How can I convey through the mere written word how much I despise the place I work for? How can small assemblies of letters basted with punctuation really carry the full level of tooth gnashing hatred I have for my place of employment?
They can't. But I'm going to try anyway.
Ahem.
I hate my job like Hitler hated Jews.
I hate my job like Dwarves hate Trolls.
I hate my job like something you want to shit on after you've beaten it senseless with a tire iron, yet before you set it on fire and drag it through the streets where the local children pelt its charred countenance with small rocks and rotten vegetables.
There should be a new, stronger word for what I feel. Hate isn't powerful enough.
Fucking hatred. Fatred. I have nothing but fatred for my job.*
Let me post an edited edition of our company's Mission Statement and maybe my fatred will become more lucid for you, gentle reader.*
"At IHOP, Interracial Hovel Of Prostitutes (DBA: Mandy MuffinCritter's Mystery Shame Emporium) we strive to provide the consumer with a mediocre and often revolting entertainment experience. We hire anything and will put it on stage no matter how much slime it leaves behind. Our service is the slowest in the business and sometimes you can't get a drink for love nor money, and we pride ourselves on that.
At Mandy MuffinCritter's you can intuitively expect on being hassled and ripped off and be totally confident that our staff and management team will not rest until they've thoroughly failed to help you in any way and proactively see you to your vehicle or cab.
Our Management Concept focuses on a blend of core values tempered with a synergystic approach to ignoring key elements and hot button issues such as employee rights, customer satisfaction, and felonies. We have dynamically woven a complete lack of empathy with a vast sense of avarice and a certain down home shit-down-your-throatedness that we think really projects the MuffinCritter attitude and corporate stance."
"Go fuck yourself."
There. Copied verbatim although I did correct numerous spelling errors and edited out the the following words and phrases; 'jizz-bag emptiers, abortion-to-ho Vat Technology Schematics, and emu-raping polyornithivores'*.
Assault with Deadly Weapon? In court you'd plea it down to Assault and Battery and do 3 days to 3 years depending on your record.
At Mandy McCritterville? A 9 day suspension, previous crimes ruled not admissable. No fine. Light scolding by management which I have clandestinely obtained a transcript of:
MANAGER-"You are a bad girl. You could of killed that Floor Guy."
ENTERTAINER-"I'm sorr...wait. What Floor Guy? I distinctly recall I was attacking a latino customer, not no Floor Guy."
MANAGER-"Next time jab repeatedly just below and behind his ear with a broken bottle. That'll see him done. Really grind it around. You'll hit some kind of important vein or something."
ENTERTAINER-"That big white thing that got between me and my custamah? I thoughts that was a yeti."
MANAGER-"Nope. But in the right light I could easily see how you'd make that mistake. When I first saw him I thought to myself 'Wendigo'!, but that's just a regional difference and its plain no matter what you call it that the world be be a better place if it were to bleed out and expire on the filthy carpet in front of us."
"That being said, no more trying to maim or kill customers with broken bottles. That's bad. Its OK to kill Floor Guys because no one could love a Floor Guy and they have No Souls. So if one of them gets in your way while you're trying to drunkenly gut a customer with a fistful of glass razor, you owe it to mankind to attempt to slice your way through them."
ENTERTAINER-"So you is sayin that I can't cut me no more custamahs, but I'm doin the world a favor by attempting to kill and disfigure Floor Assholes?"
MANAGER-"I love you. If you could spell I would tell you to apply for a Management position. I think you could go far."
ENTERTAINER-[looking straight at Manager] "What are you saying, mortal?"
MANAGER-[glancing around fearfully, grovelling ] "Only this, Mistress! The new Floor Guy will burn in your fires this Midsummer to appease our end of the Bargain!"
ENTERTAINER-"Very well, maggot. At Midsummer our Pact will be renewed. If it is not, the blood of countless will be on your hands."
MANAGER-"I will not fail thee thine Mistress!"
ENTERTAINER-"Best not mowa-fakka..."
Its goddamn unnerving what the dancers can get away with compared to how the rest of us subhumans are treated. Whenever I feel anything that might one day grow into pride, integrity or dignity, I think back on the plight of my ancestor Lt. Daniel McSlutprodder who was imprisoned at Andersonville in the Civil War.
Through the depredations and inhumanities he was forced to live through, my forefather was quoted as saying "When the going got tough we ate the Pennsylvania Artillerymen. After that we ate some Illinois Calvary. But nothing ever tasted so sweet as an Ohio regiment raised on corn, bacon and big hipped farm trollops. We ate the fuck out of them."
Yankee Bill's BBQ shop, Andersonville Prison, Andersonville, Georgia.
I was going to write more but then decided not to.
It is time to feed. And do the pictures. I gotta do the pictures...
Dire StrippenHeirden
*It actually isn't my job I hate so much as the club I work at.**
**And this is badong.
*I did my research. I wasn't the first to use it.
*As usual I will change the company's name to protect the possible 5 molecules of innocence left in that seething whorepit.
*Which are apparently quite a problem in some Southern States.
