Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Sour Tenderloin

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

Valentine's Day. 1 Month Later

“Why does Sea World have a seafood restaurant?? I’m halfway through my fish burger and I realize, Oh my God....I could be eating a slow learner.”
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


Lent was anti-climatic like a mofo. I truly expected buisness to be jumpin like Taco Bell on Cinco de Mayo, but it was just a normal, steady day. We got a 100.05 on the Health Department's walk.

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..

Fuck Fuck Fuckity Fuck

You know something? It's some real, grown up shit when you finally realize that you have to take responsibility for your own fucking actions. I walked around in a pissy mood all night because my hours are getting cut, they are bringing in another part-timer from fuckin produce. I'M SLACKING OFF. I must be smoking crack to think that Big Brother is not watching when I'm goofing off, on the phone, taking a more than thirty minute lunch, or not tearing myself away from some Bible-thumping Jesus freak while on the clock. It's my freakin fault! Fuck, it fucking sucks to admit it. I'm not used to owning up to my shortcomings. But that's the only way I can change my future. If I don't it could lead to worse, as far as being terminated. My job-hopping ass cannot afford to do another change right now. at least wait until you issue those motherfucking bonus checks!! Ugh!! I feel dumb.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Oh Snap! The Health Inspector?

She was here a month ago... and left grown men trembling in fear at her wake....... You never, ever know when she will be back. You are helping a customer, or putting away some cod, and BOOYAH!!! Right in your face, son. She is the health inspector, and God have mercy on the poor souls who are unprepared for her return. We'd just had the cutting boards resurfaced when she came in with the store manager, Hee Haw, yesterday. He had a look on his face that said, (when her back was turned) "I swear to chips and salsa, this shit better be clean up in here." I immediatley launched into the bust-my-ass last minute detail mode, but several Cryptkeepers lined up at the counter, like clockwork, completely derailing my plan. As soon as I was freed from their ghastly clutches, I sneaked over to the seafood prep sink to spray out the lone e-z peel stuck in the drain, along with some fragments of king crab cluster shell. She was examining the scales when one of our newer hamburger jockeys, "Fart", walked over to her and started making empty, pointless conversation about how he remembered how his daughter went to school with her. I was shaking my head. The last fuckin thing you want to do is talk to a health inspector while they are doing their job. They probably have a feeling that you are trying to distract them from their very important job of deciding whether or not to keep your fucking ass in buisness, so it makes them concentrate harder on the little shit they may not have noticed before. She continued to walk around, taking notes, while Fart rambled, making me want to stick my hand in the tenderizer. All of the cases were the proper temperature, the walls and floors and tracks and doors and saws and stuff were good. And let me not forget the fact that the water in the sanitizer sink was greasy because Fart kept "washing" his hands in it. They could not find a thermometer until Hee Haw asked me, about five seconds before they walked out the door. Now, they asked Fart, who did not know.. Why in the fuck would they ask me as a last resort?!! I work in the department that actually uses it! (It was next to the microwave, where it always is... Unless the Meat department needs one, seriously. Are they grilling fuckin steaks back there? WTF?) And also, I'm not sure if they ever found the market manager's ServSafe certificate, which gives us two extra points on the grade. No word on the grade yet, but I should be able to find out today. Which, I might add, is my first extra-long shift; 10:30 to 9:00pm. That's because it's Ash(ASS) Wednesday, which kicks off the beginning of Lent. Lent is like, say, the mother of all holidays for seafood. It shows alot about the strength of your department. If your team is fucked during Lent, all of yall need to find another occupation. It brings in the worst people you will probably wait on all year. That, coupled with the fact that I had three mystery shops that I did not greet the customer fast enough in, makes this a crucial holiday for me. I guess I will go polish up my lips for some serious butt kissing. The next post will be a doozy....

