Sunday nights at my job are generally pretty lucrative, however evil the people are. This past Sunday night, they were more evil than normal and let me tell you, I was in rare form.

I was in bowling, which I prefer on Sundays because I make good money in there, and I’m generally alone. I was alone this Sunday, and didn’t expect it to get busy. It did.

First group is a party of 11, but they couldn’t get two lanes side by side. They get one, another group has the next one, and the rest of the third group has the last one. There’s a group of people in between the party. The party is made up of ghetto as hell women, a Ghetriarch, and a couple of corn-rowed guys.

When I say ghetto here, I don’t mean ghetto in the normal sense I have to deal with, I mean ghetto as in even the two teenage girls (13 and 14 years old) had full mouths of fake gold, all the women had weave built a foot high on their heads, I could barely understand half of them, and they all, including the older woman who I took to be the Ghetriarch, reeked of pot.

I went to the lanes to try to get drinks, and was nearly overrun by them. I don’t know what makes people think I can write down 11 drink orders when they’re spoken simultaneously, and have to check ID for 8 of them. All the women had frozen strawberry margaritas. All the men had Hennessey and cranberry, a total waste of a cognac.

While I’m taking their drink orders, three more lanes go down. One of them sends their kid after me, which is something I hate. Don’t send your crotch spawn to get me, I see you there, and I’ll be over there when I can.

About 15 minutes go by before I get back with drinks for all 4 parties (the 11 top, a 4 top, and two 2 tops). I stop at each lane and deliver drinks on the way, letting them know I’ll be back to get orders after I finish dropping all the drinks off. I stop at the 11 top first.

“We ready ta ordah!” one of the women, named Quintiara according to her ID, screams at me as I walk up with a double sized tray full of drinks.
“Let me get all these dropped off and I’ll get your orders, ma’am.”
“But we is ready ta ordah now! We hongry!” she yells.
“I understand ma’am, but I have to get these dropped off before I start taking orders.”
“Dat bullshit. We was heah furst!”

I get a few paces away and I hear yelling again. “Hey you, waitah!” it was Quintiara’s sister, Shiquitta. “Get ovah heah, dis drank don’t look like da pickcha!”
“I’ll be there in just a moment ma’am, let me drop the rest of these off so I can take care of it for you.”

By the time I got back, three minutes later, the drink she was bitching about was gone and she was demanding it be taken off the check. I refused because she drank it. I told them I was ready to take their orders, and again was bum rushed by them, yelling their orders in my face like they did with their drinks. I finally got them to shut up and give them to me one at a time. I made sure to charge for each and every extra that I possibly could, including extra cherries on their drinks. I was very happy it was all on one check, so they had no reason to bitch about a gratuity.

Flash forward to 25 minutes later when their food comes out. I read back each order to all 11 of them, so I knew exactly what they ordered and that it was all correct. Unfortunately they didn’t see it my way.

“Where my baby chickin strip is?” Quintiara yells at me. “Why day ain’ heah?”
“Ma’am, you didn’t order any chicken strips for anyone.”
“Yes I did, is you callin me a liah?”
“No, ma’am, I’m just stating a fact. I went over each order with you all before I rang them in.” I ended up having to ring in two orders of wings, a kids chicken strips, and a cheeseburger. This was extra food.

The extra food comes out, and I start to walk off after giving it to them. I don’t get more than 4 steps away before Shiquitta grabs my arm and yells, “Hey you, get yo’ fuckin ass back ovah heah.” She yells this right in my ear. I turn around so fast it makes me a little dizzy, and it took all I had to not knock this bitch straight to the ground.

“Ma’am, I’m only going to say this once. If you yell at me or grab me one more time tonight, you’ll be wearing your next drink. Do NOT do it again.” Quintiara, when paying for the meal, told me she was thrilled that I went off on her sister as Shiquitta was embarrassing the hell out of her.

Total bill, including 18% gratuity: $298.45. Quintiara gives me 312 bucks and tells me “Yo’ tip is in der wit da bill, you was great.” She hadn’t noticed the gratuity of 38 bucks included on her bill. (I know it seems like the grat should have been more, but we do not add gratuity to gaming credits, that’s why it’s lower than it seems like it should have been.) She was only intending to leave me 13.55. Fucking whore.

