a_bit_of_wit_2 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
a_bit_of_wit_2) wrote2005-02-10 01:19 am
a_bit_of_wit_2) wrote2005-02-10 01:19 am
You shanked my Jengaship!
One, some humor.
Two, for your viewing pleasure...It’s usually the very first job of a teenager of ages 14-16. If said teen is lucky, he/she will find their first place of employment in a place other than the trappings of the fast-food industry, and thus this narrative might be confusing. For those of you who have never worked in fast food (literally and figuratively), consider yourself lucky—you’re among the small elite group who never had to face the grueling work, the measly pittance for pay, frying up whatever they called beef, the challenges of dealing with a human race that is just so, in every sense of the word, stupid. If you have never worked at a fast food establishment, be it Wendy’s, Burger King, McDonald’s, what have you, then this narrative is not for you. While you may find my ramblings, comments, insight, total sarcasm and bashing of all things grease-laden amusing, this is primarily written for those who have worked, is currently working, or intending on working in a fast food restaurant. To those considering a career in futility, an artist’s palette of condiments, and heart-attack inducers, perhaps you might have a second thought when I’ve finished my bashing of these wonderful places which seem nothing more than observatories—observatories where the fast food worker can observe the human race, and come to the startling conclusion that we…are…morons! As Agent Kay (played by the brilliant Tommy Lee Jones) so brilliantly pointed out in the movie Men in Black, “A person is smart. People are dumb, stupid, panicky animals and you know it.”
You may ask why I decided to write this humorous narrative of sarcastic wit. It was an idea that started to form back in August of 2003, where I was at my first college, the State University of New York at New Paltz. It was during Welcome Week (a 5-day program before classes began to get everyone all riled up, comprising of “fun” activities), and I was out on the concourse of the Student Union Building (which will now be known as the SUB), enjoying the cool summer night. At the SUB, they were hosting some sort of video dance party, of which actually was a flop. Not many went to it. However, there was a Frisbee game in progress, consisting of what would be my first several friends at the Paltz—Nick Whitford, a person who also had a wonderful sense of sarcasm (for he too was a victim of the Greasy Arches); Kate Fais, who only looks sweet and innocent; Tryn Conrad, quite fun to be around, and who also has a knack for sharp, pointy darts; and Lex Simko, who was actually the first person I met when I arrived at NP—he was playing his mandolin in front of Hasbrouck Dining Hall (which will now be referenced as Asspuke, Haspuke, Assbrouck, and many other vomit/ass combination names). During said Frisbee game, McD was brought up, and away it went. For the next couple of hours, Nick and I just went to town; recounting the joys we had working for the most horrible of grease pits. Needless to say, we had called it the “McRant,” and the idea to write it out was mentioned in passing, in humor. It got brought up again, several more times, and the core rant passed to everyone else in the group of friends. Ironically enough, in this place reeking of fetor, with enough grease to lube every male’s penis on the planet at least six times over, I’d meet the love of my life. However, that’s a chapter for a later time.
And so, with or without further ado, let me take you on a journey. Come with me on a sojourn through fats and cholesterol of the worst kind, triple-arch motion, shake mixes and spoodles. I’m sure that by the time that this is all said and done, you will at least get one chuckle out of it. Hell…I do, anyway. The next part of this Prologue is my intro to the world of drab brown clay tiles. Not much in the way of funny here, but I felt it necessary to give you some background info, just to let you know what we’re getting into. Good. On we go!
* * *
The year was 2001. I was 15 years old, and a junior in Suffern High School in Suffern, NY. Growing up in a small, obscure smear called Ramapo, New York; I decided I wanted a job. I decided to get a job for two reasons—first and primarily, to save up money to buy a class ring for when I graduated high school in 2003. I knew for a damn fact that my stepfather was not going to shell out nearly $300 for a good quality high school ring (for he absolutely, blatantly, and vehemently said no when I asked). The second reason—to earn enough money to cover my expenses for that school year. I was immensely involved in the music department in high school, using my vocal talents to get me into All-County choral ensembles, Area All-State choral ensembles, NYSSMA (a New York student music association), the school’s Select Choir, and the spring musicals. These things cost money (because some of them required travel and such), and my stepfather had made it known to me that he was getting sick and tired of paying for my music-related stuff. If I didn’t have money, then I wouldn’t be able to go to these functions. So began the job search.
Every place I had applied or inquired about (Wal-Mart, local libraries, pet stores, and supermarkets) told me that I needed to be 16. This posed a slight problem, considering my birthday was in November. So, I called a McDonald’s located on the New York State Thruway, in Sloatsburg, NY, and I was informed by the store manager that minimum age to work there was 14. Joy. So, I went there with my stepsister, Jen, applied, and was hired. Now, my plan was just to work for a few months, till I got the needed amount, then leave. I’m good at saving money when I need to, and I was going to save up for these things.
