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!

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!

Shuflayn


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.... =]

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.

:-S

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....

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....

... 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.

The Reason For My Writer's Block..

Plain and simple.... too much relaxation! About a month ago, hours on both of my jobs dried up somewhat, leaving me with ample time to sit around on my buns and have birthdays and (what else) consume large qualities of fried chicken. However, summertime is heating up, and both jobs are accelerating quickly in sales. I look forward to coming back to my underworked laptop to pour my soul out to the masses. Happy Reading!

I'm Back! P.S. Ribeye, You Suck For Starting Roundtable Without Meeee

Helluva welcome me back post, huuuh? It's been a rough month. I want to scream "Thank You" at the top of my lungs to all of my readers who keep encouraging me to post. I now have a camera, to capture those special Kodak moments at my fucktastic places of employment! Well, here's to a productive summer.

For 6.25 An Hour..

I am allowed to have my world rocked by the Prejudiced Guy In the Busted Honda Civic. Perhaps having that shitty automobile makes his attitude understandingly rank. I had the pleasure of meeting this stooge at about 5:30 one morning on a Thursday. He was our first car, and sounded sweet on the earpiece of the system. When he got up to the first window and our eyes met, his expression changed from a smile to a grimace worthy of someone being given a lemon-juice enema from a rusty dildo. (He was the first to say this.) "You sounded like a white girl on the speaker." At first, I chuckled and said, "Well...." and "Hehehe." But he wasn't laughing. I was confused, and was stupid enough to say "Sorry" as he raced off to the next window after accepting his change as though my hand were diseased. I overanalyzed it over the next few hours. Sorry for what? Sorry for my voice belieing my skin color? Sorry that you were raised by parents who taught you that minorities should be treated like slaves? What in the fuckity fuck was I apologizing for? Sadly, I realized that this snarky bastard is a "regular". He generally came as soon as we turned on the parking lot lights, and loitered at the drive-thru board for as long as he possibly can and acts a motherfucking fool when somebody has to prod him to order. His total is never more than $1.07. About a week ago, he returned, and I really did not give a shit. I try to go out of my way to seem unaffected by his hateful aura. To avoid touching his hand, I folded up his .93 cents into his reciept in a neat rectangle and gave it to him. He responded by snatching it out of my hand and throwing the change into the passenger's seat of the car. I felt vile words bubbling at the back of my throat like Steel Reserve (next day) vomit, and I reeled away from the window, shocked by his disgust. I called Dilbert over to the window to pass out his Ham Omlette (Now, I've catagorized this as the Redneck Sang-wige). Dilbert gave him (or had it snatched) the sang-wige, and it's been about a week since I've seen him. He's one of the first true examples of racism that I've had directed toward me in my short life, and it made me feel dirty.

A Hot Stankin Mess.

Hey, I love you guys. Thank's for being patient (kinda) about my absence! My cooking journey screeched to a halt as I hit a female bail-bondsman as she tried to turn in front of me at an intersection. I actually was just leaving Auto-Zone, seriously frazzled because I found out my exhaust system needed a $50 part. Anywhooo...

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...

She's Baaack!

Happy Fun Times in my 97 Sebring.

Just posted to explain my (usual) tardiness. More posts coming very soon!

Alrighty Then....

When I started this site, part of my goals for it were high. For being named "The Seafood Department", this site has quite a lot of bitchassness going on. Where is the seafood?? I've lost sight of my goals... :( Hence the poll to the right side of your screen.) At the time of this post, you have a few hours left to vote. I have not cooked anything consisting of seafood since the last time I opened a can of sardines. After the votes are tallied, I will choose a recipe and cook it on Saturday night. Pictures will be posted. Opinions of Stevity Steve and possibly others will be taken into consideration. Difficulty level, taste and appeal will all be ranked. And I think that I will also have a Fish/Shellfish of the week, coming soon. Feel free to suggest any fish you are too nervous to cook yourself for me to assasinate (er, prepare) or any cooking methods, or special recipe. Here's to a bright future for this bloggy!