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Black People

I guess this means I'm racist. But I'm also half black. So that makes me.... a Blacist. I really don't like black people, at my job. Not the employees, (Of which there are few) but the customers. I do my best to find something to do in the freezer, show someone where the Velveeta cheese is, or catch a sudden case of the green apple splatters when I see a black person walk up and start looking for help. I feel so horrible and dirty admitting this!!! It's because I already know what's coming. You can give them the same hints, prices, and seafood as any other race, and they immediatley think they are being discriminated against. A customer about a week ago. One of my nightmares. Black woman, early forties. "I need some orange roughy. Do you have any?" I pause. "I'm not sure, maam. I have to take a look in my freezer. Give me just a moment.." Her smile turned into a hard line. "Will that be a problem?" I was so surprised by her sudden change in character that I almost giggled as I said, "No maam, that's my job..." Then on the way back to the freezer to check, I started to get irritated. Why the fuck would that be a problem, anyway?... No orange roughy in the freezer. I wanted to shoot myself, but since I had no gun, I returned to my department to find her, now on her cell phone, with three new non-smiling customers tapping their toes behind her. As soon as I could grab her attention for a second and tell her, she became even more irate. "Maam, we don't have any. I went to-" She cut me off. "Well never mind then. Yall got and Dungeon (Dungeness, idiot!) crabs?" I rolled my eyes in my mind's eye and said, "Yes we do. We have the whole crabs at the moment, for $5.99lb. They weigh about-" Cut off agian. "Just give me two." Yes maam. Back in the cold-ass freezer. Dungeness crabs at the very bottom of a big fuckin stack of various heavy boxes. My fingertips were numb, and by the time I got out of the freezer, Snarlie was up at the counter, helping the poor SOB's who had the misfortune of lining up behind her. As soon as I printed the tag, she snapped, "No, I wanted those steamed, with Old Bitch seasoning." So great, fifteen more minutes of this salty-ass heifer loafing around my counter and scaring off potential customers with her loud-ass cell phone conversation. Cut to fifteen minutes later. Takes the bag of crabs, no thank you, and walks off. I go to lunch. When I get back, the steam bag is sitting back on one of the counters. I wanted to kick her motherfucking ass. It seems like every black person I help out has the tendancy to monopolize every bit of time that they can, try to spend the least amount possible, by haggling even, and then usually still don't buy a god damn thing. And if I had a penny for every time someone asked if they could use an EBT card to buy seafood.... UGH. Just ugh.

Senior Day

Before anything else, I wonder. Why doesn't everyone get a discount for falling in a certain demographic? Why not Asian Day? Or how about Fabu-Friday for homosexuals? Or Blind Day. Or Goofy Corduroy Slacks-AND-Crocs-On-A-Man Day?Jesus Christ! I suppose there is a bit of comfort in knowing that these special people don't have that much time left to throttle every ounce of patience, sanity and compassion out of my shrimp-tail scarred body. Every Thursday at Hairy Peter is Cryptkeeper's Discount Day. Fuck the fucking fuck.. Giving them this discount is like screaming at the top of your lungs in a bingo hall, "Free Entitlement Whore Lessons HERE!! AND FREE SAMPLES TOOOOO!!!" The seniors completley murder those free samples from the Bread, Cheese, And Deli Department, making little toothpick kabobs and sandwiches and shit, so when you ask "How are you doing today Maam/Sir?" you either get a "talk to the hand" gesture while they finish chomping, sometimes with their mouth open, or they answer you with a mouthful of food, spraying crumbs that are lightly scented with Sutter Home and dental creme all over your clean case glass. And that is, if you actually have the luck to get an old person that will actually return a greeting. I swear to bootleg, I try my best to say hello to every Joe Schmoe that strolls past the counter, but some people make me want to duct tape my mouth shut and communicate solely with sign-language. I greet them three times, getting louder each time, and on the third "Hey maam, need any help," I get, "WE'RE LOOKING!!!" Gee, you freakin AIDSmuffin. Maybe fuckin say so next time? Just a simple shake of your head is all I need, and I will leave you the hell alone. I promise.