Well, as you can see, things didn’t quite work out that way. Otherwise I would not have spent three years of my life there. What went wrong? Why wasn’t my tenure in McSlop so brief like I had planned? Well, several things actually. First, when I started working, I became a source of income for the house. The money I earned wasn’t mine to keep anymore—should my stepfather need it, he borrowed it from me, and he usually was good about returning it to me. However, I still needed money to cover the stuff my stepfather no longer was willing to pay for. Second, I had begun to make friends at this place, and I was growing attached to it, despite the fact that I was making a starting wage of $5.25 an hour, ten cents above the federal minimum wage. Third—I realized that I could buy things I wanted (primarily video games), things my parents never would buy for me, like said video games.
So, day one of the job comes around. Interview, orientation, done and done, and now I’m wearing that uniform of which I’d come to abhor during the next 3 years—green shirt, black pants, that silly hat, black shoes. No facial hair of any kind. Long hair placed in a bun or pony-tailed. Penis length no more than six inches. Breast size no more than 36C. So, I stepped behind the counter for the first time, and I felt like I was entering a whole new world. For years, I was curious (as were we all as children) as to what went on behind the counter—was Ronald McDonald really here? Grimace? The Hamburglar?
God, we were dumb. Inquisitive as children, yes. Curious, yes. Dumb? Yes. To the nth degree. That whole shpiel that Lord Cosby spoketh abouteth about children having braineth damageth—all true. Ask any parent or older sibling in the country. If we knew then what we knew now…maybe all these obesity lawsuits wouldn’t have happened, maybe McDonald’s wouldn’t have come out with the “Go Healthy Adult Happy Meal,” complete with all the stupid commercials, recycled taco meat, and the most inaccurate piece of shit pedometer (called the “step-o-meter” for you anal-retentive folk). Maybe, somewhere in that tiny space we call a brain, something would’ve said, “Oh. 36 grams of fat in each Big Mac. More salt in the chicken than in all the oceans combined. Enough grease to lube every guy’s penis at least six times over (then KY would really, really be in trouble). What the fuck are we eating?!” Instead, the left side of the brain goes to the right side of the brain and says, “It’s dark in here. And we’re gonna die.”
As we got older, it became, what’s the “secret sauce” in the Big Mac? Do they really pee in the pickle jar (thank you, Fox)? Can you hook me up with free food? Silly childhood thought gave way to scientific inquiry, and for those who managed to get on the inside (read: get hired and work at this place), they could divulge the inner workings of this sanctum of processed cow (poor Bessie!!!) and thus be warned against the trappings of…whatever the trappings are. So, in I go, and while I’m being orientated, or oriented, however you prefer, I am made aware of the rules, regulations, ordinances, laws, old by-laws, blue-collar laws, white-collar rules, and ring-around-the-collar policies. Some of them I found quite silly, foolish, going against normal logic, but it seemed pretty straightforward. Hey, it was my first job, a new experience. I’d play by the rules to start. Then I’ll get around them.
What you readers are about to dive in is not a chronological timeline of my three years service to McD’s. That would be too autobiographical, dry, and boring. And I don’t even remember all the stupid happenings that took place during those years. In those years, I worked at three McDonald’s restaurants—the first being the one on the New York State Thruway in Sloatsburg, NY; second being the one located in New Paltz, NY; and the third being in North Adams, MA. I will be jumping around from place to place, as it is my intention to have a common theme throughout the chapters—for example, one chapter on just outright customer stupidity, another on co-worker stupidity, etc. I warn you—this may cause uncontrollable, spastic contractions of the diaphragm, dizziness, upset stomach, nausea, headaches, erectile dysfunction, diarrhea, wild snorting, watery eyes, poor gas mileage, thousands of dollars of college debt, low home equity, uncontrollable flatulence (yes, Thomas, that was a direct hit at you), a 36-hour erection, orgasmic pleasure, and milk squirting out of your nose.
You’ve been warned. I take no responsibility for what happens to you, you poor sap.
Let me know what you think.
Third, the day. First, woke at 8 this morning, a result of Jim and Mikey having some sort of argument. Jim's suspended from school again for something silly, and work was so, so dead. I ended up doing much electronics work toward the later hours, and I cleaned wireless. Yes, I got that bored. Tomorrow, 12-9 for the 4th day in a row, then Friday, a day off before another 3 straight. I hope it's busier. Got home, and was given a piece of news that I found amusing--my sister's now officially entered the world of womanhood. That's all you need to know. Here's your clue--she was stuffing her face with chocolate. I chatted with my April for a bit, then I wrote the rest of the McRant Prologue. It's also up on nFiction: http://www.nfiction.com/confirmation.php?id=5563&title=McRant.
A quiet IM night, apparently. And a huge hug for Annie...she needs all the support she can get. If you need to talk, get ahold of me.
