
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Ali of El Vermino Boulevard is taking a bit of a breather; Where the hell are all of the St. Paddy's Day winos?
Bitter over at bitterwaitress is reminding me again of why I love her, especially because of her STD. Old people suck fuzzy kitties out of drainpipes!
Bitchy Waitress at "At Least Call Me Miss" is totally right on the money with this one. I'm so sick of fucking stuff up while trying to meet a goal for speed. You don't have to go nursing-home slow to take a minute and make sure your shit is correct.
Restaurant Gal is back, and reviewing a restaurant-themed movie I have been curious about for quite awhile. Great review! Might even be worth hunting the bootleg man down for!
Ah! Ryan! I serve idiots, too! I totally would have slipped some Visine in the drink of any yuppie-in-training with a mouth like that. Jesus Christ!
Upset Waitress almost made me crap myself from laughing. Long live blogging, dammit!
Manuel at the Well Done Fillet is being mildly horrified by obese, gangsta whales; But sometimes, customers are the most satisfying form of entertainment, especially when they tip 25%.
Lobster Boy (My brothafromanothamotha) struck a nerve with me in this old-school post. Why are some people such cheap bitches? SMH... You can always see the scammers 50 miles away.
Waiter Rant shows us again that arrogant, snarky SOBs are easily manipulated: They can and should be taken advantage of as much as possible.
Ribeye, I have a suggestion. When these little vag-heads try to buy drinks underage, agree, and use rubbing alcohol in place of whater liquor they request.
Tony Dine, I see you! :) I think that "wine experts" (or old farts with too much time and money who eat out WAY too much) just need a few puffs of reefer before the meal. It will make Wild Irish Rose taste like a $80 vintage wine.
And finally, I am going to start making up for lost time, with an explanation for my tardiness here at the Seafood Department. Next week's Round Table will be hosted over at El Vermino Boulevard... Big ups to Ribeye for allowing me to host this week! Although I'm sure Affirmative Action played a major part ;-) .
The links should work this time, thanks to Ribeye doing some editing.
It all began when I got into an accident last month. It involved sleeplessness, darkness, and a stationary utility cart sitting quite comfortably in the middle of a usually(but not at 11:30pm) highway. Bottom line? It was my fault. From the insurance company's wack-ass P.O.V, "What if it had been a small child?" If this conversation had not been recorded for training purposes, I might have revealed the answer that A. The child would have been one dead mothafucka. B. You would not be recieving a call from my ass. Sheesh. My car insurance shot up to $350.00 per month, and this is before these asshats found out about the accident.
But fortunately, nobody was injured. But I found myself as broke as a joke, but not laughing worth a damn. I was washing my Hairy Peter uniforms and found myself cruising past Burger Fling. On a whim, I walked in, completed an application, and spoke to a manager. I got an interview the next day, and started working the day after that. I have a brief, troubled history in fast food(WacArnolds, Chubway, Vato Hell, PiPi's Pizza, Smithfield's Nigga-Free BBQ, ect) but nothing that they needed to know about. Hell, I didn't even get drug-tested. Not that I would be bold enough to do drugs, knowing about the Peeter's random drug testing.
And I found myself there... at the Fling... I was dropped off in the bitter cold at 4:30 in the morning. The early 80's music was being played even outside, from the speakers above the doors. My uniform consists of a black and red striped fugly-ass polo shirt, which seems deliberatly unflattering and androgenous, and Wal-Mart special "hooker pants." SMH. Not the classiest way for a manager to try and describe my attire, especially with a cold sore lingering around her lower lip(don'tlookdon'tlookdammitilookedagain). I even dug my old slip-proof clown shoes out of the closet. I hate those damn things, but my sneaker of choice, Vans, is probably not going to sit well with anyone. Period. The smell of bacon, burnt hash browns, and biscuits was really not unpleasant. I clocked in, checked in with a manager, and started getting to know everything I could about opening the restaurant. I would have to say that the employees I met on my first day made me feel like the whitest person on the earth. I got used to the curious glances and the whispering and snickering. I've done it; everybody has to start off as a nOOb. But some of these women.... Jesus take the wheel, please? What possessed this girl to put hot pink weave in her head? The women were making me feel a little embarrassed about my skin color. There were a few women who would be considered "hit-able" after a few beers, but got-damn! there was a lot of beat-up looking mofiggitys that day. The worst one reminded me of Suge Knight with a lacefront wig, and the best kind of looked like a cross between Busta Rhymes and a moose. There was quite a lot of lazyness that went un-corrected, and probably not noticed by management. While I scurried around like a chambermaid, scrubbing doorhandle mounts, soda machines, and wiping off stainless steel fixtures, I noticed a lot of the jerks watching me, while eating candy, Cheesy Tots, and drinking soda. The entire morning's gossip was centered around a shooting in a local housing project that I used to live in. That place is rough; the first night I moved in, I saw a pregnant white chick get her ass walloped in front of the BNN convenience store (never did find out the meaning of the acronym). It was such a change from the Peet! Everyone is so chill, and relaxed, and DGAF. I just wanted to let everyone know about the changes going on; there will sure as hell be more to follow.