Remind me never to pick up a shift on another holiday again.  I don't care if it's Eid, I don't care if it's Kwanzaa, hell, I don't even care if it's Christmas, I am not doing it again.  Mark my BAH and accentuate my humbug because there's no way in hell. 

My co-worker from Bangledesh told me last week that he would need a night off, either Monday or Tuesday, whenever the moon meets 70 days after Ramadan, or...damn it I'm Western and I just told him to give me a week notice and I'd totally do it.  It was important to him, and I like him, so I guess in a sense it was important to me that he was happy or whatever and was able to celebrate the willingness of Ibrahim (Abraham) to sacrifice his son Ishmael as an act of obedience to God.  Well, he didn't...he sacrificed a lamb instead, and lamb chops are really good without the mint jelly and, oh I don't know whatever.

Just two days ago, I was setting my alarm clock to see Jupiter, Venus and the moon grace the sky together, so I suppose this is the same thing, but I'm pretty sure it's not. 

All I know is that I got the fucking shaft hole as far as the mother of all horrendous work nights on this day of Eid, this Monday, December 8, 2008. 

Am I spelling Eid right? 

It all started with the day bartender telling me that our night manager that we all loathe already had her panties in a twist.

'Hey man, I'm only picking up,' I stated.  'I have a notion to just do the job and get out of here ASAP.'

'What does ASAP mean?'  I'm serious.  He actually asked me that.

'It means Amber Splits After...Punta...oh whatever...what do you mean the manager is in a bad mood?'

The day bartender's face grew grim.  I'm serious.  You see, we have this one manager that has an absolute Napolean complex, because you know beer and pizza and managing what happens with that is equal to national security.  I personally would just like to go into this restaurant, do my job and go home. 

Oh no.

My GM, who is awesome, was on her way out the door and asked me what I was doing there tonight.  I told her I was working for Bangledesh friend because he was celebrating Eid. 

'Ohhhhh!  That's right!' she proclaimed and smacked the counter in recognition.  'I know about Ramadan, but I was just now educated on Eid!'

The Napolean manager looked at both of us as if we were crazy.  Hey, I'd never heard of it either until a week ago, and I am probably completely misinformed, but at least I didn't say...

'Eid...seems like another excuse for a day off. '

Ok?  Really?

The she looked at me and said, 'Even though you're picking up this shift, I need you to know that we have an inspection on Friday and I know you like to get out at a certain time when you close, but you need to prepare to be here for a good hour or two more to clean.'

Yes because when you work in a bar, all the cleaning you do Monday is going to be completely obsolete when the Friday inspection comes to be.  And you're welcome for coming in on my day off.  No problem.

Ok, so my fate was sealed.  I could still make last call at the local pub afterward and I had tomorrow off.  Perfect.  A little extra cleaning won't hurt me, for I am a cleaning and closing machine.

I was cleaning the 'artifacts' on the wall when I heard a pop and saw the lights flicker throughout the entire restaurant. 

'No,' I breathed.  I knew exactly what this meant.

Another flicker circulated, and I reluctantly turned my eyes to my bar computer.

'FATAL ERROR.  PLEASE CALL TECH SUPPORT.'

I swear to everything that's holy as soon as I laid my beady eyes on our computer's failure message, a clown car let out and in filed 30 people. 

Do people just KNOW??!!

It wasn't just the bar computer that was down, it was the entire restaurant.  This means that all the new tables that came in miracuously at that moment were pissed because I couldn't get to them, I couldn't cash anyone out that were already there and miracuously needed to leave at that moment becasue my drawer was locked for cash and forget everyone who had credit cards.  I had to hand write all of my tickets and walk them back to the Spanish guys in the kitchen that don't read English unless it's an order they've seen 100 times but won't recognize it unless it comes out of a computer printer. 

The entire restaurant filled up, of course.  People are just like sharks.  Even though they don't know it, when they sense weakness and smell blood, they swarm for a feeding frenzy.

Servers were screaming at me for drinks at my bar window, the cooks were laughing, the customers were livid and the manager thought the best way to assess the situation was to scream at her servers in front of the already livid guests.

I've worked at restaurants and bars for a long time.  I've had many a computah go dizzown on my ass.  The worst thing you can do is panic.  That's what everyone else didn't do EXCEPT the manager.

