The Captain Will Have to Choke a Bitch...
Okay, so if you place an order for pick-up at 4 o'clock, you would come in at 4 o'clock to pick it up, right? Not only that, but if you called the day of pick up to ask if the place you ordered it from would have it ready at 4 o'clock, you would definitely show up at 4 o'clok, right? Apparently not; some high holy cunt of a woman (cunt being a word I don't toss around freely unless I'm driving) placed an order and called yesterday to ask us if we would have it ready. Strike ONE. We tell her we will, because hey, we know how the fuck to do our jobs.
Come 3 o'clock. Some lady who I can already tell is going to be trouble walks in and says "I'm here for a pick-up." We determine that she is the lady who wanted a cooked tenderloin at 4 o'clock. Note the part where it's only 3. Strike TWO. We tell her we'll have to finish it up, and she sort of stares at us for a moment, then says "Well, I'll just come back." We convince her to wait, get her shit sliced up (including the bullshit she added that morning while calling), and take her money.
Fast forward ohhhhh, maybe forty-five minutes later. Jimmy, the boss, sees her coming through the parking lot. He anounces, "Ohhh, we did simething wrong." She comes in tells us we cooked her tenderloin rare, when she ordered it medium rare. Basically, she's telling us we can't read a thermometer. We temped it, double-checked with the giant reference book of cookeration, and declared it medium rare. Well, this bitch apparently doesn't understand what medium rare means. Since it is apparently beyond her ability to put something in her oven for five minutes, she demands that we do so. She leaves an address for us to drop it off at and rushes out, all hurried-like. Remeber how I said she was going to pick up at 4 o'clock? IT'S STILL NOT 4. WHY ARE YOU SO RUSHED, YOU VAPID WHORE? Strike THREE. You should be out. You hsould not pass go, you should go directly to jail. But no, we are nice people. We put the shit in the oven and a few minutes later, Jimmy send an already irritated me out to give this lady her shit.
I pull up to a house that confirms my suspicion that this is one of those women that has that perfect amount of money that makes her think that everyone should follow her every whim and desire. I walk up to her front door and she meets me there. NOW THE MEAT IS TOO COOKED. SHE WANTS HER MONEY BACK. STRIKE FOUR. THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE. YOU DON'T GET FOUR STRIKES. I AM GOING TO EAT YOUR FACE, LADY.
So guess what she wants. She wants her money back. She wants me to go back to the store, weigh up this little batch of tenderloin, and she'll come to get her money back. Yes, "this batch." I forgot to mention that she had three containers of meat. Somehow, this was magically the only one that wasn't cooked enough. Buy anyhoo, SHE. WANTS. A. REFUND. FOR NOT KNOWING WHAT THE FUCK SHE WAS ORDERING. STRIKE FIVE. STRIKE CINCO. STRIKE WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE, MY WHOLE UNDERSTANDING OF THE WORLD OF BASEBALL IS CRASHING DOWN AROUND MY EARS. I AM GOING TO EAT URANIUM AND FART ON YOUR DOG, LADY.
Yeah, well, as far as I know at time of post, she wasn't getting her money back, and for that I am extremely, extremely excited.
Side note: fuck Fox for not showing the Packers game. I give so few shits about any of the teams being broadcast today.
Come 3 o'clock. Some lady who I can already tell is going to be trouble walks in and says "I'm here for a pick-up." We determine that she is the lady who wanted a cooked tenderloin at 4 o'clock. Note the part where it's only 3. Strike TWO. We tell her we'll have to finish it up, and she sort of stares at us for a moment, then says "Well, I'll just come back." We convince her to wait, get her shit sliced up (including the bullshit she added that morning while calling), and take her money.
Fast forward ohhhhh, maybe forty-five minutes later. Jimmy, the boss, sees her coming through the parking lot. He anounces, "Ohhh, we did simething wrong." She comes in tells us we cooked her tenderloin rare, when she ordered it medium rare. Basically, she's telling us we can't read a thermometer. We temped it, double-checked with the giant reference book of cookeration, and declared it medium rare. Well, this bitch apparently doesn't understand what medium rare means. Since it is apparently beyond her ability to put something in her oven for five minutes, she demands that we do so. She leaves an address for us to drop it off at and rushes out, all hurried-like. Remeber how I said she was going to pick up at 4 o'clock? IT'S STILL NOT 4. WHY ARE YOU SO RUSHED, YOU VAPID WHORE? Strike THREE. You should be out. You hsould not pass go, you should go directly to jail. But no, we are nice people. We put the shit in the oven and a few minutes later, Jimmy send an already irritated me out to give this lady her shit.
I pull up to a house that confirms my suspicion that this is one of those women that has that perfect amount of money that makes her think that everyone should follow her every whim and desire. I walk up to her front door and she meets me there. NOW THE MEAT IS TOO COOKED. SHE WANTS HER MONEY BACK. STRIKE FOUR. THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE. YOU DON'T GET FOUR STRIKES. I AM GOING TO EAT YOUR FACE, LADY.
So guess what she wants. She wants her money back. She wants me to go back to the store, weigh up this little batch of tenderloin, and she'll come to get her money back. Yes, "this batch." I forgot to mention that she had three containers of meat. Somehow, this was magically the only one that wasn't cooked enough. Buy anyhoo, SHE. WANTS. A. REFUND. FOR NOT KNOWING WHAT THE FUCK SHE WAS ORDERING. STRIKE FIVE. STRIKE CINCO. STRIKE WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE, MY WHOLE UNDERSTANDING OF THE WORLD OF BASEBALL IS CRASHING DOWN AROUND MY EARS. I AM GOING TO EAT URANIUM AND FART ON YOUR DOG, LADY.
Yeah, well, as far as I know at time of post, she wasn't getting her money back, and for that I am extremely, extremely excited.
Side note: fuck Fox for not showing the Packers game. I give so few shits about any of the teams being broadcast today.