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I'm back... It's been awhile. The Peeter has been wearing me the hell out. I have a Valentine's Day post I'm still trying to edit... Give me a little time. Whew... Today was shitty. Mentos opened this morning, and the seafood display was FUBAR when I came in at three. She was stocking some frozen shrimp, and stayed just long enough to tell me to do some shit I already knew needed doing. I had not been in the department three minutes before Snarlie tried to recruit me into the dark side of the Meat Dept. "Shue-flayn!!! When ya not busy, go 'head and weigh up some leg quattahs!" I started calculating to myself... Hmmm. In the time it takes this fathead to nag me to do something, two cases of the leg quarters could have been priced, stickered, and sold. Leg quarters, pork tenderloin, baby back ribs, and other heavy items should just be delivered to my motherfucking house. At least I'd get a jump start and could avoid these crap-tastic customers. Got a real winner today. Ol girl was a centerfold in last month's Crackwhore Digest. I should have knew something was up with her in the first place. She had meth mouth, to start off. Here in the South, methamphetamine abuse runs rampant. I've seen some of my old skool-skippin buddies turned into zombies over that shit. Her daughter, probably about five, skulked around nervously in a cheap pink windbreaker as I took her order. "I need three filets(tenderloin steaks) cut 1 inch thick, ALL THE SAME SIZE." Picky ass customers are not unusual(unless they look like her, but I digress.)so I gave her order to Snarlie and told her it would be just a moment. He cut them up, and I handed them to her. Cost- $33.46. "Are these okay maaam?" She inspected the package, said "Yes, these are great!" and walked off. I shit you not- 10 minutes later, around five, Snarlie decides to take a lunch at our busiest hour. BFD- happens every day, but today, as soon as his skinny ass disappeared into the wine aisles, this fucktard pops back up. "I just need to ask you a question, before anything. Does this look like they are all the same size???" She thrust the bloody package of meat into my face. I wanted to smack her. The third steak was smaller than the other two- of all the trifling dirtbags, Snarlie had to fuck it up for her. "No, maam." She let me have it. "I drive all the way home, get there, see this- they are not the same size! They are supposed to be on the table, right now!" I immediatley drop to my knees and begin to lick and kiss her taint lovingly. "Maam, I am so sorry that you had to come all the way back out here because of this. Let me just get the butcher." I ducked around the corner, anxious to get her stinky ass out my face, when I realized that the Shmuck had gone to lunch. Oh, God help me, please. Now there is someone else in line. When I tell her that he's gone to lunch, I can almost see the dollar signs in her eyes. I am frantically trying to figure out a way to solve her problem that did not wind up with me getting fired. I finally said, "Maam, I will try to cut you some steaks back here, to the best of my ability, but I really don't know how to"- cut off. "It's NOT hard! You take the knife, and you cut it. Yall are a MEAT department. You should know how to cut a steak." I tried, feebly, to tell the wench that I work in seafood, and any attempts I make to learn anything about meat are turned into crude sex jokes. So I hauled out the flattened half of the loin that was left in the cooler. Before I left the cooler, I did a few woo-sahs and tried to imagine a beach in my childhood, anything to make me calm down. I slapped it on the white cutting block, holding back tears. Tenderloin is not cheap. I swear to God, I did not want to take a knife to this expensive primal and foul it up, to get yelled at more by my co-workers. I gave up after cutting one. I let her know that I could not do it, well, and she started up again. "How hard is it? I used to work in a butcher shop!" Well guess what, bitch? I DON'T!! I work in SEAFOOD. These sorry fucks are too cheap to hire another motherfucker back here, so we all have to pick up each other's slack. I wanted to tell her to strap on an apron and have at it. Seriously. But she wanted me to go find the store manager. So I went and found Hee-Haw, who paged Snarlie back from his lunch break. He had to cut six more steaks until he "Got it right." This sea-hag walked away with thirty dollars worth of tenderloin steak without paying for shit. Maybe she can use some of that money she saved to buy her child some shoes without holes. I hope she chokes. Hee Haw is so afraid of corporate Hairy Peter, he will practically take a customer in the back room and give them a BJ if it will make them happy. Word on the grapevine is that we failed four LP audits in a row. It can only get better, hopefully.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Lyndon B. Johnson (1908-1973)
Former president of the U.S.