God damn it, I was just being nice and picking up a shift on my day off for a guy from Bangledesh that just wanted to celebrate Eid.

Is THAT how you spell it??

Anyway, my reward for completing everything smoothly in a beer and pizza national disaster was:

1.  Cleaning the overhead lamps.  Isn't that what maintainace does?  Not someone being paid $2.13 an hour?

2.  Cleaning broken shards of glass out of a a glass cooler that hasn't been touched since before I've been born.  Isn't that what someone with a bionic hand does?  Not someone being paid $2.13 an hour?

3.  I should really be thankful that I have a job, but polishing color-stay lipstick off wine glasses when we can just send them through the industrial strength dishwasher as opposed to washing them in our bar sinks that don't even have hot water?  The dishwasher gets paid $15 an hour.  I get $2.13.

4.  Knowing the fact that you are a hideously underpaid dishwasher. 

5.  Oh well, I get tips.

6.  Not when everyone's pissed at you for your computers being down and your manager acting like a muppet.

7.  Good point.

8.  Drinks?

9.  Fuck yeah.       

Since I am a rather negative individual and I like reading lists, I have decided to make a negative list of all the things that have been getting my Control Top panties in a twist lately.

I hope you have two free hours to read about a complete stranger's trivial annoyances oh shut up of course you do.   

1.  The word "panties."  I can't believe I just used that word in something that pertains to me.  "Panties" is a word only lonely old mountain men use when they're fantasizing about sniffing them or dangling them from their gaping and toothless maws; mountain men or traveling businessmen with a sense of false entitlement who believe that the young honeys should be impressed that they wear a tie and have a business card that they write off stripper purchases with while thier wives sit at home baking muffins.  I wear a tie and have a plastic card, too.  Just because my tie is 1970's ugly and has to be tucked in my server shirt with the armpit stains because I'll be doggone if the dumb managers will realize it is only fall and not the dead of winter and turn down the heat because some blue haired old mee-maw's cottage cheese and jell-o plate is making her nipples stand on end and brush against her naval.  That's why we serve hot tea, you old coot.  Meanwhile, I'm running around in the weeds, passing out plates with a huge damp oval under my pit and a sweat stache on my upper lip grossing you the eff out.  Nevermind that I can't afford deoderant.  I just spent $20 on two make-up items at Giant.  If my calculations are correct, that would mean I had to serve about 4 tables for a measly tip in order to afford to cover my zits and create the illusion that my eyelashes are godly and supreme.  I'm not wasting that precious tip money on deoderant, no sir.  The pit stain is smaller if I wear, yes, but it is still there nonetheless and let's face it, a pit stain is a freakin' pit stain regardless of it's mass and depth.  I'm used to being poor, you see, and I only buy things now that I desperatley need. 

2.  I'm more poor than I've ever been in my life.  I know, I know.  Stand in line you say and you're probably right but don't get used to that, not to mention shut the eff up.  When you're used to a certain "lifestyle" that you can't afford anymore, it's downright embarassing.  Now before you think that I'm raising this stink because I can't afford to clothe my chihuahua or get my butt crack waxed, think again.  I'm not talking extravagance here.  I'm rappin' that I can't afford to have my social fix anymore by going to a bar and drinking after work with my friends.  Okay, my friend.  OKAY!  The touchscreen is my only friend, are you happy now you son of a butt?  It takes my money and gives me nothing in return except maybe a high score once every week, but I keep coming back and pay for its abuse just to go home feeling drunk, poor, and empty inside.  Little does the touchscreen know that I am cheating on it with the Silver Strike bowling machine.  HA!  Sucker.

3.  Beyonce.  When in the world is this damn lady going to be washed up and smoking Jay-Z's meat pole for money?  Speaking of unpleasant armpits, I beleieve me and the rest of the world have seen hers so many times with that stupid pose she always does to draw a better picture from memory than I could a stick figure.  I know every last ingrown hair bump on those things and that upsets me greatly.  Who instilled it in her head that this pose was sexy?  Clearly she must think this is what we want to see because she won't put those damn armpits away for nothin'.

Beyonce:  "Yes, red carpet and land of minions, it is I!  Sascha Fierce!  That's right, I said Sasha Fierce, as you will address me from this day forward.  DRINK me in, you gaggle of nobodys!  Behold thy pits of wonder and know that if I let these arms rest naturally by my side that my boobs will fall to my waist and my waist to my knees.  Aw snap.  That was out loud, wasn't it?"

