Take Responsibility for Your Actions

I don’t know why drunks and drug addicts absolutely, positively cannot take responsibility for their actions. When they get fired/thrown in jail/divorced/you name it, it is always someone else’s fault. When I was at the Harribalsac my slackassed co-workers were always busy passing the buck. Nothing was ever their fault. If they spent half as much time working as they did blaming someone else for their woes, the restaurant would have been spotless, the food would have been excellent, and customers would have received great service. But we all know that wasn’t the case.

This is chronic in the food and beverage industry, mostly because so many employees are drain circling drunks and drug addicts who have found they can earn a living by doing as little as possible while other people pick up their slack. Sadly, I’ve found employers tend to like the lost causes and will give them chance after chance in the hope of redeeming them so they can feel good about their own lives. I have no such redemption delusions. “Work hard or get out” is one of my mottoes. And for the love of all that is holy, I don’t want to hear any whining.

Foghorn Leghorn’s girlfriend, The Bar Hag, and I had a major falling out New Year’s Eve. Mind you, I’ve been patient with her because she has an 8th grade education and mentally she’s still 14 years old. She’s into gross public displays of affection, high drama, and the Chicken Little kind of crap most of us got over by the time we hit high school. When she gets drunk she laughs like the Joker and I’ve spent hours listening to this seep into the kitchen until it has invaded my sleep, and I fear the only way I can get rid of it is to smash my head into a wall. Repeatedly.

The Bar Hag’s Joker Laugh

I’ve listened to her whine about her bladder infections, her yeast infections, her pulled muscles, all of which has prompted me to tell Bagheera that The Bar Hag needs to stop having nasty butt sex with Foghorn Leghorn. I’ve heard every excuse under the sun why she needs to sit for half her shift, and why it’s simply impossible for her to actually DO anything, yet when she gets off shift and starts pounding beers and shots she is miraculously cured and can dance and play pool like nobody’s business. I’ve put up with this and kept my mouth shut for months because we are short handed and I certainly don’t want to work in the bar.

Until NYE.

When I got to work at 5 The Bar Hag was already in a lather. She and Foghorn were fighting and he refused to work with her. Instead of working his scheduled shift, he opted to get completely shit faced drunk.

He should have been fired.

I felt bad for The Bar Hag because she really kind of sucks as a bartender so I offered to stay and help her when I closed the kitchen at 9:00. Bagheera offered to help her if we weren’t busy in the kitchen until I closed. The Bar Hag was having none of it. She wanted Foghorn behind the bar so she could fight and have the drama she feeds on. She wanted to be able to go up and down the bar whining to the customers about how horrible life is because she and her one true love are fighting and she’s just miserable. Or some such shit.

After I closed the kitchen I went to the bar and hung out with a friend I haven’t seen in a long time and an interesting man named Cactus (actual name, not a nickname). I offered to wash dishes for The Bar Hag because she was truly overwhelmed, and Foghorn was falling down drunk in the pool room.

Then came the countdown. King Triton went back to play Auld Lang Syne on the the jukebox and I noticed Doc go behind the bar. Doc drank himself into a coma this summer and nearly died. We are all on strict orders not to let him drink under any circumstances. I watched The Bar Hag laugh with him while he poured himself a shot and he told her not to pay attention to what he was doing. I heard her say, “Hey, you’re a grown man. If you want to drink, you can drink.” I watched him take the shot and her throw her arms in the air in the victory sign like his life is some sort of game. I remembered watching King Triton and Bagheera cry because they thought their son was going to die.  I saw red.  When she made her way down to my end of the bar I said, “That right there is going to get you fired, and just so you know, I’ll be the one who tells on you.”

Suddenly, Foghorn was in my face, screaming and drunkenly trying to argue with me. King Triton wanted to know why we were fighting, so I told him, which I had planned on doing the next day when things were more rational, but hey, you want to send your boyfriend to fight your battles? Game on.

King Triton told The Bar Hag not to let Doc behind the bar and not to serve him. End of story. Or it should have been. Instead The Bar Hag went up and down the bar, literally crying to people about what a mean girl I am and how I’m going to get her fired and on and on and on. She started pounding shots, which always makes things better. I left before 1 am so I don’t know what else went on, but apparently she had been letting people run tabs all night and when they left, 90% walked out without paying. Also, based on the inventory, she hadn’t charged for more than half the drinks she served. Based on the register tape, she was charging people 25 cents for beer rather than $2.50. It was unclear whether the money wasn’t collected or if it went in her pocket.

