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...