Lady beside Beyonce that I have no idea who she is:  "Sniff.  Bouyancy, or Satchel Farts, or whoever you are...do you have boiled cabbage in your pocket or is that...oh Jesus GOD!  Girl, put those bumpy pits away before your two-toned dollar store weave wilts.  Da-yum, bitch!  Meanwhile, I'll just stand here looking all amazing and shit." 

Let it also be known that before I signed in to MySpace, I was assaulted by a Beyonce ad promoting her new album, pits and all with new songs with subject titles that she clearly knows nothing about:

First of all, this "I AM...SASHA FIERCE" album title is ridiculous.  There's nothing fierce about Beyonce.  And who in the hell is Sasha?  Now, I'm not saying that Beyonce is a damn idiot with a false sense of entitlement, I'm just saying that Beyonce is a damn idiot with a false sense of entitelment.  Because she had...and I use finger quotations enthusiastically here..."hit songs" such as "If I Were A Boy" and "Single Ladies." 

She is not a boy, and she is not single, so she is clearly just spouting off about subjects she know nothing about.  That would be like me releasing my own "smash hits" such as "If I Were Sober" and  "Bring On The Tea Baggin'."

4.  Being a girl and having to shave.  I don't want to gross you out or anything, but my legs were really itchy lastnight, so I scratched them all to hell.  Upon further inspection, I realized that the reason for the skin irritation was because they looked like the extinct wooly crocodile that I'm sure you've all read about or maybe I just created in my mind oh shut up don't judge me.  My calves were already alarmingly hairy, but then my eyes wandered down to my ankles and it appears that I have missed a few spots around them for oh about 10 years now.  I could have french braideded an ankle bracelt around these babies if I only knew how to french braid but alas.  I don't know how to french braid.  I decided that if I wanted the damn Enquirer photographers to stop following me around in public, snapping pictures of me shopping and emblazing headlines above them such as "New Photos Show Rare Ankle-Mullet Sasquach Lumbering Around Meat Section at Giant" that I better shave, and this time pay extra close attention to my neglected ankles.  Now that I am shaved, I feel like a lady again well I did until I just ripped a huge fart and high-fived myself then proceeded to laugh manaically for ten minutes alone in my room, wiping away a single tear that was 20% rainbows and 80% Miller Lite. 

5.  I lost my glasses.  Dammit!  I can finally wear my glasses in peace without some dumb cluck completely generalizing and saying, "You look like that Sarah Palin fella," and now I went and lost them.  Figures.  And for what it's worth, I most certainly did NOT look like Sarah Palin, and I took great offense to being compared to her, thank you very much.     

See?  Does Sarah Palin have man hands and a large and rather offending zit on her chin?  I think not.  Does Sarah Palin look as if she just finished an entire keg, then went into her bathroom to pee pee and decide to take a picture with a sin stick dangling from her otherwise sultry lips and post it on MySpace?  Surely you jest.  Okay, so I have brunette hair, wear it up, wear lipstick and have a wierd northern accent, but the similarities stop there, you big dummies. 

And now, since I'm bored and hungry, I'm just going to end this post with no closing statements whatsoever because I'm inconsistant like that.  Plus I have to pee.          

I absolutley hate it when I see someone I haven't seen in a few months, which has been happening a lot lately, because they always have to ask me the same question:

"What have you been UP to lately?!"

I immediatly feel like I have to fart after the question, because great - now I'm backed in to a corner.  My line of defense for being backed in to a corner is much like that of an octopus squirting ink, only mine is releasing a noxious gas cloud to divert the would-be information predator away from the question and forcing them instead to pay attention to their nose hairs sizzling. 

You see, I want to appear as interesting as I used to be before I agreed to work at a corporate restaurant and had all of my dreams and individuality mouth-sucked out of my body and became a SPEC robot who's idea of an oil can is a beer bottle.

My answer is always the same:  "Uh, just working.  Working then drinking afterwards.  It's a vicious shit storm and I'm stuck in the brown eye." 

One of these days, I'm going to actually call someone's bluff and answer the question truthfully.  I hope this person has about three hours of spare time  because actually, I am up to a lot of new things.

