The Custodian Chronicles continue

As I've mentioned before, we've had a hard time with custodians at work. When you pay someone minimum wage to clean toilets and mop floors, you tend to attract people who are ... how do I word this?... addicted to crack.

Following the firings of the aforementioned 3-D Teef and Ghetto Smurf, we were lucky enough to find someone who actually did an acceptable job. His name was Ricky and he liked NASCAR (naturally), so we called him Ricky Bobby. Not our best nickname effort, but we didn't hate this guy. He kind of kept to himself and unlike all other custodians before or since, didn't bring further shame to our place of employment by his very presence.

Unfortunately for us, Ricky Bobby found a better job. He drives a garbage truck now. And really, I'm not making fun of his current occupation. The guy is making more money than I make; and at least the garbage he has to deal with isn't of the human variety. I wouldn't take his job, but mainly because of the temptation of using a sanitation vehicle as a lethal weapon. "Yeah, cut in front of me, motherfucker."

Ricky Bobby was replaced by a lady we "affectionately" called WTBS. WTBS did not reference the Superstation out of Atlanta, but stood for White Trash Barbara Streisand. Why? Because she looked like Barbara Streisand but lived in a trailer with her many children and common-law husband. Unbeknownst to management, WTBS was pregnant YET AGAIN when they hired her, and eventually her condition prevented her from doing much of anything janitor-related.

Why do some people have kids like it's a competition? I wanted to say to her, "You know, the pill will help with that complexion of yours, too" but I was kind of afraid she'd shank me.

All of the past losers pale in comparison to our latest human resources abortion. Her name is Mary Beth, but I like to call her Methy Beth. Because she's an obvious Meth addict? Yes.

Methy Beth, unlike our semi-beloved Ricky Bobby, does not keep to herself. Methy Beth likes to tell us what she just cleaned and how dirty it was before she cleaned it. Repeatedly. "Oh, really? You cleaned the break room and there was spaghetti sauce all inside the microwave? Well, that's great but IT'S THE HOLIDAY SEASON AND I'M DICK-DEEP IN NEEDY CUSTOMERS, YOU CRANK-ADDLED TOOTHLESS WONDER! DO US ALL A FAVOR: GO TO THE LADIES ROOM AND BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT! AND THEN CLEAN IT UP!!!" I don't say that to her, but I really really want to.

Yesterday she actually said to me, "Why is it so busy tonight? Tuesdays ain't usually this busy."

My response: "Maybe because it's the Tuesday before Christmas?"

Jesus, can we hire someone who knows what fucking month she's living in???

The T.O.D.D. system

Recently, a character on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia introduced the D.E.N.N.I.S. sytem, a crude, sexist, and uproariously funny guide to seducing women. In honor of this great sitcom, I offer The T.O.D.D. system.



T-Telegraph all potential romantic conquests with ham-fisted gestures and awkward mutterings.




O-Obey your gut instinct, no matter how many times that instinct has failed you miserably.



D-Deny the glaringly obvious fact that the object of your affection has little use for you.



D-Die alone.



Feel free to use this system any ol' time. Really, no need to give me credit for it.

Yeah, so I was rude to some punk-ass douche

Well, thanks to my hatred of customer service, and humanity in general, I have something to say again.

The other night this anorexic fop bought a quarter-keg of Bud Light or Miller Lite or Coors Light or whatever pussy-ass taintwater people of his ilk drink. He stood there and watched the cashier ring everything up without saying a word. Then he got the receipt and IT BEGAN.

Fuckhead: "Whoah, wait just a second. I called here and they told me over the phone that the keg would cost $37."

He thrust the receipt at me. The keg had rang up $51, because THAT'S HOW MUCH THE FUCKING KEG COSTS.

Me: "I'm sorry, but that's the right price. A keg of (insert cunt beer name here) costs $51."

Mancunt: "Well, I was told $37, and I don't think I should have to pay $51. You guys are giving out bad information. I..."

At this point I stopped listening to him. I'm sorry if he was given the wrong price, but I really had no proof of this other than his word, which meant as much to me as a pile of dog shit. What I really didn't like was the tone taken by this over privileged 22-yr-old, with his faux-vintage Abercrombie plaid shirt and $100 Zac Efron haircut. He was giving me the manufactured retail outrage so common among upper-middle-class twits. I'm sure he learned this maneuver from years of watching his prick mom and cunt dad berate clerks, waiters, and other service industry peon. Well, this was one service industry peon who wasn't falling for it.

I guess I could have calmly explained to him that we only make a few dollars of actual profit on a keg, and that it's ILLEGAL to sell alcohol for less than you pay for it. But I already tried reasoning with this little shit, and he wouldn't stop repeating, like an overly manicured parrot, the same "I shouldn't have to..." line of horseshit. At this point I wanted to punch his fucking face in.

Me: "Do you want the keg? If you don't want it, we'll refund your credit card."

Sniveling weasel: "Well, I shouldn't have to..."

Me: "Would you like to speak to a manager?" I was FUCKING DONE by this point.

Rat-faced bastard: "Well, uh...I shouldn't have to..."

He was rattled. He couldn't believe that the whiny repetition that had served his mommy so well when brow-beating country club busboys was failing him here.

Me: "That was a 'Yes or No' question. DO. YOU. WANT. TO. SPEAK. TO. A. MANAGER?"

Nearly-reduced-to-tears nancy boy: "Uh, yeah..."

I called a manager over and - surprise - the manager told him he could pay the $51 dollars or get a refund. He took the keg, because if he went back to the Chachi circle jerk without beer there would be heck to pay.

Well obviously I'm sick of dealing with the general public. Hopefully, his dad is someone powerful enough to get me fired. I'd love to spend the holidays sitting around collecting unemployment checks.

I have nothing left to say

As you can see from the title of this post, I have nothing left to say. When I have something to say again, I'll be back. Until then, Happy Holidays.