oh shit, the bars are closed and walmart in my pants
brrrr,
it is cold in here, not so much, foolish things these are, i say it.
shall document with certainty, some witch enslaver, telling me that i will serve taco meat of regular green or red down the throats of people who in this day and age our content to just have a lot of well seasoned meet and chedder cheese shoved down their throats, people for whom the concept of vegetables is relegated to the pile of greased up frybags behind the passenger seat.
oh fucking hell, yes, the hat and the extra large polo shirt and the mopping of the bathroom. i thought it would be funny, i thought it would be a kick in the ass, but no, it is in fact some seventies relic of a faded out mexi-dream, that truthfully i don't want to be a part of. so motivation exists, find a new job in four days, because if i don't, well. No call no show is one possibility, strong, true, has proven me well, better than sick. But mercedeszzz or GRANDMA as my traumatized coworker calls her, might prove herself to be deserving of a little bit more, such as showing up with my hand in my pants and cracking open a fourty of king-cobra right in the doorway (which according to the "homework" she has had me look over, is grounds for instant disapproval).
Fuck it though, I just must leave and find my gainful employement elsewhere, because I will not be able to keep a straight face when, after seconds of finishing mopping, some fourty minutes after she has already clocked me out, this fat lady who suddenly starts using a treeroot cane, says, well what do you think?
fucking hell, i think you just broke the labor law and now i want to get the shit beat out of me in a western bar.
she demands observation during breaks, so one can't get high behind the dumpster.
if only i had the money.CHINKA CHINKA CHINKA CHINKA (keeping all that change in my pockets)
it is cold in here, not so much, foolish things these are, i say it.
shall document with certainty, some witch enslaver, telling me that i will serve taco meat of regular green or red down the throats of people who in this day and age our content to just have a lot of well seasoned meet and chedder cheese shoved down their throats, people for whom the concept of vegetables is relegated to the pile of greased up frybags behind the passenger seat.
oh fucking hell, yes, the hat and the extra large polo shirt and the mopping of the bathroom. i thought it would be funny, i thought it would be a kick in the ass, but no, it is in fact some seventies relic of a faded out mexi-dream, that truthfully i don't want to be a part of. so motivation exists, find a new job in four days, because if i don't, well. No call no show is one possibility, strong, true, has proven me well, better than sick. But mercedeszzz or GRANDMA as my traumatized coworker calls her, might prove herself to be deserving of a little bit more, such as showing up with my hand in my pants and cracking open a fourty of king-cobra right in the doorway (which according to the "homework" she has had me look over, is grounds for instant disapproval).
Fuck it though, I just must leave and find my gainful employement elsewhere, because I will not be able to keep a straight face when, after seconds of finishing mopping, some fourty minutes after she has already clocked me out, this fat lady who suddenly starts using a treeroot cane, says, well what do you think?
fucking hell, i think you just broke the labor law and now i want to get the shit beat out of me in a western bar.
she demands observation during breaks, so one can't get high behind the dumpster.
if only i had the money.CHINKA CHINKA CHINKA CHINKA (keeping all that change in my pockets)