Then we have the part of the night that just pissed me off the most. It’s about 8 pm, and I’m busy as fuck. I had to get a server from the game room to come help me out because running 8 lanes and 4 pool tables is just stressful and I was in the weeds big time.

In the pool room, there was a group waiting to be served. Two guys and two girls. One of the guys, with his nappy braids (see above picture) looks slightly familiar, but I’m not sure from where. At any rate, I can’t get to them. I tell them I’d try to be with them in a couple of minutes, but it may be the girl I had helping me out.

About 10 minutes goes by, and she still hasn’t gone over to see them. I’m slightly caught up by then, so I go over there.

“Sorry about the wait guys, we’re slammed and I was a bit behind. How are you tonight?”

“Axe da ladies what day wanna drank.” Says the taller ghetto fabulous guy, the familiar looking one. I ask, and they want a coke and a water respectively. All four of them reek of pot, and I realize that I’ve got a fun time on my hands. Pissed off and stoned ghetto group that’s had to wait for service from a white guy. They’d already been glaring at me as I passed them with trays of drinks, so I knew they didn’t like me.

“How bout for you guys?” I ask, trying to subtly rush them.
“What ya’ll gots wit some Belvedere dat’s frozen?”
“We don’t have any frozen vodka drinks, sir, I’m sorry.”
“Brang me a cwayvo mahgarita den.”
“Can I see your ID please?” I ask.
“I’m Young Buck.” Now I realize where I recognized him from. He’d been in there before, and I’ve seen him on tv a couple of times.
“That may be so, but I still need to see your ID.”
“She gots it up front fa da poo.”

“How about for you sir?” I ask his stoned friend. “Brang me a goose and cranburry.”
“Just need to see your ID sir.” Apparently, Young Buck doesn’t need friends that can drive, because this guy doesn’t have a license.

Just to let you all know, this guy truly was Young Buck. I checked the ID, and got their drinks. I looked him up on my laptop after the rush to make sure (I took it to work with me Sunday).

They were demanding, hateful, and constantly called me “boy”. I was too busy to make a scene. Their total bill, 81 and some change. Buck gives me 85 and tells me to keep it.

Young Buck, I’m calling you out. You are a fucking sub-rate rapper, you’re worthless, nothing but drug using ghetto trash. You think you’re hot shit, you think you’re famous, but nobody really likes you, and nobody really likes your music. I’d rather listen to a real rapper, like Ludacris or 50-cent than you, and I know they’re better tippers. You are not worth the money it cost to produce your failures of albums, and if you don’t end up in prison for your drug dealing, I’ll be surprised. You come back into my job reeking of pot again, and I’m going to make sure you don’t get a single drink. You talk to me the way you did Sunday night, and leave me another shitty tip, and you’ll never get served at my job again.

Take those whores you were with, and that ghetto trash friend of yours and go straight to Hell you worthless piece of dog-meat. If you left that 4 dollar tip to make a point, you made the wrong one. Not everyone is there to bend to your will, it’s not like you’re a real celebrity. You don’t have any pull anywhere because nobody wants to be around you. You’re not intelligent, you’re not smart, and you’re damn sure not a nice person.

If you think you’re hot shit, Buck, then you better start acting like it. Tip like it. Treat people better, because they remember you. You want to know why I didn’t care when you said you were Young Buck? It’s because you mean that little to me. Your name isn’t one that people who enjoy rap toss around regularly, when you’re mentioned it’s to say how much you suck.

Fuck off, Young Buck, I’m ashamed to share my birthday with you (March 15th, everyone, mark your calendars.)

Now that I’m done with my roast, everyone, please feel free to comment.

Buck, if you can’t handle this kind of criticism, then maybe you shouldn’t be part of the public eye. Fuck you.

To other celebrities, if you go out to eat, and you treat your server like shit, that server is going to remember you and is going to call you out in public. Let this be a lesson to you all. We don’t mind waiting on celebrities, some of you, like Steve McNair, who I’ve also waited on many times, are fucking awesome people and we wouldn’t care if you tipped or not. But when you come out and treat us like shit, we remember. For those of you who are wondering, McNair is a fucking awesome tipper, and his family are some of the nicest people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. I only wish that he hadn’t gone to another team, because he came in more often when he was still on the Titans….

All of the Tennessee Titans except for Pacman are awesome people too, and awesome tippers. Pacman however, you are worthless. You tip 1-2 bucks on a huge meal, and you beat women. You wonder why nobody likes you.

