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.

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.

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....

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.

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.