She and Foghorn were both reprimanded and she was put on 90 days probation. She was limited to only 2 drinks after work, because King Triton was tired of seeing her be “sloppy drunk with the customers.” The ways to get off probation were:

  • No financial mistakes
  • Act as if you want your job
  • Stop showing up for work drunk and/or hungover
  • Work like you mean it

Since the beginning of her probation she and Foghorn have spent a inordinate amount of time passing the buck.  First the NYE fiasco was King Triton’s fault…no wait, it’s Glory’s fault…no it’s Tinkerbell’s fault…I’m sure it was Glory’s fault.  Not once have either of them said, “You know what, I think we fucked up.”  Their stories about that night have changed more frequently than I’ve changed my underwear in the last month, but one thing is consistent:  it isn’t their fault.

She continues to charge people 25 cents for beer and $1.25 for mixed drinks.  Apparently, she really is stuck back in 1979.  The register is constantly a mess, and typically when that happens, money is going in someone’s pocket.

She and Foghorn have also spent a lot of time fighting the 2 drink rule.  It isn’t fair.  Glory can drink as much as she wants, why can’t The Bar Hag.  Well, Glory drinks possibly 1 beer every few weeks.  There is no reason to limit my drinking, I limit myself.

When The Bar Hag and Foghorn aren’t passing the buck or whining about drinking limits, they spend their time spying on me in the kitchen, trying to get me in trouble.  I find this very amusing because my IQ is greater than their combined IQ, and they end up looking like a couple of dumbass douchebags.  Their latest thing is tattling about what I eat.  We are allowed one shift meal and I respect that.  No place I’ve ever worked has had an issue with me taking advantage of the food policy.  Foghorn ratted me out because I had both Shepherd’s Pie AND a turkey sandwich…except to his embarrassment Shepherd’s Pie contains beef, and what is the one thing I don’t eat, haven’t eaten in more than 20 years because it make me sick?  Beef.  The turkey sandwich was a turkey burger that I brought from home on a bun from the café with fruit and yogurt from home.  My shift meal cost less than a dollar.

That’s right, you lose.  Thanks for playing, better luck next time.

The Bar Hag also started telling customers that I have a bad attitude (well, duh), that I “got a talking to” and King Triton and Bagheera are ready to fire me.  Of course, those customers came straight to me all bewildered and dumbfounded that my job would be in jeopardy since I actually work.  Other than the bad attitude, the whole thing was The Bar Hag’s wishful thinking.  My job is absolutely not in jeopardy.  Foghorn and The Bar Hag didn’t like it when she got yet another reprimand for talking shit on me to customers.  Our business is our business, and people don’t come in to hear the employees bicker and whine.

The final straw with The Bar Hag is she thinks she can sit on her ass and play on her computer on Sundays while Bagheera and I are scrubbing the kitchen, dining room, restrooms, and I’m stuck mopping the bar floor. 

Oh hell no.

I make slightly more per hour than she does, but there is NO FUCKING WAY I’m going to be on my hands and knees scrubbing while she is free to sit on her ass.  I told Bagheera she might be content to pay The Bar Hag to sit while she works like a dog, but that doesn’t fly with me.  If I have to work, so does everyone else.  The first Sunday I busted The Bar Hag, she gave Bagheera 17 different excuses why it was necessary for her to be on her computer.  When Bagheera told her to pack it up and get to work, The Bar Hag spent the rest of the afternoon playing pool with Foghorn.  The second Sunday was the same deal.

Apparently, there won’t be a third Sunday because The Bar Hag got her hours reduced to Tuesday nights, which she will spend with me.  I don’t see her sticking around for long.

Of course, this is all MY fault.  Yes, once again I’m the Mean Girl, capable of getting good, reliable, hard working employees fired with just a glance and the right word.  If I wasn’t such a brown-noser, The Bar Hag would still have all her hours and I would be the one looking for a job, because you know, I don’t do anything while I’m in the kitchen.  (eye roll) 

I’m comfortable in my position as the Mean Girl.  I’m not there to make friends.  I’m there to make money. 