Even with all the bullshit Sunday night, I still made damn good money, close to 23% of my sales. I was quite proud, and being that RagingPartner and I are in the process of storing our things and finding an apt., and trying to fix the Raging T-bird, every little bit helps.

Ribeye

You all know how close I am to being over it at my job, well tonight, I almost walked out the door.

First three tables of the night were nice people.  Two were families, one was a guy and his girlfriend on a date.   I had a great time with all three of them.  I got two of the tables to get dessert, the one with the kids got chocolate cake and cheesecake, both with ice cream, running up a grand total of 67.14 on their bill.  The other one got cheesecake too.

The 2nd table, the one with the singled out cheesecake, the couple on their date, had a slight issue with dessert.  The girl had an allergy to almonds.  The girl didn’t bother asking me about any nuts in her dessert, nor did she tell me about her almond allergy, else I’d have told her to just avoid all the desserts completely as they all have a potential allergy warning on them.   While she didn’t actually start swelling up, she started feeling sick to her stomach, and I was worried that I’d killed someone.

Grand Total?  48.52.  They gave me 51.52 and told me to keep the change.  3 bucks on table number 2.

Finally, we have the two sisters and their daughters who were out for a night of shopping and fun.  I flirted with the sisters, a middle aged pair of beautiful black women, and gave the daughters free games.  I got the sisters a couple of drinks after flattering them about their ages.  Their total?  47.82.  They gave me 52.00 and told me to keep the change.  4.18 total.  10 bucks in 2 hours, from 5pm till 7pm.

I made about 15 more bucks in the next hour and a half, and then the ghetto trash black women and He-Ra, their ghetto trash black Tranny decide they’re going to come in and fit their ugly asses into a 4 top booth (there were six of them).

When I walked up to the table, there were only 3 of them.  One looked to be about 50 or so, one looked to be about 22, and one looked like an amazon, my height (6′4), skinny, plenty of weave of a deep orange/red color, and a skin tight gold/brown outfit on.  Ugly as sin the amazon was, and you’d think that one was the tranny.

“Good evening ladies, is this everyone in your party or have you got more coming?”  I ask, trying to be in a good mood despite the bad tips I’ve gotten so far.

“Der gon’ be six uh us,” Amazon Andranettie answers.  Her real name I’d find out later was Chanel.

“Have you already stopped in our dining room, this table is going to be a tight fit for six people.”

“We gon’ sit heah, why?  You don’ wanna wait on us?”  Old Orthapedia asks.

“I’m just trying to make sure you are all comfortable, ma’am.  Would you like…”

“Jus’ come back when da ress of ouah grou get heah.” Chanel tells me.  I go on to the next table to prebuss it and go back to the service station to wait.  A few minutes later, the rest of their group shows up.  I go back to the table.

“Now that you’re all here, my name’s Ribeye, and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.  Are you all going to be on one check tonight?”

“We ain’ know yet, we nee a frew minute.”  The girl speaking is sitting right next to Chanel, and she’s got a slightly deeper voice than most women.  She looked to be about 22 years old.  She was a bit shorter than the amazon, and had in some blonde weave laced with red.  Ugly ugly gold glittered spike heels on, which immediately made me think Hooker, where’s the pimp at.

I give them a few minutes before I go back to the table.  When I finally get back, I don’t even have a chance to speak before they start ordering drinks.  “I’m gon’ have ______ Margarita.”  Amazon tells me.  “Can I see your ID please?”  The ID question is repeated 3 times, as people just don’t want to get it out and ready, or they don’t think I’m going to card them.  The girl sitting next to Chanel tells me she doesn’t want anything, as does the last girl at the table, a quiet girl I’m going to call Fran.

When I get back with the drinks, the girl by Chanel tells me she wants the same drink Chanel got.  “I’m going to need to see your ID please.”  I tell her.  She pulls it out, and it’s a TN ID card with the name Chanel on it.  Chanel had already given me a drivers license, and I didn’t remember the last name on it.  The picture looked more like the Amazon Chanel than the short girl.  “This is a little weird, ladies, this ID has the same name as the one you gave me,” I say, pointing at Amazon Chanel.

“Da descripton diffrent.”  she says, and being that I’m in a hurry, I don’t think much about it.