Anyway, chilling here for probably another hour or so.
Nighty night, all.
Two, for your viewing pleasure...It’s usually the very first job of a teenager of ages 14-16. If said teen is lucky, he/she will find their first place of employment in a place other than the trappings of the fast-food industry, and thus this narrative might be confusing. For those of you who have never worked in fast food (literally and figuratively), consider yourself lucky—you’re among the small elite group who never had to face the grueling work, the measly pittance for pay, frying up whatever they called beef, the challenges of dealing with a human race that is just so, in every sense of the word, stupid. If you have never worked at a fast food establishment, be it Wendy’s, Burger King, McDonald’s, what have you, then this narrative is not for you. While you may find my ramblings, comments, insight, total sarcasm and bashing of all things grease-laden amusing, this is primarily written for those who have worked, is currently working, or intending on working in a fast food restaurant. To those considering a career in futility, an artist’s palette of condiments, and heart-attack inducers, perhaps you might have a second thought when I’ve finished my bashing of these wonderful places which seem nothing more than observatories—observatories where the fast food worker can observe the human race, and come to the startling conclusion that we…are…morons! As Agent Kay (played by the brilliant Tommy Lee Jones) so brilliantly pointed out in the movie Men in Black, “A person is smart. People are dumb, stupid, panicky animals and you know it.”
You may ask why I decided to write this humorous narrative of sarcastic wit. It was an idea that started to form back in August of 2003, where I was at my first college, the State University of New York at New Paltz. It was during Welcome Week (a 5-day program before classes began to get everyone all riled up, comprising of “fun” activities), and I was out on the concourse of the Student Union Building (which will now be known as the SUB), enjoying the cool summer night. At the SUB, they were hosting some sort of video dance party, of which actually was a flop. Not many went to it. However, there was a Frisbee game in progress, consisting of what would be my first several friends at the Paltz—Nick Whitford, a person who also had a wonderful sense of sarcasm (for he too was a victim of the Greasy Arches); Kate Fais, who only looks sweet and innocent; Tryn Conrad, quite fun to be around, and who also has a knack for sharp, pointy darts; and Lex Simko, who was actually the first person I met when I arrived at NP—he was playing his mandolin in front of Hasbrouck Dining Hall (which will now be referenced as Asspuke, Haspuke, Assbrouck, and many other vomit/ass combination names). During said Frisbee game, McD was brought up, and away it went. For the next couple of hours, Nick and I just went to town; recounting the joys we had working for the most horrible of grease pits. Needless to say, we had called it the “McRant,” and the idea to write it out was mentioned in passing, in humor. It got brought up again, several more times, and the core rant passed to everyone else in the group of friends. Ironically enough, in this place reeking of fetor, with enough grease to lube every male’s penis on the planet at least six times over, I’d meet the love of my life. However, that’s a chapter for a later time.
And so, with or without further ado, let me take you on a journey. Come with me on a sojourn through fats and cholesterol of the worst kind, triple-arch motion, shake mixes and spoodles. I’m sure that by the time that this is all said and done, you will at least get one chuckle out of it. Hell…I do, anyway. The next part of this Prologue is my intro to the world of drab brown clay tiles. Not much in the way of funny here, but I felt it necessary to give you some background info, just to let you know what we’re getting into. Good. On we go!
* * *
The year was 2001. I was 15 years old, and a junior in Suffern High School in Suffern, NY. Growing up in a small, obscure smear called Ramapo, New York; I decided I wanted a job. I decided to get a job for two reasons—first and primarily, to save up money to buy a class ring for when I graduated high school in 2003. I knew for a damn fact that my stepfather was not going to shell out nearly $300 for a good quality high school ring (for he absolutely, blatantly, and vehemently said no when I asked). The second reason—to earn enough money to cover my expenses for that school year. I was immensely involved in the music department in high school, using my vocal talents to get me into All-County choral ensembles, Area All-State choral ensembles, NYSSMA (a New York student music association), the school’s Select Choir, and the spring musicals. These things cost money (because some of them required travel and such), and my stepfather had made it known to me that he was getting sick and tired of paying for my music-related stuff. If I didn’t have money, then I wouldn’t be able to go to these functions. So began the job search.
Every place I had applied or inquired about (Wal-Mart, local libraries, pet stores, and supermarkets) told me that I needed to be 16. This posed a slight problem, considering my birthday was in November. So, I called a McDonald’s located on the New York State Thruway, in Sloatsburg, NY, and I was informed by the store manager that minimum age to work there was 14. Joy. So, I went there with my stepsister, Jen, applied, and was hired. Now, my plan was just to work for a few months, till I got the needed amount, then leave. I’m good at saving money when I need to, and I was going to save up for these things.