So now Foghorn is sour and rude to everyone, The Bar Hag is probably planning to vandalize Frankenvan, and everyone is on eggshells.  This brings up another of my mottoes:  “If one if us is going to be pissed, it may as well be you.”

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The Worst Story in the History of Stories

During Labor Day weekend, before things got really busy, a woman, 60ish, rushed in the café and asked if she could use the restroom.  Bagheera and I were at the counter rolling silverware when she rushed back out and snarled that we were out of paper towels.  She grabbed a handful of napkins out of the dispenser on the table and went back in the restroom.

Bagheera went to get paper towels while I continued to roll silverware.  I saw Bagheera walk down the hallway, knock on the door, and go in for about a minute.  Then she came hauling ass out of the hallway into the dining room, carrying a trash bag.  She hauled ass past me and said, “Please put a new trash bag in the bathroom.  I have to go home.”  Then the restroom woman stormed out of the café.

I stood there and wondered WTF?!  It was morning during Labor Day weekend, the busiest weekend of the year in Meeteetse, ravening hordes of people would be busting the door down, and WTF?!  I’m ALONE?!  What the fucking fuck?!

A few minutes later Bagheera’s oldest son showed up to help me and he told me why his mom came home puking and was now laying down with a cold towel on her face.  When she went in the restroom to stock the paper towels she dropped the keys in the trash.  Since she had just cleaned the restrooms and emptied the trash she stuck her hand in the little swinging door on the top of the trash can and right into a Depends full of warm runny shit.  The worst part was the woman who dropped the Depends in the trash stood right behind Bagheera and let her stick her hand in it. 

Things would have turned out differently if I had been in Bagheera’s shoes.

It was hours before I saw Bagheera again and she was green for the rest of the day.  There was also some random gagging.

I took over restroom duties not long after that and at first I asked myself:  Who does this shit?  I kept finding gum in the urinal…until I loudly mentioned to, well, everyone in the bar, that the person who fishes the gum out of the urinal is the same person who patties their hamburgers.  Now I find a lot less of a mess.  I seldom find tobacco on the walls or paper towels on the floor, because everyone knows they will get an ass chewing.   

Fear is an excellent motivator.

Wasting Time

I don’t know what it is about the Outlaw, but some people think I have nothing but time on my hands.  Granted, the cafe is small and there may be only one or two tables of customers at a time, but what customers don’t see are the half a dozen tickets from the bar side.  I seldom have time to slap my ass with both hands let alone play games with people.

One night Bagheera was busy making pizza dough and I was cooking for/waiting on a couple of tables when two older women came in.  I gave them menus and asked if they wanted anything to drink.  They didn’t.  I went to the kitchen for about 5 minutes and went back out to take their order.  They hadn’t even looked at the menu.  I went to the kitchen for 5 more minutes.  When I returned to their table they still hadn’t decided, but wanted me to describe half of the menu.  I went back to the kitchen for another 5 minutes and received four or five more tickets from the bar.  Before I started the bar orders I went back to the women, hoping to get their order.  They laughed, said they still hadn’t decided, but if I would bring them Cokes they would be ready when I got back.  I wanted to beat them senseless with the menus.  What is going to change in the minute it takes me to grab Cokes?  I gave them 15 minutes to think about their Cokes before I went back.  They ordered two cheeseburgers.  Fucking hags.  I wasn’t sitting on my ass in the kitchen, I was juggling food in between playing their stupid game of wasting my time. 

I am very passive/aggressive.  You want to waste my time, I’ll waste yours.

Another night we were overwhelmed with pizza orders.  Bagheera was trapped at the pizza station so I went out to wait on a large table.  They ordered 3 pizzas and when I asked if they wanted anything else, one guy said, “Go put that order in, and come back.  I’ll tell you then if I want a salad or not.”  Seriously?  Fuck you.  You know NOW whether or not you want a salad, you are just playing games.  I did what he said.  I prepped his 3 pizzas (5 minutes each) then went back to see if he wanted a salad.  He was all out of joint because I didn’t come back immediately.  I explained that I did exactly as he said, I put the order in and came back, bad on him for assuming I was the waitress with time to waste instead of the cook.

Don’t play games.