I get Chanel #2’s drink, and go back to the server station.  Mr. N comes up, and informs me that he’s served my party before, and that Chanel #2 is a cross-dresser.  I remember him telling me about this person a few weeks ago when He/She/It was in there, and I started thinking about something.  I got Manager S the Feminine over, and told her about what happened.  We talked about the ID situation for a minute, and it was decided that I was going to go and check the ID of both Chanel’s at the same time.

Flash forward to me going back to the table.  “Ladies” I begin, looking at Amazon Chanel and Chanel #2, “Something’s been bugging me since I saw your Id’s, and just to clear it up, I’m going to need to see them both again so I can look at them side by side.  Something just doesn’t add up, because they both had more or less the same picture on it, and the same first name.”

“You done seent em once already.”  Chanel #2 says, looking pissed off.  “We ain’ gettin dem out again.”

“I’m sorry to be rude, ma’am, but if you don’t let me see your ID again, I’m going to have the manager come and take all the drinks from the table.”

“Why you gotta see dem fo?”  Tatarethia asks, heretofore a silent figure.

“In all honesty, I believe that one of them has passed off an ID to the other, and that’s illegal.”

“Well day ain’ gotta brang dem out fa you, day aready got day dranks so day cain’ get in no troubah.”

“Yes, they can, if they don’t show me the ID.”

“You need ta brang out ouah checks den, and cancel ouah food.”

Grabbing Chanel #2’s and Amazon Chanel’s drinks, I reply, “Right away ma’am.”

“What da hell is you doin?” Tatarethia asks again, reaching out to grab my hand.

“I told you, if I don’t see the ID, they don’t get to drink.  If you don’t let go of my hand, you’ll not finish your drink either!”

“Brang ya’ll managah ovah heah, you gon’ pay fa dis!”  Tatarethia tells me, her fist shaking as she let my hand go.

I get Manager S the Feminine to the table, and they proceed to tell her that Chanel #2 doesn’t have her ID on her, and that I let them all drink.  She was told by the bitches that I didn’t card any of them, in an attempt to get me fired.  Too bad the manager knows that I value my job too much to let someone slide.  I missed the ID pass off, which was on me. However, I did catch it before more than a couple of sips were taken, and they didn’t get any of the drinks free.  As they were getting up, I heard one of them calling me a “Snaggletooth Cracka”, which gave me the idea to take the rest of the drinks from them.  They bitched because I didn’t bring back every penny of their change, literally 4 pennies total on 3 checks.   That made me wonder if perhaps Springs is a black woman in Nashville…..

I then noticed that Chanel #2 had an Adam’s Apple, and a quite noticeable bulge in her skirt….Mr. N was right, she WAS a he.

I’ll damn sure recognize this ugly black tranny next time it comes in, and that mother fucking fake titty wearing cocksucking flaming dress wearing coke snorting crack smoking methhead weave wearing cunting whore better watch the fuck out because my foot is going right into it’s nuts.  It was quite obvious that this tranny is NOT a post op yet, and I’ll cause some pain.  Fucking piece of shit trying to get me fired!  Had it been a manager that hasn’t seen me work forever and didn’t know how rigid I am about ID’s, I probably would have been fired on the spot, especially since it’s a corporate place.  Justice prevailed though.

They were also informed that if any one of them were caught drinking on the premises again, they would be reported to the police for using false identification to obtain alcohol, and summarily arrested.  Fuck them and they boats they sailed in on, I hope all six of them get beaten by their pimp and are buried alive.  I hate it when I’m threatened like that.

Fucking whores.

Back tomorrow,

Ribeye

Let me preface this by saying: I fucking hate serving ditzy assed females. I hate serving ditzy assed bitchy females. I hate serving ditzy assed bitchy young females.
EDIT: I’d also like to add: I know that not all sorority girls are like the ones I will describe here.  I’m sure I have many sorority readers, and I’m hoping you’re not one of the following or the previous.
I’m all about working parties. Really, I’m not lying about that, I do enjoy parties. This one, however, was one of the most annoying parties I’ve ever had the misfortune to be assigned. Today, myself and three other servers had the “pleasure” of serving 140 sorority girls….on bid day. I’m not going to say the name of the sorority because I don’t need a thousand bitchy old former sisters coming after me with the power of Ivy League father lawyers, but it was Kappa ____ _____. Bid day, with all the hundreds of fucking just out of high school females trying to be sisters, wearing stretch pants and throwing confetti and glitter around, feather boas losing feathers for me to sweep up as I closed tonight.