"What have I been UP to?  Well, I'm glad you asked.  Here, have a seat.  Actually, stick a pillow under your butt so your cheeks don't fall asleep because you asked, and now I'm going to tell.  Oh no you don't.  You're not going anywhere.  Oh this?  This is just some duct tape so I can uh....tape something - namely your person to the chair and your lips to each other.  It's either that or I can bust out my award-winning staple gun skills.  Tape is fine?  Here, I'll poke you some air holes with the staple gun because I'm thoughtful like that.  Okay!  Shall we get started? 

Gosh, I haven't really been sleeping that well.  I never really have, but now it's just ludicrous.  You see, I don't fall asleep anymore until about 8:30 in the morning and pass the time alone in my room watching streaming movies and eating a lot of bad food.  Sure, sometimes the videos won't load all the way and it makes me so mad that I want to give my monitor a round-house kick, but I would say that I have learned to be a patient individual after this happened to me a bong-jillion times. 

In this nocturnal life, I have also learned self-reflection - namely, the reflection of my pale white self in the mirror as I watch myself age from lack of sleep and lack of photosynthesis.  I could pack for a weekend trip with these eye bags, and the lines in my forehead look like the Grand Canyon when viewed from outer space.  I should know.  I've also been doing a lot of space research.

Anywho, so I fall asleep about 8:30 AM, only to wake up at about 1:30 PM to hobble to the coffee machine where I always see an 80-year-old woman peering back at me from the reflection in the window.  Since this can't possibly be me, I've named her Weezy, but I can never have a real conversation with her because she always talks at the same time I do.  Just between you and me, I think Weezy could certainly benefit from cutting down on the Marlboro Lights.  She sounds like Bea Arthur and Barry White's love child.

As I wait for the coffee to brew, I take a little "me time" before hitting the shower to read the news and to smack myself in the face repeatedly.  Not only does this ritual wake me up, it also cuts down on my need to buy rouge.  Yes, rouge.  They don't call me apple dumplin' cheeks around here for nothing, my friend. 

After my shower, I attempt as best I can to lotion the shit out of my face, bathe my beadies in eye drops, and plaster on pancake make-up with a caulk gun so that I can tell the nosey nelly's at work that comment on how run-down I look that I have already had a VERY long day and that I'm not actually hungover like a mother fucker again.  It is now 4:00 PM.  I have only been functional for 3 and a half hours, so you can see the humor factor in this, my blatent LIE and I would laugh heartilly about it, but my beer-gut reducing gurdle doesn't allow much leeway.  So sure, my hair looks like dookie and my face looks like it has been beaten by the hag stick, but in my defense, I am 30 going on 31!  It's called finally AGING, people.  

On my days off I have actually been indulging in a new favorite past-time.  I am now a weekly bowler!  That's right, I'll say it : I love bowling, and I am getting damn good at it.  Sure, at first it was a little challenging.  I picked out an 11 pound green booger ball, and went to throw my first roll and heard this enourmous rip, which turned out to be my left ass muscle.  But when I put my mind to something, I put in 110%.  I bowled another four games with my injury because dammit, I spent $14 for unlimited bowling, and I'll be damned if I don't get a bang for my buck.  These are hard times after all, and there are people in Alabama that can't afford to go to a bowling alley.  I have vowed to not waste money and to drink every last drop of beer that I buy, including that last quarter inch of backwash at the end of the bottle.                         

I believe that I deserve a medal or a reward for how much I recycle, because I recycle everything.  And I mean everything.  Empty cigarette packs, beer and soda bottles, burnt spoons, beer and soda CAPS.  I just can't live with myself thinking that somewhere, there is a rusty old Miller Light cap taking up much needed space in a land fill.  Can you recycle cigarette butts?  Hmmm...

Well, that's about it.  There's more, but I lost my train of thought because I haven't showered or brushed my teeth yet and it is 6:00 PM.  My teeth feel like someone knit a sweater over them and my fro is brushing against the ceiling, and dammit, it's almost time to BOWL! 

Look for me on the next PBA tour! 

Oh this?  This is just a filet knife, you know, to cut you out of your chair.  *Hearty chuckle*.  Oh, YOU!  It's like you think I'm a closeted serial killer or something.  C'mere, let me give you a noogie.  Oh dear...I seemed to have accidentily scalped you.  Well, I have a good place for it on my wall joining the other people who asked me what I was up to, forshadowed my my collection of tongues taken from those that told me to "smile."