Saturday night I was busy as hell on the bar side, but dead on the cafe side.  On those nights I let Bagheera go home since there isn’t much she can do for me.  Suddenly though, two tables walked in the cafe at the same time Foghorn Leghorn brought me a handful of tickets from the bar.  I got the order for the first table and went to see if the second table was ready to order.  “No!” one of the women snapped at me.  They were passing cell phones around looking at pictures and videos.  Her husband suggested I come back.  I smiled and said, “I have six orders from the bar so I’m going to go start them.  I’ll be back when I reach a stopping point…I’m guessing 10 to 15 minutes.  Okay?”  Holy shit.  They were certainly ready to order.  Again, fuck you.  If you want to have home movie night, do it AFTER you order.  You aren’t just wasting MY time, you are wasting EVERYONE’S time.

And I guess that’s why it pisses me off so much.  I’m paid to be there.  I’m paid to wait on/cook for people.  However, when one table holds me up there’s a cascade effect and everyone suffers.  I view it as inconsideration beyond belief.  The more time I spend playing games with one table, the longer it is for another table to get their food.  Order your damned food so everyone can eat.   

Bastards.

It’s a Beautiful Day

Why is it a beautiful day, you ask?  Because my shit heel, inbred, redneck, fucktard neighbours moved out.  Of course, they left in the night like any good criminals, and I stood on my deck as they drove away to make sure they didn’t poison my animals, slash my tires, or sugar my gas tank, but I figured the Uhaul was some sort of a cruel joke.  However, when I woke up at the crack of 2 in the afternoon and looked out my window, reality sunk in and I did a happy dance.  If the world suddenly feels like it has more air it’s because everyone in my neighbourhood let out a huge sigh of relief.

I live in a mobile home subdivision about a mile and a half out of town.  We have dirt roads, undrinkable water, and questionable property lines.  I’ve been here for 8 years.  It’s quiet.  There are nine houses, seven of them occupied.  Everybody minds their own business.  Everybody gets along.  Nobody goes out of their way to piss off the neighbourhood.  

The rednecks, mom/dad/adult daughter/adult son-in-law/10 year old daughter, moved in sometime in May.  First, they put up an ugly privacy fence around the lot next to the neighbours across the street from me.  Then they filled that quarter acre lot with horses.  Seven horses fighting, running into the fence and drawing flies.  I stood on my deck and wondered who allowed this shit.  Our CC&Rs forbid livestock, but since no one enforces the CC&Rs I figured I was going to have to suck it up and learn to love flies and the smell of horse shit.

About a week later they moved their house in.  All of our houses sit in rows, with the short sides roughly facing east to west.  This gives a break from the wind that howls all winter.  These Arkansas douchebags planted their house facing north to south.  I sat on my deck and hoped they enjoyed getting broadsided by the wind.  Nothing like trying to fit in with the neighbourhood.  The placement of their house was another violation of the CC&Rs, but, well, you know…

Then one “morning” as I drank coffee on my deck and struggled to wake up, I noticed garden hoses running from their house, across 2 lots to the lot with the horses.  We had a bit of a drought this summer.  I looked at my back yard that never gets watered, then I looked at their lots.  Mine was brown and dead, theirs looked like Ireland.  WTF?!  Our water isn’t metered, we pay a flat rate of $35 per month, per lot, for domestic use.  This means you can have a garden, a yard, do your laundry, wash your car, and take as many showers as you want on ONE lot.  You can NOT use the water for irrigation.  You can NOT  pay $35 a month and use enough water for 4 lots, which is how many lots they own.

So the water district got involved.  The rednecks refused to pay for water on all four lots.  They burned out the well pump.  No one had water.  After the pump was replaced, they continued to use so much water that half of the subdivision didn’t have water.  The water district threatened to shut off their water.  They parked a truck over the shut off valve and chained it to a fence.  The water district called for a locate on gas and electric lines across the street from their house in order to shut them off there.  They took shovels and rakes and erased the locate lines.  This went on for two fucking months.  The water district finally got the locator and the backhoe to arrive at the same time and shut their water off.  The next morning, the rednecks dug a trench and turned their water back on.

