Sunday...another day of work at the illustrious Chicken Coop Incorporated. 6 hours behind the bar... Burnt out prosties screaming at me to make their long islands stronger, meat heads eating orders of 30 chicken wings and race track dykes asking me on dates through winds of ranch dressing breath.
The Chicken Coop is owned by a really sweet yet overly anal older dude. This guy has 2 sons that both work full time at C.C. and are vastly different. Brandon, is a sweet kid, 19 years old, he works in the kitchen. The other son, "Chad" on the other hand is quite, hmm how do you say it? A douche bag. Chads the sole bartender at Chicken Poop and I've seen Chad on several occasion be mean to old people, which, if you know me well, is my biggest aggravation. Chad is the type of person that, if you walk into work and say HI to him, he will just look at you and walk away. Earlier today at work Chad was telling his equally obnoxious friends about the new Ed Hardy jeans he'd recently bought, adorned with RHINESTONES. Once I worked a 6 hour shift with him and he, for the entire 6 hour shift deemed it necessary to tell me what a mother-fucking tough guy he was. The evolutionary time clock of the conversation went from 1. guys he beat up at bars 2. guys he beat up at bars because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 3. guys he beat up at his house 4.guys he beat up at his house because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 5. guys he almost beat up but they were lucky that he didn't 6. the fact that he till holds the record for longest time in the penalty box for Pittson Area High School ice hockey. The last time I worked with Chad he brought in a duffel bag full of muscle milk and protein shake containers and like an orange mad scientist, made one concoction after another in the bar blender.
Predictably, Chads previously mentioned girlfriend is a waitress at the Chicken Coop. I probably don't need to explain what she's like but I will. Marshmallow nails (fake french tip acrylics), spray tan, bad highlights, cement like lip gloss and stonewashed bootcut jeans. When first moving back to the area, I was harshly judgmental of such specimens, but after meeting some truly OK women that looked and acted like this, I lifted my petty intolerance of such girls. Until, that is, she asked for a Miller Lite for table four. What came out was the epitome of all infuriating neck burning dizzying personal hatred; a BABY VOICE! Fake baby voices are the black plague of wanna-be cuteness. Seriously, the worst.
So now that you know all of the players in the act, let me tell you a little ditty that sealed the deal on my employment at the chicken coop. As I was preparing my belongings to leave for the day, I asked Chad if there were any extra shifts open. He said no (as he insists on working 7 days a weeks and then complaining about it for hours on end). At that point I said "well if you ever want a day off call me". Scott mumbles ok and then heads into the kitchen. I walk to my car and Tiffany, who heard the us talking while playing a video poker game, follows to me to my car and yells out "UM YOU KNOW HE's MY BOYFRIEND, RIGHT?" I stare her her shellacked lips as I open my car door, I think in my head hmmmm HUH? and then respond uhhh yeah, stating the fact and not really knowing why she asked me in the first place. Confused, I turn on the engine and try to make sense of what she said and why she said it. Then the most hilarious, most disgusting possibility comes into my head. Did she think I said GET?! No. NO ! NO?! Eww! She thinks I want to hang out with her Chad on his day off HAHHAHAHAHAHAH!
I have to clear this up! This can't possibly be happening and if it is, it must end! I walk back into chcken coop and hear a LIVID Tiffany SCREAMING in the kitchen pantry to the black cook, Garfield. "THAT CHICK IS CRAZY. WHAT A WHORE! HOME WRECKER, I MEAN WHAT THE FUCK?!"
This is bad, now I'm scared. There are easily throwable baskets of hot fried chicken wings, sauces everywhere, forks, and, with years of working in the mental health field, there is not a madder hen than a hen that thinks you want to fuck her rooster.
Brutus, the preppy teenager cook boy is staring at the wall near the ice maker and I have to tell SOMEONE what just happened, so I drag him outside. I'm in a daze and trying to explain to him everything when Tiffany walks outside, flicking a grill lighter at her smoke.
I explain, I hope she understands. I mumble; I have a boyfriend, I mean I'm a lesbian, I mean I'm married. I like tall skinny guys, i mean I don't even like guys, I mean i have a crush on him and point to the teenage cook. he raises his eyebrows and walks inside. Im mumbling everything now, How do I convince her the last guy in the world I would ever hit on is her boyfriend without just saying it? She understands and apologizes. My skin crawls as I drive home in a daze.