I didn’t know it would be a “Bid Day” party. Had I known that, I would have avoided working it. I got out of working it last year because I saw the results. Shitty gratuity, females scared to eat for fear of gaining a half ounce of weight, 2 boxes of diet coke syrup used up, countless bottles of grenadine making Shirley Temple’s, and annoying snotty attitudes.

When I saw them putting up their decorations, I knew what I was in for. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck is it too late to get out of this? Yes, yes it is.

We get everything set up, while the sorority demons were putting up posters. They have a helium tank, and proceed to put balloons everywhere: taped to the counters, strung to the bar, ribboned to the glass partitions between the bowling lanes. Great to know I’ll have to get rid of those before I can take actual lanes tonight.

The party starts. We start getting drinks for these sorostitutes. “Oh my god, you have shirley temples?” “Can I have a shirley temple?” “Bring us 4 shirley temples!” Not only did they have really thick valley accents that snotty just out of high school girls have, but they were almost as perky as fucking cheerleaders. We ran out of 3 boxes of diet coke, 2 of sprite, about 8 bottles of grenadine. There was a ton of food left over because they were afraid to eat.

I also came out of this party with a major headache. Screaming and screaming and screaming. Yelling and yelling and yelling. Lots of girl on girl hugs doing absolutely nothing for me. Lots of girls dressed fugily, and more screaming. The last few malingering scumlettes started releasing balloons to the ceiling of my bowling alley. The bowling alley that I was trying to clean. Then a hostess who shall remain nameless decided to run through popping the balloons. Over and over again until me and Mr. S went off on her because we had to clean the balloon guts up.

All of this for a lousy 50 bucks each on our check. They didn’t think we were good enough for anything extra. Fuck you Kappa _____ _____, Fuck you right in your stuck up little ear!

Some interesting knowledge I’ve figured out on the tipping debate. I’m learning that people with smaller checks, around 15-40 bucks, don’t mind tipping 18 to 20%, or even 25%. 45 dollars and more, and we a lot of time get 10 to 15% of the check, no matter how hard we work. Anyone want to shed a little light as to why that is?

My idea is that people don’t want to wait for the change on little checks, but on big checks, they use bigger bills and want most of the change back. I get a lot of people with 25 dollar checks that give me 30 bucks and say keep the change. That’s 20% right there. 30 bucks, they give me 36 or 37 and say keep it. Sometimes more. The bigger the check though, depending largely on the class of the guest (ghetto, redneck, entitlement junkie), the lower the tip. 5 dollars from rednecks or ghetto trash seems to be the norm, regardless of the amount of the check. Entitlement Junkies? If there’s a check left at the end of the meal for them to pay, then their job is unfinished, and they’ll tip on the post-comped price if anything.

Tipping on post comp prices screws us because we have to tip out on the pre-comp total. The pre-comp sales are also held over our heads, because if we don’t claim enough money when we clock out to equal what the IRS thinks we should have made on those sales, we get an audit. So we have to claim tips we didn’t make. If we claim less than 10% that puts us in danger. Legally, we claim 100%, but there’s some nights that we have so much trash that we don’t even make that 10% to claim to stay safe.

New group of people I hate to serve after this weekend? Gospel Singers/Fans. Crowds of them came in Saturday night, an hour before close. They were still coming in 10 minutes after last call. They were bitching because we weren’t allowed to seat any more tables. They were bitching because of how long the food took to come out. Some Godly people those Gospelers. No tips though, lots of bitching about gratuity. Just go somewhere else.

Ribeye

It’s back, after the holiday hiatus. Round Table vol. 3 will be hosted this coming Monday, January 7th, by the great and wonderful….

If you want to get in a submission, go to his page and leave him a comment, or you can always send it to me and I’ll send it to him, just visit the Contact link at the top of my page. Otherwise, you’ll probably get one of your posts picked for you. I believe, unless something has changed and I’ll correct if it has, that the theme for this week will be Holiday Horror Stories.

Get your posts ready everyone, Round Table has returned!

