Friday, October 28, 2005

and suddenly, my job is Just. That. Annoying.

Pizza Slave: Will this be for drive-up window or delivery?
Customer: Are there any specials today?
Pizza Slave: Not that I am aware of.
Customer: (in baby-cute pout) OOOooooohhhhHH! No specials for Tuesday??
Pizza Slave: ......No.
Customer: (still pouting) oooohhhhh....alriiiiiight....(mercifully hangs up)

That's right. Whine in my ear and there will instantly be specials. Specials for Tuesday.

High-Maintainence Customer: And can I have all of the meats and cheeses for that salad on the side?
Pizza Slave: Sure.
Crusty Lumped-Up Manager with Pit Stains: Pizza Slave!! Can you please tell me how the hell am I supposed to put all this shit on the side?
Pizza Slave: I don't know. That's what she wanted.
C.L.U.M.P.S.: HOW the FUCK am I supposed to put it on the SIDE for a TO GO salad??
Pizza Slave: *blink* I don't know, CLUMPS, I'm sure you'll think of something.
C.L.U.M.P.S.: (in a voice that customers can definitely hear from the dining room) YOU TELL ME HOWTHEFUCK I'M SUPPOSED TO DO THIS!!
Pizza Slave: I DON'T REALLY CARE, CLUMPS! It's not my PROBLEM!
C.L.U.M.P.S.: (in high, mocking voice) ooooh, its not my proooblem!
Pizza Slave: You're WARPED.
C.L.U.M.P.S.: oooooh, you're warped! *waddles off like the lumbering hose-beast that she is*

Adults should not speak to each other this way. I might as well be dealing with 14 year-olds with emotional problems.

And the kicker. The moment when I started thinking that maybe my career as a Pizza Slave has run it's course:

Inept Store Manager: And, as a thank-you for taking on all of these hours I suddenly dropped in your lap because Joe the asshole driver quit, I'm putting you in for a raise!
Pizza Slave: Oh yeah?
I.S.M.: Yeah! I think doubling your work load and putting you on nights with no warning is worth giving you a raise to $6.25/hr.
Pizza Slave: *is at a complete loss for words*
I.S.M.: Is that okay?
Pizza Slave: *wonders how she can explain to I.S.M. that putting the word "raise" in front of a ten-cent pay hike does not make it a gift. wonders if I.S.M. is trying to insult her on purpose. wonders if she is supposed to say "thank you" in a situation like this. wonders how long this pause has actually gone on. wants to laugh in I.S.M.'s face SO badly. instead of saying "thank you," unexpectedly says,* well, whOOOOOhOOOOOO!
I.S.M.: (who's mouth has actually dropped open) ....won't that help you out?
Pizza Slave: Oh. Yeah. It will help me out. A lot. *starts walking away*
I.S.M.: Well, I can try to ask for $6.50, if that would be better?
Pizza Slave: No, no. I'm good. Thank you.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Toad Escapes Basement to Wreak Havoc; Lounges

Really. This monster amphibious creature clawed it's way from the under-verse of Carl's basement,

commenced a search-and-destroy mission upon all human life above ground, raining chaos and misery wherever its dour glance happened to fall, required us all to call it "Commendant of Wartcropolis, Bearer of Doom, Ancient Master of the Unholy Nether-World Beyond,"

and then took a little rest, requesting cucumbers for its eyes and a mamosa.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005


Mo: Hi.
Moville: Hi.
Mo: How've you been?
Moville: Do you really care, or are you just making polite conversation?
Mo: Oh, don't be like that. Of course I care!
Moville: You don't post pictures, you dont write...what's a blog to think? I mean, my whole exsistence turns on a word-hell, even a visit from you, and as far as I can tell, You have forgotten that you even created me!
Mo: No! No, I haven't forgotten! I've just been a bit...
Moville: Busy?
Mo: Yeah. Busy.

Mo: I really do mean to write...
Moville: But?
Mo: ...but I have nothing worth writing about.
Moville: Oh, please. Like you ever hand anything worth writing about. "Red Beans 'n Rice?" "Office Haiku #3?" All you ever bring me is little bits of nothing, so if you have nothing to write about, you should be all set to go! So get to it! Let's try, "Toad Escapes Basement to Wreak Havoc; Lounges."
Mo: Well, that's it exactly. This is a great place for fluff, for the odd bits of funny flotsam jumbling up my head. But I don't seem to have any of that floating around up there just now. Do you see?
Moville: Not really.

Mo: Well, um...OK-Have you ever felt so dully resigned that all of the glittery fragmented possibilities of "what is" and "what could be" sort of fade out of focus and die?
Moville: Resigned?
Mo: Yeah. Resigned to your crappy job, to your ugly car, to the fact that you took the turnpike instead of 309 but it's too late to turn back, to you whole dusty life, slowly grinding forward day by predictable day? Resigned-when you thought there would be more, but have accepted that there is not, and don't even really think about it anymore?

Moville: ......

Moville: I am an imaginary bit of stationary whose sole purpose is to record and serve the thoughts of a single sniveling human animal. A human animal who, by the way, is a terrible speller. Who might step in front of a bus tomorrow, leaving words everywhere more correctly spelled, but also leaving me alone and adrift in a soup of impulses and unfriendly spammers, or worse, erase me on a whim because I don't "reflect her, you know, creatively." I am a few pages of electronic code that is sustained by and dependant upon the competance of programmers and disinterest of hackers. I have no mass. I'm not even speaking right now. You are just talking to yourself and pretending that I exist so you can feel like you told someone who cares. No. I know nothing about resignation. Why do you ask?

Mo: I don't know. I thought maybe you'd understand.
Mo: I guess not.
Mo: You don't have to be a jerk about it.
Mo: I know you are, but what am I?
Mo: All right, I'll be back soon with some pithy scrap of nothing to justify your world.
Mo: Don't force it. You'll just embarrass yourself.