Valentine's Day is always February 14. Always. Always. Never had the date changed due to bad weather or lack of participation. Every Year. Feb. 14. I seem to be able to grasp that, and have been able to since I made my first construction paper Valentine for my "Mammy". Most customers that shop at the Hairy Peter, apparently do not get the memo until around 2:00pm, February 14. I came in at 3:00pm(okay, 3:03), (thus beginning weeks of cutting hours of the Queen :/ ) and I just caught Clay, walking away from the time clock, sweating. "Hey Clay, what's going on?" He took a swig from his mini-keg of "Kool-Aid" (coughBoone'sFarmcough) and responded. "Jesus, it's busy back there, sweety. I gotta go.." and with that, strolled his bulk out of the sliding doors. Aw, fuck... I was closing with A.R., aka Luke Skywalker, and Tattoo Tim. Now everybody loves Tim, because he's easygoing and friendly and full of tatts and crack. He was slightly irritated because he had to work on Valentine's Day. Luke is a different story. I would probably rather play leapfrog with a unicorn, or drink a gallon of Bony the Noob's (new management) tit sweat than work with him. He's extremely rushed and nervous and anal, and constantly reminds me of a poster child for ADHD, with extreme communication issues.. Great, a fun filled night of fuckery with Asshole and Asshole Lite.
One of my biggest surprises was that the live lobsters were actually selling. They are pretty much tiny "chix"(1 1/4 pounds or so) and were $14.99Lb. I hate the lobster tank. Why? Because the fucking thing has not been cleaned since BayBay(legendary seafood dude) left. The water is brown and smelly, I guess from overcrowding the poor things, and lack of knowledge about how to clean it. Mentos is going to be an assistant manager back here in a few, and she does not know how to clean it. OMGWTFBBQ? She's been up in the Peet for at least thirteen years. In Hell-Mart, they got a third-party company to come in after close and do it professionally. Now, when I open it, there is a weird brown foam bubbling out of the cover, and it smells like wild monkeys. I must have had to dip my arm in that cesspool at least eight times, scrubbing furiously afterwards. I feel a flashback coming on.....
***"I can't take this shit anymore!! Fuck!"- an exclamation inside my head, walking in my department at 12:30 one day. The lobster tank is looking like lobsters swimming in diarreah. "Mentos! Look at this! I think there are some dead ones in here!" She took a cursory glance. "Oh, yeah, there might be a couple. I have to leave a little bit early today..." So she was out the door before you could say, "Clap-Havin Jezebel". Man, God Damn! I lifted the lid, and the stench of dead crustaceans and musty armpits assaulted my nose. Fart was cutting meat about 15 feet away, and I heard him yelp, "Christ! What is that fuckin smell?" All I could do was shake my head. The tank had been looking like Who-Shot-Johnny-But-Forgot-To-Kill-Him for days now, but I (wrongly) assumed that one of the full-timers would get around to cleaning it. I was lost. I called Fart over to help, and he showed me a filter at the top that was filled with a black, charcoal-looking substance. He rinsed it out, and shoved it back in. "You might haveta get you some of those dead ones out of there." No shit, Sherlock? Because I was seriously considering building a campfire up in this bitch and making a pot of stew. I set up two grey lugs on my seafood cutting board next to the tank. I grabbed a long pair of tongs, and began to sort. Dead, dead, dead, giving up the ghost soon, feisty, dead, dead, dead, HALF EATEN??!!-Hold the fuck up! I started finding pieces of tail and heads with the meat gnawed off floating around. That, combined with the funky odor, was making my stomach churn. When I finally finished, the "Dead" lug was overflowing. The total waste was about $400. This was my first lesson of, "Do it your Motherfucking Self, Or It Won't Get Done."**
It started off innocently enough. We sell live lobsters at $14.99lb. And cold water lobster tails from Canada, at $7.99lb. Mentos ordered two cases of live lobster, about 24 total, and probably 839328989348 cases of the frozen tails. I guess Luke finally dug in her ass enough about ordering enough shit to cover a sale. The past few weeks,customers have been SOL on numerous sale items. Fart helped me tray up two cases the day before, much to my dismay. Not to be an asshat, but if I need help with something, I'll ask. Fart took the liberty of thawing out two cases and putting them in trays. Problem being, these motherfuckers come in frozen. Re-freezing shellfish is just wrong. The ice crystals break down the texture of the flesh. So when you put them in the tray dripping wet, and sealed with plastic wrap by hand, the sharp edges of the shell may create tiny holes, and they are more susceptible to freezerburn. So they did look like shit the next day. And I'm writing this a month later- we still have most of the shitty-looking packages that he wrapped sitting in the freezer. The bulk of the people came after five, rushing, Bogarting the front counter, being rude, but at least being less thrifty then usual. They day became a blur of