Dang, it's been awhile since my last post. My morning job at the Fling ties me up much more than I am used to. It's very grating on your nerves to have two jobs dealing with customer service. And in my situation, you get to experience shitty people at opposite sides of the social class spectrum. But at Burger Fling, my biggest hurdle is not with the customer, most of the time. It's the janky-ass crew. The last thing I want to do when I have to get my lazy carcass out of bed at 3:30 A.M. to be ANYWHERE at 4:30 is deal with someone with a crappy attitude. If you can't get your shit together in time for you to be here, dealing with the public, stay home! I usually open with a manager named Dilbert during the week, then a woman named Shaquana on the weekend. The morning shift is peppered with interesting characters from all walks of life. There is an old guy, Playa, with a gruff New York accent, who always steers any conversations about anything, into a deep bucket of sexual harassment suits. I know it's time to find something else to do when he says, "Let me use this as an example. Say me and you was in the bed..." Then we have the token white guy, Wigga. He kind of reminds me of a bipolar squirrel with muscles. He looks NERVOUS. If he had a tail, it would definetly be jerking and twitching sporadically. But he also looks like he will choke someone with his bare hands, chew them up, spit them out and then form Angus Steak Patties with their flesh. Speaking of which.. We tested out this new monstrocity on April Fool's Day. The manager on duty stood over one of the guy's shoulders as he assembled it. "Nope, more crispy onions! Bun bottom in the microwave. No, you need more mashed potato spread!" When it was done, we all stood back and stared at it. It kind of looks like those embarrassing Leftover Burgers that Mom makes after dad comes back with all of the rent money spent on crack. Dilbert took the liberty of chopping the sandwich into pieces. I politely declined, citing carbs as my reasoning, but I kind of thought the combination of A-1 sauce and mashed potato looked and smelled like sour vomit. It's getting panned horribly on the 'net, but hell.. We sell enough of those damn things. When people order it, they say "loaded" in this lilting, sensual voice. The first person who did it surprised me, but I got used to the pornographic murmur, mildly amused as I watched them eying the picture of the huge sandwich lustfully. Buisness has been booming lately, and management has been desperatly hiring more crew, hoping to take care of or short staffing problem. One of the new hires, Lily( A "black" white girl), has been causing nothing but problems starting on her first day. She "fainted" up at the registers while learning how to use the POS. Everyone fawned over her and made sure she was okay. Turns out she's about four months pregnant... Her first child is seven months old and she's nineteen, like me. That's where the similarities end. I worked with her yesterday, and she was only up front, helping through a short rush period for about fifteen minutes, before she shlepped off to the bathrooms, looking bedraggled upon her return. Our shift manager, Hope, allowed her to sit down for a moment. Then they mutually decided that she should just go home. Supposedly she has these "spells" that cause her to become dizzy and to black out. I told her that if she could wait about twenty minutes, I would drive her home. It was raining and humid outside. Surprisingly, she had enough energy to ask me to lend her some money to buy two Chick'n Crisps and a Large Fry with, and she had no problem shooting the shit with some of the employees on break out in the lobby. While she waited for her food, the people taking a break verbally snatched some skin off her ass. They speculated that although she was pregnant, dizzyness usually did not hit this early on, but everyone is different, ect. One of the ladies that loads the Flopper meat into the broiler cackled as she said, "Richard says she has Black Sydrome. She pass out everytime she's around niggas." The table erupted into laughter, and Homie G came back looking like BooBoo the Fool, clutching her paper sack and her jacket. I shook my head and bid them adieu. I told her that I hoped she felt better, and she thanked me for being so nice. Why in ham sandwich did this harridan wear gray strechy jeans to work today and wonder why everyone looked at her like she was a big porcelain bumblebee. Hope promptly told her to clock out and go home. She then sulked around in various parts of the restaurant, saying loudly, "Well, that's good then. I can stay home all day and watch T.V." and "I didn't have time to wash my clothes so it's not my fault. " I was too sleepy to try and dispel the redundancy of her statement. Again, people on break bashed her almost loudly in the lobby. We both were heading home around the same time, so I offered to take her home again. The strange thing is, this jackass pulls out a pack of cigarettes and asks if I minded the smoke. I was too flabbergasted to speak. I wanted to put that cig out in her eye and then grind up the remnents and make her snort it. Probably would not take much force. In the car, she rambled on and on about how she had a medical condition, blah blah, blah blah, not my fault, blah blah. Then she made the mistake of thinking that she could not get fired from it. That's not true. They are documenting every tardiness, No Call No Shows, and stockpiling them, so when it's time to hand your ass that pink slip, that's all she wrote! She does not take her job seriously at all yet. She might, but I doubt it. Usually people with a "not my fault' complex are that way for life. The whole thing just made me want to manually remove her reproductive system with a rusty, syphllis marinated dinner fork. More on the Teet soon folks, I promise.