Burger Fling Therapy

You know something? In a twisted, mean and probably harmful way, the Fling is theraputic to me right now. I go from a job where I am afraid to say anything but "Yessuh Massa", to a job where I could probably tell a customer "Fuck You" and return to work the next day with no ill will from anyone. It makes my bitter little heart smile. I was in the "Present" window, where you pass drinks and food to the customer, yesterday. I was having a pretty sunny day because I was supposed to be off, but was covering someone's shift, and didn't have to wake up until 8 AM, instead of 4:30. The Burger Fling bigwigs were coming to check out the store, but amazingly, I was due to leave before they arrived. And then Hoemiesha arrives.. I hate to stereotype, but she is just so average! Just by looking at her, I imagine her as at forty-year old single mother, working at a Section-8 office and complaining about all of the trifling trash that she has to help find housing. She reeks of self-righteousness. She was expediting(putting the crap in a bag or a tray and putting it in the right place.) and we got in one of those trainwreck-waiting-to-happen rushes. One minute everyone is standing around drinking soda and the next, six Triple Floppers and eight ToughGrills cover the board. After about a one-minute lull after the first rush, I hear Hoemiesha sneakily (and yet still loudly) saying to an employee at the broiler, "Yeah, she's bringing it back because Shuflayn passed the wrong thing out the window." Ugh..... I felt the pinpricks of irritation at the back of my brain at hearing her words, and when the lady got back to the window, her face was scrunched up with a bulldoggish look. "I wanted a hamburgah kids meal. I didn't ask fo no dayum chicken nuggets!" I apologized immediately and let her know we would replace it ASAP. I waited, and about a minute later, Hoemiesha daintily placed the bag upon the counter. "THIS is the hamburger kids meal." She then snobbishly twirled around to go back to her station. Oh hell no... I essentially sailed the woman's meal out of the small window and wished her a happy/wonderful/sanctified afternoon. "So I guess I'm the only one to ever pass the wrong FUCKING thing out of the window?" She stopped with her only-present-during-lunchtime diddybopping when she heard me. "It's not MY fault, YOU are supposed to look in the bag before you..." I started tuning her out after that. She was starting to make no sense, and also sounded like Butters from the T.V. show South Park. A few minutes later, I had to ask a car to pull forward because we were cooking something and the drive-thru is on a timer; having them wait at the window would have killed whatever relay race we were going for. The next woman had a Double Cracker value meal with Onion Rings and a Sprite. That's it. So when Hoemiesha threw a bag next to me that contained chicken nuggets, I blanched. I started reading the screen with orders, trying to figure out where this needed to go, when I heard her say, "It's a Double Cracker Meal! Get it out the window!" I flipped out. "Well what the hell are chicken nuggets doing in here?" I tossed the barely warm package onto the counter. She ran over, ready for a confrontation. "No, you can't do that. You....." I looked back in the bag and saw fries instead of onion rings. "This whole order is wrong! Get your shit together!" I responded, and almost flung the bag at her. The lady at the window's jaw dropped. I saw Hoemiesha's bottom lip quiver and I knew I had won. She assembled the order correctly and stalked back to the kitchen, presumably to tell a manager. Surprisingly, the store manager made her stay back in the kitchen and work, and nothing was said to me at all. And I don't feel worried. Damn, that felt wonderful.

The Seafood Department That is My Brain

What you see is row upon row of gleaming fillets of halibut and grouper and salmon. You see the shiny scales of fresh rainbow trout. The fluffy pieces of catfish, begging to be battered and deep-fried. You see the neatly arranged shrimp, waiting to squirm their way into a bowl of pho or a stunning shrimp cocktail. You see the majestic king crab legs, full of lucious meat...

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...

Fo Shizzle...

I hate music where white people are trying to sound black. The white music I like is white.-Kanye West

This also describes my feeling of "black" speech from someone who has admittedly never spent a day outside of the suburbs. And don't get me started on the issue of white/black "speech. If I had a nickel for everytime some redneck remarked, "You sayound lahk a whaat girl on dat speaker!" while I was in drive-thru, I would be able to turn my back on bullshitting fast food jobs forever. It saddens me that speaking properly and cohesively is considered "white" and "high siddity". My huge vocabulary often surprises everyone I meet. But karma comes back to bite me, I suppose, as the nOOb, Josh, was suddenly thrown into my department. This is where the management's poor communication skills come into play. I felt horrible, insecure, and worried. Why am I out of the loop? I found out shortly after that one of our most loved butchers was packing up his knives and getting the hell out of Dodge. God Damn! I suppose it has to happen, every department has to change eventually, but it's scary. Especially when your own job is threatened. By Josh. A wigga in every sense of the word. But, he seems to retain most of his ethnicity inside until I clock in. It was midly amusing at first, but he started getting aggravating at a breakneck speed. By the fourth time he asked a customer "Yo! Can I help you?" I wanted to slap the fuck out of him with a hammer. "Ayo; I'm about to take a break, yo. Is dat cool with you?" Me- yes, that's fine. "Aight, when I get back, I'm going to gangbang some of those leg quarters." My eyebrow shot up as I immediatly pictured him howling in agony as huge frozen leg quarters in assless chaps pistol-whipped him. He shuns anything that I try to teach him, in favor of any bulky, inconvenient method that Clay has taught him, from wrapping frozen shrimp, to defrosting large crabs before you put them in the display case. So I just gave up. I essentially became his little bitch who does everything at 3 or 4 that should have been done hours before I got there. I saw my fearless mentor, BayBay, a few nights ago, and he spoke one of the truest statements I've heard in months. "A.R. is not seeing you for who you've become, or any progress you've made. He is seeing you, still, as how you were when you started this job (complaining about not getting breaks, taking lunches that lasted more than 1/2 hour, being late because I did not read the schedule correctly, ect, ect, because I can't ever do anything right.). He is not going to consider you for a full time position." He kept getting passed over for management, so he moved on, too. It might be time for me to make that switch back to Hell-Mart before it's too late.

Briefly Back...

To congratulate the ghey who has a crush on my boyfriend. You just caused me to disable the anonymous commenting feature on my bloggy. I should have known that some people get butt-hurt too easily over something stupid. I also enabled comment moderation. Sorry to the decent folks who don't have the time to make an account, who usually have something relevant to add to my posts.

Fuckery At The Fling

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.

Round Table- Volume 14! (Late!)

What's up everyone? You know Negroes are always late for everything! (I just noticed that I have a Google ad on my site that says, "Stop Racism". SMH...) I'm checking in from my cave of fishy goodness to let yall know about some awesome stuff that I've seen this week.



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.

The Queen Meets the King

You know I had to represent for my Afro-American roots. Soo...

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.