filling, filleting, cutting, removing skin, and steaming lobster/shrimp/crab. When it finally hit around 8, and Luke finally put away his light saber, a woman came up to the meat counter in her ugly granny-print coat, and wanted some lamb chops. More than happy to get that, so you can GTFO. As soon as I had it wrapped, about to slide it over the counter, she said, "I changed my mind. I need another one." I raised my eyebrows. Not in any rude fashion, whatsoever. (I'm very careful now, since the confrontation from Big Slim, the co-manager.) But she goes on. "Unless it's too much trouble." I should have said nothing else, but I was borderline psychopathic at this point and had to say, "No maam! That's my job!" She gave me one of those half-smirk, half-arrogant looks and said snarkily, "Well, you looked like you were going to blow your top." AWHELLZTOTHEFUCKNAW. Blow my top??? Fool, do you know the shit I had to put up with today? The ass I had to kiss?? The fuckin abuse I take from crazies like you? Constantly?.... No... She does not know. She probably will never have to. It was not her fate to become a salmon-selling buttmunch. She just knows what she is used to. And that's all I can expect her to care about. So I wrapped up the extra chop, and wished her a good night. She stomped off prissily, and I sent a silent prayer for help. Please don't let this fucker go find management and tell them I was rude. I just want to go home to my cat, my ramen with siracha, and my chocolate ice cream sandwitches in peace. Fuckin Peeter...
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Yay! I got in at ten thirty, having just woke up that morning at about ten fifteen, and damn near wrecking my car trying to get there on time. Clay was moping around at the front counter, looking like someone pissed in his cornflakes. It was Wednesday, and there were tons of cryptkeepers walking, fresh from Mass, looking extremely butthurt because they actually had to spend some money and not just wait until tomorrow(Cryptkeeper discount Thursdays, Yeeyyy). I started noticing something, very early in the morning. First I just saw an old lady, with a dusky-looking grey bruise on her forehead. I didn't ask her anything; it's rude, and older people tend to bruise easily. But after her, there was an older couple sporting the same type of bruise. Then an older man, and another couple. I started to get a little nosy. We got busy after lunchtime, selling hella cod, tilapia, and catfish, and a middle aged woman with too loud boys stopped by for a pound of cod. She had the "mark" too. My curiousity finally overpowered my good sense, and I asked her, "Maam? Did you know that you have some paint or makeup on your forehead?" She looked confused for a second, then said "Oh! The ashes! Today is Ash Wednesday. It's a Catholic holiday, and when you go to Mass, you have ashes put on your forehead........" I could feel a spiritual long winded speech brewing, so interjected with, "Wow, thanks for telling me!" All this time, I was seriously starting to think that there was some type of Cryptkeeper's Fight Club meeting that that they'd all gotten a little too enthusiastic in. Kind of hilarious if you think about it, but the day got weirder. A man came in a few hours later, needing some King Crab Legs. We have the XL 6-9 size,(per 10lbs) and they were on "sale" for $12.99plb. He wanted some frozen ones, which I brought out, right before I noticed he was blowing and picking his damn nose, and he immediately started peeking over the counter, then ducking to try and look throught the case glass, and then standing on his tiptoes to peek again, like some retarted ferret. "Sir, would you like to see the crab legs? I'll bring them around the..." Next thing I know, Foolio is trying to walk into our department in his scuffed-ass tennis shoes and no hairnet. Loss Prevention's worst fucking nightmare. I'm strugging to hold up the flimsy, damp box, which is starting to fold under the weight of the legs, and shuffling through the legs at the same time when this ass-pirate reaches in the box with his filthy hands and starts grabbing legs. Ugh!!! I made a mental note to never buy any more legs there unless the plastic is still holding the box together. "Sir!! Would you like some gloves or something?! Because you.." "NO, I'm fine," he wheezed, making me want to poke his eyes out with the legs he was discarding in one half of the box because they were not "fat enough". "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put some gloves on, if you want to look through them like this. It's not sanitary, and I could really get in a lot of trouble!" He paused for just a moment. "Welllllll, I guess I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll take these two,", he said plunking two huge legs on the top of the stainless steel counter, "and you find me two more that look just like that." With that said, he tooted a few more boogies into his tissue, and stepped back, expectantly. What a fucktard! My soon to be Seafood Manager, Mentos (I'm looking at a box of Mentos and cannot think of a nickname for her) said I was correct to ask him to put some gloves on those nasty mitts. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, though..