Meanwhile, everyone in the neighbourhood signed up with an attorney to file an order to have the horses removed, and we formed a home owners association.  The rednecks answered this by petitioning the county commissioners to annex out of the subdivision.  They also filed stalking protection orders against everyone on the water district board and four of the people on the HoA.  The sheriff spent so much time out here I wondered why he didn’t move in with them.  It got to the point that if anyone drove or walked by their house, they called the sheriff.  Their house is on the same PUBLIC road as my house.  It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. 

In September, two of my women neighbours, Theresa and Mary, approached me because they were terrified of the rednecks.  Their husbands were gone a lot, the rednecks filed stalking orders on them, and they were afraid to leave their houses.  They heard I was a little on the mean side and could I help them?  By this time I was pissed.  I HATE bullies, and that’s exactly what these assholes were.  Plus, in every rebuttal against the HoA, they cited my ducks as a precedent for their horses.  Stupid fuckers.  Ducks aren’t livestock.

My neighbours gave me the paperwork from their stalking protection orders.  It was some scary shit.  The redneck bitch included her journal entries, and it read as a “who can we sue next” manuscript.  It involved several different families, people with money, from the community.  I immediately called everyone named in the journal and told them to sever contact with these people.  I made copies of the journal and gave it to everyone concerned.  They had photos and dated written documentation of Theresa & Mary’s every move.  I didn’t know that if you spy on your neighbours and take pictures of them, they are stalking YOU.  This is what I mean by scary shit.

(I guess I should add that Theresa and her husband are quite wealthy and Mary and her husband won half a mil on a slot machine in Deadwood a year ago.)

While reading through the “sworn” testimony I found a passage stating that I told the redneck kids Theresa’s dog had tried to bite me (never happened, never said it happened).  They were using this as stalking evidence.  See if you can follow their logic.  Apparently Theresa’s dog tried to bite me, so we weren’t friends.  But in August we became friends because Theresa was turning me against them.  That’s stalking.  WTF?!  

Needless to say, I saw red.  I was furious that they were trying to drag me into their bullshit.  The next day I was outside talking to Theresa when the redneck bitches careened up the hill towards our houses.  I said something to Theresa and I remember her screaming, “SHE’LL RUN OVER YOU!” as I walked out in front of the speeding car.  The bitch stopped, I leaned in, got right up in her face, introduced myself, told her to make sure she spelled my name correctly when she filed a protection order against me, and proceeded to tear her a new asshole for naming me as a witness against my neighbours.  She never made eye contact and stammered that she didn’t have a problem with me.  You do now.  Then she told me that she didn’t have a protection order against me.  You should get one.

I turned around and Theresa was gone.  Rabbited right back to her house.  She wasn’t lying about being afraid, but of them or me I wasn’t sure. 

Of course, the bitch called the sheriff on me.  He graduated high school with my brother.  I asked if I was going to get a protection order because I felt pretty left out.  He said that yelling at someone wasn’t against the law.  Yeah, I know.  He told me the rednecks didn’t like me talking to Theresa.  I reminded him I have the right to assemble.  Uh…yes, yes you do.  I told him I also have freedom of speech.  Uh…yes, that’s true.  Then I enlightened him on all the bullshit going on with the water district and how their actions crossed the line of criminal behaviour.  Of course he knew nothing about it.  I pointed out that the protection orders and his constant presence on their behalf made him seem more than a little biased, and one would think that maybe he wasn’t the best person to service our neighbourhood.  Uh…  He was dumbfounded because he hadn’t read the paperwork he served, and I guess he thought no one was paying attention to his visits.  He obviously took the time to read it, and he took my subtle threat against his job seriously because he suddenly refered all calls to another sheriff.

So, to wrap up this very long story:  the rednecks looked like asses in court for the stalking protection orders.  Stalking is very clear cut.  Did either of these women call you?  No.  Did either of these women send you harassing letters?  No.  Did they send you texts or emails?  No.  Did they hang around your place of employment?  No.  Did they hang out around your house?  No.  Cases dismissed.  Assholes.

The rednecks looked like asses for the county commissioners when 15 people showed up to fight their petition to annex out of the subdivision.  They were not allowed to annex out, but were allowed to combine their four lots into one.  The commissioners stressed that the CC&Rs run with the land, no matter who you bought it from, no matter how many times it’s been sold.  They brought up my ducks.  There was a chorus of “ducks aren’t livestock” in the meeting room.  The commissioners explained that the essence of CC&Rs is “don’t annoy your neighbours”.  Everything is acceptable until someone complains and if the majority complains, you have a problem.  Assholes.

