One thing I can say about this occupation, it can certainly be a roller coaster of hatred and emotions. Mostly the hot, angry kind of emotions. But every now and then God removes His Cock from your ass long enough for you to be thankful you have the job, until Saturday rolls around that is.
Yes Saturdays. When the majority of Murrika is out and about, having fun, getting drunk, fucking, doing stupid things. Except for us lowly service industry folk. Every Saturday night we're transformed into peasants, peons and plebeians, ready and waiting to be looked down at, shit on and walked all over, hopefully for some money!
The job can be like a hamster wheel half submerged in liquid feces. You ain't going anywhere buddy, and the faster you run, the more shit you're going to get on you.
Tonight was like that. I was pissed going in and I'm not that great at letting go of my cuntiness when riled up. It's ironic that this comes on the heels of the best two days I've had all year, that's where the roller coaster allusion comes into play. Highs to lows, unexpected like. I'd have liked to make an out of state trip to say goodbye to an old friend if I just could've got the okay to do so, but as you'll read below, that didn't happen. God put His Dick back in.
Super Dynamic Management Team Laser-Falcon, Deploy!
Special mention must go out to our primary management pair, Sir Osgood TempleVein V and Sir Whimsy-Whamsey Shufflekins III. Between the two of them, Saturdays are less fun than wrestling a jaguar right after you've had a full body massage with Fancy Feast and catnip.
I had texted Sir Osgood earlier in the day requesting the night off and letting him know I have another Floor Guy ready, willing and able to cover my shift for me. I just needed him to answer me back because the other guy has been sent home twice when filling in for me because he "wasn't needed" and he's sick and fucking tired of making the trip for nothing. Can't blame him.
Well, almost 10 hours go by after I texted Sir Osgood twice and I get nothing. Nada. Eventually time to go into work rolls around and my options run out. Off to hospitality paradise I go, pre-basted with anger and bearing hate levels already at 2 AM altitudes.
The fact that Mr. Templevein couldn't even be bothered to text me back at all, irritated the shit out of me. He could've sent me a simple "no" and I would've been a lot less poked-bear about the whole thing. I'm not even worthy of a response, it seems.
And things went downhill from there.
The Town™ is like a rat maze of closed street and detours, all crammed with idiots in cars and Uber-twats, except there's no hunk of cheese anywhere. If there was I would've found it by now. So getting anywhere took half an hour. Two minute trip? I'll be there in half an hour. Round the block? Better make it forty minutes....
NO! DON'T TIP ME. I'D RATHER BE PAT ON THE SHOULDER LIKE A LOYAL HOUND.
I always foam at the mouth with rage bordering on despair as I contemplate various harrowing scenarios and struggle with every fiber of my being to not say what I feel or act upon the urgings of the hostile rancor-monkey riding on my shoulder, shrieking condemnation and stealing Ray-Bans.
I LOVE being stuck in traffic and forced to listen to you and your friends childish, drunken gibbered conversations, carried out at full volume and with minimal class.
I MAKE $5.75 AN HOUR. I DON'T NEED YOUR TIPS.
Seriously, keep all that money I just saved you in cab/Uber fares. You deserve it because you're all wearing dude-approved headgear.
Add into this that the civic planners decided having four large events at the four cardinal points of the city which all ended at the same time, was a terrific idea. 'Hey, traffic is shitty after even one of these events, so why don't we plan four of them that all end together, strategically placed around the town to cause almost complete traffic paralysis? We can watch from the 40th floor while we beat off with caviar and pretend to enjoy scotch."
That's what I picture a city planner meeting being like. Fish eggs, bad ideas, sheep liquor and jizz.
Seems about right for the productivity level they achieve....
Fuck you, you motherfuckers. I hope you're all raped to death by some sort of livestock and your seed dies off, thus negating the possibility of any legacy-fuckheadedness.
Hmm. That seemed a bit harsh, even by my broad standards. Wishing death on children and such.
Still, it's not like I haven't written worse things, so let's all get past it and move forward.
Super Dynamic Management Team Laser-Falcon, Pt 2
The other half of this dynamic duo is Sir Whimsy-Whamsey Shufflekins III, scion to a failed British sugar fortune, part time alcoholic and full time avoider of conflict and confrontation. Unfortunately for us Floor Apes, conflict resolution is part and parcel of a MANAGER's job description. There are very direct and forceful managers, and then there are managers like Sir Whimsy, total Ostrich-Style leaders.
Sir Whimsy is the specialist responsible for our ultra modern 'guess if you're working today?' school of scheduling that seems to be in vogue right now. Frequently you have to call work to find out if you're supposed to be there that day. While I embrace the cutting edge nature of this style of organization, I nevertheless often get the impulse to pick Sir Whimsy up bodily and throw him through some drywall. Perhaps while screaming at him, "Am I Working Monday? Am I Working Monday?"
This is one of my many, many faults, daydreaming of throwing various managers, strippers and customers through cheap wallboard while bellowing something clever or at least memorable. Thank Gods it's a fault I'm aware of and am able to keep a lid on, no matter how many pry bars are thrown my way in the execution of my job description.
Tonight was a close call. Brought home some realities to me, ergo it's time to get busy. So don't let this early Summer blast of productivity get your hopes up. I HAVE to work on another project from now on, forgive me.
I'm sure you'll still get your Herder fix, but don't expect 6 posts a month, it's unlikely at best and science fiction at worst.
All the best,
-The StripperHerder
