Reprehensible? Perhaps.
I love spring. Everyone is miserable with allergies, the white folk come out of hibernation to odyssey to Panera Bread, the crime rate goes up. The grass looks so tempting in the sun, the chipmunks darting about bright-eyed, but do not sit upon it, noble audience, for it is treacherous and it is wet and it will deliver unto your ass great discomfort. Perhaps a little more self-consciousness than already exists. Perhaps you will even look as if you had an accident. Oh, spring.
So, I quit Barnes&Noble, finally, praise Jesus. No more little lanyard with my name on it and a litany of “Members save 10%!” Now I work at the restaurant and my life is 90% less kill myself. I had been procrastinating quitting longer than you'd wait in line behind a group of Mexicans at Family Dollar. At Zeus, Poncho is our Mexican dishwasher (Do they come in other kinds?). He cranks dat, is 18, has two kids in Mexico, and the most English he knows is the Spongebob themesong, his singing of which I might compare in shrillness to the whistle of a train that was somehow crossbred with a nagging wife who just inhaled copious amounts of helium. Yes Poncho, Superman that Sponge. He asks me, “You want to lay on my car?” I'm like, “No Poncho, God damn it.” He asks all the waitresses, “You want baby? Babies are beautiful. You like Mexican babies?” All the while he's giggling incoherently like a fucking tweaking Girl Scout. Yes please, inseminate me, and sire my child, oh ye charmingly soapy handed breadwinner. My legs are spread. Heh. One of the waitresses there keeps getting asked if she's pregnant, and she's not. If someone asked me if I was pregnant, I would say yeah. I would say that I love the black cock.
As far as restaurants go, and hell, all places, I would like to assert, right now, that there is no more blatantly hilarious place on Earth than Waffle House. I would like to die at Waffle House, facing the rising sun, with a pile of waffles so large that they eclipse the sun, so that I die entrenched in syrupy, buttery goodness, flanked by ash trays and friendly ex-meth addicts who use a three cans of hairspray a day. Yes, Waffle House. Do not make pretensions to dignity, fine lady, with your menus. Oh, the memories. I have been at Waffle House at obscene hours. Favorite memory involves four characters: the fat black man falling asleep in the corner booth as comic backdrop, actually smoking as he slept, a flaming gay guy with a voice like velvet, blue color contacts and hair that looked like it was dyed with an exquisite blend of rust and Castrol GTX (JiffyLube does hair now, just ask them about their other thinly veiled innuendo-tastic services), and a Middle Eastern guy with dreadlocks who was running around like a AV kid on the day of the pep rally. Now that our illustrious cast has been introduced, I will tell you that it was 5 in the morning, and none of us had slept. I don't remember saying this next thing at all, but apparently, as I was informed afterwards, I asked the waitress - a withered leather purse of a woman with soulful eyes - for, “An egg.” She asked, “Do you want the whole thing?” Yes, yes, that's right, she made a funny. And the lights just turned off in my brain. I just looked at her as though possessed by Terry Shaivo's younger, dumber twin. Needless to say, she called me sweetheart for the rest of the night. She also warned us, quite balefully, against the grits, the way in which she said it as if grits had killed her family. So we're all enjoying a wonderful meal and suddenly Dreadlocks McGee runs by and screams, “Oh no! Don't hit me with the cheese pan!” and runs through the double-doors at the end of the kitchen line that lead to God knows what dimension, to which great lulz were had. The crowning part of the experience, however, was the arrival of a visored, knee-length coat swaddled old woman, the scowl she wore doing to her mastiff face like what I would imagine a lawn mower might do to, oh, a worm, or a baby bird that had tragically fallen out of its tree. Her nametag said Grace, and oh, did never did a woman live whose name suited her more, though I think Attila would have also been a good choice. Grace resembled a squash with legs, her face one of those undesirable bumps, the kind of bump a squash gets rejected by migrant workers for. Grace had seen better days, and I'm sure better days had not wanted to see Grace. The rest of the staff chorused, “Good morning Grace!” To which there was no hint of a facial expression in response. That woman's face was as still as rigor mortis on pause (I checked with the manufacturer, there's no rewind on rigor mortis either. Sorry for the disappointment. I know, I know, broke my heart too). For all intents and purposes, Grace was deaf, dumb and blind to the world. Then the gay guy gave her a hug and said, “Hi Grace!” To which Grace, lovely soul that she was, did not utter even a grunt, but stared dead ahead in her visor, hands at her sides, while we laughed our asses off.