Well, as you can see, things didn’t quite work out that way. Otherwise I would not have spent three years of my life there. What went wrong? Why wasn’t my tenure in McSlop so brief like I had planned? Well, several things actually. First, when I started working, I became a source of income for the house. The money I earned wasn’t mine to keep anymore—should my stepfather need it, he borrowed it from me, and he usually was good about returning it to me. However, I still needed money to cover the stuff my stepfather no longer was willing to pay for. Second, I had begun to make friends at this place, and I was growing attached to it, despite the fact that I was making a starting wage of $5.25 an hour, ten cents above the federal minimum wage. Third—I realized that I could buy things I wanted (primarily video games), things my parents never would buy for me, like said video games.
So, day one of the job comes around. Interview, orientation, done and done, and now I’m wearing that uniform of which I’d come to abhor during the next 3 years—green shirt, black pants, that silly hat, black shoes. No facial hair of any kind. Long hair placed in a bun or pony-tailed. Penis length no more than six inches. Breast size no more than 36C. So, I stepped behind the counter for the first time, and I felt like I was entering a whole new world. For years, I was curious (as were we all as children) as to what went on behind the counter—was Ronald McDonald really here? Grimace? The Hamburglar?
God, we were dumb. Inquisitive as children, yes. Curious, yes. Dumb? Yes. To the nth degree. That whole shpiel that Lord Cosby spoketh abouteth about children having braineth damageth—all true. Ask any parent or older sibling in the country. If we knew then what we knew now…maybe all these obesity lawsuits wouldn’t have happened, maybe McDonald’s wouldn’t have come out with the “Go Healthy Adult Happy Meal,” complete with all the stupid commercials, recycled taco meat, and the most inaccurate piece of shit pedometer (called the “step-o-meter” for you anal-retentive folk). Maybe, somewhere in that tiny space we call a brain, something would’ve said, “Oh. 36 grams of fat in each Big Mac. More salt in the chicken than in all the oceans combined. Enough grease to lube every guy’s penis at least six times over (then KY would really, really be in trouble). What the fuck are we eating?!” Instead, the left side of the brain goes to the right side of the brain and says, “It’s dark in here. And we’re gonna die.”
As we got older, it became, what’s the “secret sauce” in the Big Mac? Do they really pee in the pickle jar (thank you, Fox)? Can you hook me up with free food? Silly childhood thought gave way to scientific inquiry, and for those who managed to get on the inside (read: get hired and work at this place), they could divulge the inner workings of this sanctum of processed cow (poor Bessie!!!) and thus be warned against the trappings of…whatever the trappings are. So, in I go, and while I’m being orientated, or oriented, however you prefer, I am made aware of the rules, regulations, ordinances, laws, old by-laws, blue-collar laws, white-collar rules, and ring-around-the-collar policies. Some of them I found quite silly, foolish, going against normal logic, but it seemed pretty straightforward. Hey, it was my first job, a new experience. I’d play by the rules to start. Then I’ll get around them.
What you readers are about to dive in is not a chronological timeline of my three years service to McD’s. That would be too autobiographical, dry, and boring. And I don’t even remember all the stupid happenings that took place during those years. In those years, I worked at three McDonald’s restaurants—the first being the one on the New York State Thruway in Sloatsburg, NY; second being the one located in New Paltz, NY; and the third being in North Adams, MA. I will be jumping around from place to place, as it is my intention to have a common theme throughout the chapters—for example, one chapter on just outright customer stupidity, another on co-worker stupidity, etc. I warn you—this may cause uncontrollable, spastic contractions of the diaphragm, dizziness, upset stomach, nausea, headaches, erectile dysfunction, diarrhea, wild snorting, watery eyes, poor gas mileage, thousands of dollars of college debt, low home equity, uncontrollable flatulence (yes, Thomas, that was a direct hit at you), a 36-hour erection, orgasmic pleasure, and milk squirting out of your nose.
You’ve been warned. I take no responsibility for what happens to you, you poor sap.
Let me know what you think.
Third, the day. First, woke at 8 this morning, a result of Jim and Mikey having some sort of argument. Jim's suspended from school again for something silly, and work was so, so dead. I ended up doing much electronics work toward the later hours, and I cleaned wireless. Yes, I got that bored. Tomorrow, 12-9 for the 4th day in a row, then Friday, a day off before another 3 straight. I hope it's busier. Got home, and was given a piece of news that I found amusing--my sister's now officially entered the world of womanhood. That's all you need to know. Here's your clue--she was stuffing her face with chocolate. I chatted with my April for a bit, then I wrote the rest of the McRant Prologue. It's also up on nFiction: http://www.nfiction.com/confirmation.php?id=5563&title=McRant.
A quiet IM night, apparently. And a huge hug for Annie...she needs all the support she can get. If you need to talk, get ahold of me.
Anyway, chilling here for probably another hour or so.
Nighty night, all.