I can remember countless days where my mother would scream at my father for mumbling, "mumble mouth" she called him. I can thank my father for get another genetic aberration, as if psoriasis and a bumpy nose weren't enough...
The Chicken Coop is owned by a really sweet yet overly anal older dude. This guy has 2 sons that both work full time at C.C. and are vastly different. Brandon, is a sweet kid, 19 years old, he works in the kitchen. The other son, "Chad" on the other hand is quite, hmm how do you say it? A douche bag. Chads the sole bartender at Chicken Poop and I've seen Chad on several occasion be mean to old people, which, if you know me well, is my biggest aggravation. Chad is the type of person that, if you walk into work and say HI to him, he will just look at you and walk away. Earlier today at work Chad was telling his equally obnoxious friends about the new Ed Hardy jeans he'd recently bought, adorned with RHINESTONES. Once I worked a 6 hour shift with him and he, for the entire 6 hour shift deemed it necessary to tell me what a mother-fucking tough guy he was. The evolutionary time clock of the conversation went from 1. guys he beat up at bars 2. guys he beat up at bars because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 3. guys he beat up at his house 4.guys he beat up at his house because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 5. guys he almost beat up but they were lucky that he didn't 6. the fact that he till holds the record for longest time in the penalty box for Pittson Area High School ice hockey. The last time I worked with Chad he brought in a duffel bag full of muscle milk and protein shake containers and like an orange mad scientist, made one concoction after another in the bar blender.
Predictably, Chads previously mentioned girlfriend is a waitress at the Chicken Coop. I probably don't need to explain what she's like but I will. Marshmallow nails (fake french tip acrylics), spray tan, bad highlights, cement like lip gloss and stonewashed bootcut jeans. When first moving back to the area, I was harshly judgmental of such specimens, but after meeting some truly OK women that looked and acted like this, I lifted my petty intolerance of such girls. Until, that is, she asked for a Miller Lite for table four. What came out was the epitome of all infuriating neck burning dizzying personal hatred; a BABY VOICE! Fake baby voices are the black plague of wanna-be cuteness. Seriously, the worst.
So now that you know all of the players in the act, let me tell you a little ditty that sealed the deal on my employment at the chicken coop. As I was preparing my belongings to leave for the day, I asked Chad if there were any extra shifts open. He said no (as he insists on working 7 days a weeks and then complaining about it for hours on end). At that point I said "well if you ever want a day off call me". Scott mumbles ok and then heads into the kitchen. I walk to my car and Tiffany, who heard the us talking while playing a video poker game, follows to me to my car and yells out "UM YOU KNOW HE's MY BOYFRIEND, RIGHT?" I stare her her shellacked lips as I open my car door, I think in my head hmmmm HUH? and then respond uhhh yeah, stating the fact and not really knowing why she asked me in the first place. Confused, I turn on the engine and try to make sense of what she said and why she said it. Then the most hilarious, most disgusting possibility comes into my head. Did she think I said GET?! No. NO ! NO?! Eww! She thinks I want to hang out with her Chad on his day off HAHHAHAHAHAHAH!
I have to clear this up! This can't possibly be happening and if it is, it must end! I walk back into chcken coop and hear a LIVID Tiffany SCREAMING in the kitchen pantry to the black cook, Garfield. "THAT CHICK IS CRAZY. WHAT A WHORE! HOME WRECKER, I MEAN WHAT THE FUCK?!"
This is bad, now I'm scared. There are easily throwable baskets of hot fried chicken wings, sauces everywhere, forks, and, with years of working in the mental health field, there is not a madder hen than a hen that thinks you want to fuck her rooster.
Brutus, the preppy teenager cook boy is staring at the wall near the ice maker and I have to tell SOMEONE what just happened, so I drag him outside. I'm in a daze and trying to explain to him everything when Tiffany walks outside, flicking a grill lighter at her smoke.
I explain, I hope she understands. I mumble; I have a boyfriend, I mean I'm a lesbian, I mean I'm married. I like tall skinny guys, i mean I don't even like guys, I mean i have a crush on him and point to the teenage cook. he raises his eyebrows and walks inside. Im mumbling everything now, How do I convince her the last guy in the world I would ever hit on is her boyfriend without just saying it? She understands and apologizes. My skin crawls as I drive home in a daze.
I can remember countless days where my mother would scream at my father for mumbling, "mumble mouth" she called him. I can thank my father for get another genetic aberration, as if psoriasis and a bumpy nose weren't enough...
Looking forward to getting hipped to some new music. Bring it on.
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