If you're offended by this, blame it on my Tourette's.
So, I quit Barnes&Noble, finally, praise Jesus. No more little lanyard with my name on it and a litany of “Members save 10%!” Now I work at the restaurant and my life is 90% less kill myself. I had been procrastinating quitting longer than you'd wait in line behind a group of Mexicans at Family Dollar. At Zeus, Poncho is our Mexican dishwasher (Do they come in other kinds?). He cranks dat, is 18, has two kids in Mexico, and the most English he knows is the Spongebob themesong, his singing of which I might compare in shrillness to the whistle of a train that was somehow crossbred with a nagging wife who just inhaled copious amounts of helium. Yes Poncho, Superman that Sponge. He asks me, “You want to lay on my car?” I'm like, “No Poncho, God damn it.” He asks all the waitresses, “You want baby? Babies are beautiful. You like Mexican babies?” All the while he's giggling incoherently like a fucking tweaking Girl Scout. Yes please, inseminate me, and sire my child, oh ye charmingly soapy handed breadwinner. My legs are spread. Heh. One of the waitresses there keeps getting asked if she's pregnant, and she's not. If someone asked me if I was pregnant, I would say yeah. I would say that I love the black cock.
As far as restaurants go, and hell, all places, I would like to assert, right now, that there is no more blatantly hilarious place on Earth than Waffle House. I would like to die at Waffle House, facing the rising sun, with a pile of waffles so large that they eclipse the sun, so that I die entrenched in syrupy, buttery goodness, flanked by ash trays and friendly ex-meth addicts who use a three cans of hairspray a day. Yes, Waffle House. Do not make pretensions to dignity, fine lady, with your menus. Oh, the memories. I have been at Waffle House at obscene hours. Favorite memory involves four characters: the fat black man falling asleep in the corner booth as comic backdrop, actually smoking as he slept, a flaming gay guy with a voice like velvet, blue color contacts and hair that looked like it was dyed with an exquisite blend of rust and Castrol GTX (JiffyLube does hair now, just ask them about their other thinly veiled innuendo-tastic services), and a Middle Eastern guy with dreadlocks who was running around like a AV kid on the day of the pep rally. Now that our illustrious cast has been introduced, I will tell you that it was 5 in the morning, and none of us had slept. I don't remember saying this next thing at all, but apparently, as I was informed afterwards, I asked the waitress - a withered leather purse of a woman with soulful eyes - for, “An egg.” She asked, “Do you want the whole thing?” Yes, yes, that's right, she made a funny. And the lights just turned off in my brain. I just looked at her as though possessed by Terry Shaivo's younger, dumber twin. Needless to say, she called me sweetheart for the rest of the night. She also warned us, quite balefully, against the grits, the way in which she said it as if grits had killed her family. So we're all enjoying a wonderful meal and suddenly Dreadlocks McGee runs by and screams, “Oh no! Don't hit me with the cheese pan!” and runs through the double-doors at the end of the kitchen line that lead to God knows what dimension, to which great lulz were had. The crowning part of the experience, however, was the arrival of a visored, knee-length coat swaddled old woman, the scowl she wore doing to her mastiff face like what I would imagine a lawn mower might do to, oh, a worm, or a baby bird that had tragically fallen out of its tree. Her nametag said Grace, and oh, did never did a woman live whose name suited her more, though I think Attila would have also been a good choice. Grace resembled a squash with legs, her face one of those undesirable bumps, the kind of bump a squash gets rejected by migrant workers for. Grace had seen better days, and I'm sure better days had not wanted to see Grace. The rest of the staff chorused, “Good morning Grace!” To which there was no hint of a facial expression in response. That woman's face was as still as rigor mortis on pause (I checked with the manufacturer, there's no rewind on rigor mortis either. Sorry for the disappointment. I know, I know, broke my heart too). For all intents and purposes, Grace was deaf, dumb and blind to the world. Then the gay guy gave her a hug and said, “Hi Grace!” To which Grace, lovely soul that she was, did not utter even a grunt, but stared dead ahead in her visor, hands at her sides, while we laughed our asses off.
If you're offended by this, blame it on my Tourette's.