Lucky for them they didn’t win the petition to annex out because I was leading the crusade to have them removed from our septic system and banned from our road in the event they did.  You can’t be part of the “community” septic system if you’re not part of the community, and you can’t drive on the road the home owners pay to maintain if you aren’t part of the home owner’s association.  Let’s see how you like walking to your house and shitting in a bucket with no water to rinse it out, which brings us to…

The rednecks looked like asses when most of the neighbourhood showed up to support the water district in shutting off their water.  They adopted a “we’ll show you” attitude by filling two cisterns and running garden hoses from them to their house…until the temperature dropped to zero last week and froze their hoses.  Aww…so sad.  Currently, they owe the water district nearly $3,000 for multiple shut-offs and past due water bills.  A lien is attached to their property.  Assholes.

Honestly, in all of this I waffled on my opinion of the rednecks.  My first thought was that they moved here and set all of this in motion in order to sue Mary & her husband for damages and make off with a quick hundred thousand or so.  Once they realized Theresa and her husband had money, the rednecks added them to the plan.  But they were so d.u.m.b.  Maybe they were just stupid and misunderstood.  How can they be con artists when they have a group IQ of ‘duh’?

My opinion cemented when they called the sheriff on me two days before they fled town for sitting on my deck, drinking coffee and talking on the phone while they took down the ugly privacy fence across the street.  I saw their buddy sheriff go to their house.  I saw them in their yard pointing at me.  I saw him shake his head and drive away.  Smart man.  Telling me I can’t sit on my deck is one conversation he doesn’t want to have.

The final score?

Rednecks:  YOU LOSE.

Crossed Arrows Home Owners:  Lesson Learned.

Davey and the Cheeseburger Whore

Yesterday was a day that ended in ‘y’ (I’m beginning to think it should be ‘why?’) so it was time again to bring out the crazy:

  • Davey couldn’t come to work because he was having another meltdown and couldn’t get out of bed.  Betty Booze relayed this message to Bagheera 20 minutes before the bar was supposed to open.
  • Betty Booze came back to the restaurant, bawling and howling, because Davey kicked her out of the house and doesn’t want to be her boyfriend anymore.
  • Davey and the Cheeseburger Whore started drinking in the bar at around 2 in the afternoon.
  • The bartender who had to pull a double because of Davey’s “meltdown” wanted to stab him in the eye.
  • King Triton told the Cheeseburger Whore she was no longer welcome in the bar.
  • Davey told King Triton to “shove this job up your ass” and he ran off with the Cheeseburger Whore.
  • Literally, since neither of them have a vehicle.
  • Davey called King Triton to confirm the job was up his ass and whined, “You’ve been nothing but mean to me since I started working.”
  • Boo Fucking Hoo.
  • I got tired of looking at Speedy’s peach slop so I turned it into a delicious bread pudding.

I can’t wait to see what today brings.

Today’s Deadly Sin: Envy

More than a month ago Speedy Gonzales and I got into a big assed fight and I haven’t spoken to her since.  Speedy is 74 years old, looks 55 and acts like she’s 12.  She’s this little bity speck of a Mexican woman whom I’ve known all my life.  That means I know she’s a backstabbing child, but it doesn’t make things any better.

During the fight she called me lazy and a liar and told me I could kiss her ass…all because she thinks Bagheera likes me more. 

Whatever. 

I know I’m neither lazy nor a liar, but it pissed me off that she was willing to be such a freaking child.  “Bagheera used to spend time with me, now she spends all her time with you.”  Waa, boo hoo.  (I’m not making this up.)  She twisted every conversation I had with her into “Holly thinks she’s in charge.”  News flash:  I’m barely in charge of myself and I certainly don’t want to be in charge of the hot mess that is the restaurant.  Furthermore, don’t put your issues off on me.  So, I quit talking to her.  If I refuse to acknowledge her existence, she can’t gossip and lie about what I said.

