I seldom ask for help. That is one of my biggest shortcomings. But the time has come, Dear Readers, to beg for some assistance.
Three out of four days when I go to work, DoucheBob, the dishwasher, is in the salad bar room, bent over one of the coolers showing off his crack. Old man crack.
For reasons unknown to me, DoucheBob is a big hit with reasonably attractive women 20 years younger than he is. Maybe he can lick his eyebrows. Maybe I don’t care to ever find out, but it disturbs me that I’ve seen more of DoucheBob’s ass than I saw of my kids’ asses.
All the cooks wear baggy pants, HOWEVER, they also wear underwear. I’ve never seen a cook’s ass crack. Okay, that’s a lie. One time Zach came to work wearing pants with gigantic holes in the butt. I chanted, “I see London, I see France, I see Zach’s not wearing underpants.” That was enough to get him to borrow money and go to Walmart for some drawers.
Today I was in the waitstation while DoucheBob mopped the hallway from the salad bar room to the waitstation. I was “treated” to so much ass crack, I thought I was going to see saggy old man balls.
That’s just wrong. Not wanting to be the only one traumatized for the night, I told another server to look down the hall. She nearly fainted. I’m a giver, what can I say.
So now I’m asking my readers to give: I need boxers or tidy whities. No banana hammocks, ding slings or briefs. I don’t care if they are new or used. I don’t care if they are from the 10 cent box at the Salvation Army. I’d even settle for a belt, because if he won’t wear it I’ll at least have something to hang myself with. I have to stop seeing that man’s ass.