On another note, I’ve gotten more RagingServer pens in, and RagingPartner and I are working on a new fun idea for them. Here’s what the new ones look like:

And because she was so cute a minute ago, another of the Raging Kitty, Skitzo:

I’m plain and simply put exhausted. We closed an hour later than we normally do on Monday nights, but none of the servers knew we were going to. We were short staffed all around. 4 total dining room servers, 2 cocktail servers in the bowling alley, and 3 of us in the game room. I ran a 6 table section all night long. I got my ass kicked, once again. The worst part? My dept leader was back from his time off today. He was there for an admin meeting in the morning, and spent the evening doing scheduling. Not helping out his department, seeing that we were getting our asses royally handed to us on a fucking platinum platter, oh no, that would mean actual work. This mother fucker sat on his ass in the office working on a fucking schedule. I was pissed. I’m still pissed. I want his job so fucking bad, and he wastes it. I’m so tired of picking up the slack for his fuck-up’s.

We also started out with 2 bartenders at the beginning of the night. Why the 2nd one had the nerve to leave at 8 pm, I’ll never know, but that meant that drinks were coming out very slowly. I ended up jumping behind the bar and helping out along with running my 6 tables. That was a blast, let me tell ya. I didn’t mind too much, I enjoy it when I go behind the bar, knowing that I deserved to get that job in the first place and didn’t. I’m sure I’ll get it next time.

Nothing major to say about the shift except that I got my ass kicked, and stomped straight into the ground with a stiletto heel. I’m in pain all over, and I have to go back tomorrow. I’ve also lost one of my 2 days off this week that I was looking forward to, that being Thursday…payday. I was really looking forward to having that off, stopping in for a half minute to pick up a paycheck and leave again. Oh no, I have to go in and open, and the gods only know when I’ll be getting out of there.

My dept. this week has been in a shambles, which is a big part of my frustration. I take that back, it’s not just been this week, it’s just been the worst this week. The “one in charge” actually left someone who no longer works for the company on the schedule, and said that everything was covered. How the fuck would he know that, he’s been off on his honeymoon with “Flip-Flop” the dept. boss of the dining room servers, his “roommate”. They took their vacations the exact same time. The day before Christmas Eve until today. They came back in town just in time for the admin meeting they have every Monday, but did they stay and help out their areas? Nope. The managers are royally pissed at the cocktail leader due to his short staffing and his excuses about it. Last New Year’s Eve that I worked, we only had 12 cocktail servers on the schedule, and we still had more on the clock on these holidays than we had this year, and this year we had 17 cocktails on the schedule. What’s wrong with this picture? I know that job can’t be all fun and games, but come on, learn how to write a fucking schedule, or people are going to start rebelling on you. I don’t know how true it is, but I’ve heard that a couple of people are putting in notices. More money for me, I say.

To the nice old woman that I cussed out, I really do apologize.  I was pissed off not at you, but at everyone.  You sitting down and nagging me about cleaning your table, despite the good tip you eventually left, pissed me off anymore.

Here’s how it went:

Ribeye: “Hey guys, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.  We’re extremely short staffed, and I’m running behind.”

Old Woman:  “Is there a server for this table?” No, bitch, I didn’t just tell you I was going to be with you in a few minutes.

Ribeye: “Yes ma’am, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”  I had my hands full of dishes, and was trying to get away.  I’d started to walk away when…

Old Woman: “Are you going to clean this table? We’ve been waiting a while.”

Ribeye now loses his temper: “I just told you I’d be with you as soon as I can, now fucking wait a minute and I’ll be with you as soon as I can!  How fucking hard is that to understand?!”

Old Woman: “How dare you talk to me that way!”

Ribeye: “Because you didn’t fucking listen to me the first time I answered you!  I told you once I’d be with you when I fucking could and you fucking had to keep it going instead of saying ok!  Just wait for a damn minute, Jesus Fucking Christ, how hard is that to do?”

They didn’t stay, which didn’t bother me at all.  I felt bad about it later, but when she sat down, I was running 7 tables, and couldn’t get to them.  I just hope they don’t call corporate on me.  Even if they do, they didn’t talk to anyone when it happened, so it won’t matter much…

I guess now that it’s happened, all the pissiness from work has built up and blown up at a poor defenseless old woman who could have probably beat the hell out of me with her gigantic shoplifter purse, it won’t happen again for a while.  I felt a lot better after getting it out though…

Oh yea…

HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR!

Ribeye