When Eeyore got the boot, we were without a pie maker, so I stepped in.  Prior to this, my idea of a cream pie was flavoured instant pudding in a pie shell with Cool Whip on top.  Fruit pies came out of a can.  I’ve spent the last month looking up pie recipes and thanks to my friend Michele I have a killer pie crust recipe (it’s called Great Value rolled out pie crusts).  My coconut cream pie is heavenly.  The strawberry rhubarb is awesome.  I made a Pepsi cake that sold out in less than a day.  A slice of Key Lime pie makes you think you are sitting in Miami.  I’ve learned how to make the pie crusts beautiful with different patterns on the edges and tops. 

I’ve put a lot of effort into this and it’s paying off.  People are stopping in for dessert in the afternoons.  People are buying desserts to go.  We are even selling desserts in the bar.  The bartenders are dumbfounded because they are serving pie and beer.  That never used to happen.  Best of all, the profit margin is insane and knowing this, King Triton bought a little glass front cooler to showcase my pies.  Well, also because he thinks I’m awesome.

So naturally Speedy has to horn in on my action.  All the attention I’m getting has turned her green with envy.  It doesn’t look good on her.  She made a peach pie (with filling from a can) with a homemade crust that was so thick and burned we had to toss it.  Today she made a peach cobbler (with filling from a can) that looks like a glop of pie filling on a  plate.  I knew we had to use up the pie filling Eeyore ordered, and I had planned to make a crazy crust peach pie that is truly awesome, but hell no.  Let’s make some sloppy shit instead.

Maybe I’m being childish about this.  Maybe I should let her continue to make her shitty desserts and keep my mouth shut.  I don’t want anyone confusing my desserts with hers, though. 

No, I think I get to be childish about this, dammit.

Just Another Saturday Night

I got to work a little early today and talked with Betty Booze while she made two grilled chicken salads.  She said she was leaving, so I went to dry storage to get the ingredients to make Ramen Noodle Salad.  When I came back to the kitchen, she was gone, but the white gravy container was sitting on the counter.  I figured that was her way of telling me I needed to make more.  I put the nearly empty container in the refrigerator and wrote a note on the board. 

Then I got a table of 14 people.  After I got them all set up, Bagheera came back from the corner store empty handed.  She was supposed to get vinegar for the salad. 

“Where’s the vinegar?” I asked.

“I never got out of the bar.  That damned Foghorn Leghorn.  Those people with the chicken salads wanted more blue cheese dressing and he brought them white gravy.  I think he’s drunk.”

WTF?!  Sure, if I wasn’t involved I’d think it was pretty funny, but working with a drunk isn’t funny.  How the hell do you pour thick, white pepper gravy into a portion cup without realizing that it looks nothing like blue cheese dressing?  He said the lid was blue so he thought it was blue cheese, since we used to keep the blue cheese in a container with a blue lid…yeah, a year ago and that container looks nothing like the container with the gravy.  Your argument is invalid.

At some point while I was cooking for half the town, Foghorn Leghorn came into the kitchen to get some Ranch.  Instead of putting the portion cup on the counter and filling it, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, started pouring, missed the portion cup entirely, and slopped about half a cup of dressing all over the floor. 

That was bad. 

Worse still, he grabbed one of the towels that I use for wiping counters, cutting boards, utensils, and my greasy hands, and proceeded to mop the floor with it.  If I hadn’t seen the whole thing, I would have wondered why my towel had Ranch all over it, rinsed it, and continued using it to keep my work space clean.

I started shrieking, “Out! OUt! OUT!”

Then he brought in two nearly empty, dirty ketchup bottles and asked if he could fill them.  “No.  You can go back over to the bar, dump out the old ketchup, wash the bottles and then fill them.  I don’t know how many times I have to tell you not to mix old and new.”

Foghorn Leghorn has been good for the last three weekends…since the last time he dropped a plate of food on the floor when he was drunk at work, and I told him to get his shit together or we were going to rumble.  He obviously needs a reminder that drunk at work isn’t the name of the game anymore.  After I got in Betty Booze’s face about being drunk, irresponsible and inconsiderate, she quit drinking.  Oh, yes she did.  I’m shocked.  She’s having a hard time, but she’s putting forth the effort, and I applaud her.  Her boyfriend, Davey, quit drinking, too.  So the only drunken asshole at the Cowboy is Foghorn Leghorn.  He’s also the only one who doesn’t clean.  Guess what that means?

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