As much as I try and avoid writing about work (because let's be real here, everyone and anyone can bitch about work) (let's be even more real and say that everyone and anyone DOES bitch about work), I find it impossible not to share my most recent catastrophe at a little place I like to call...DEMON UNDERWORLD. (Okay, so I don't call it Demon Underworld, I was just trying to illustrate a dark and gloomy place for my most faithful readers, only to later realize that Demon Underworld is neither clever nor witty. It is just retarded. Instead, we'll call it Club Gay.)
So Club Gay offered me another raise, but with a price (money with a price, oxymoron?). I must quit my second job as a waitress at a pizza place I was currently working weekends at in order to work at Club Gay on Saturdays and Sundays instead.
That was a bit wordy. Let's tell this like an epic tale, shall we?
ONCE UPON A TIME, there lived a girl named Provolone (that's me). Provolone was locked up in an evil castle that the village folk referred to as Club Gay (that's where I work.) At Club Gay, Provolone was ruled by Lord BMT, who was a powerful, powerful man. One day, Lord BMT realized how much Provolone helped around the castle. She washed dishes, she fed the village idiots, and she always suggested an upgrade to the medium-sized drink for only twenty cents more. So, Lord BMT decided to make Provolone an offer.
"Provolone! I have an offer of epic proportions for you!"
"Yes, Lord BMT?"
"Quit your job at the pizza place, and I will give you a raise!"
"Oh, but Lord BMT, I make a lot more money as a waitress than I do here as your slave..."
"Just think about it, Provolone! THINK ABOUT IT!"
"Alright, Lord BMT, I will think about it."
Two weeks later, Provolone decided that she would quit the pizza place, because her boss there yelled at her and called her an idiot for GETTING A DROP OF CAESAR SALAD DRESSING ON SOME LASAGNA. Since Provolone decided that it was not fair for him to yell at her over salad dressing when she could not yell at him for having a unibrow, she decided it was best to quit, especially since Lord BMT had offered her those extra gold shillings every week.
"Lord BMT, I decided to work weekends and get that raise."
"Oh, I am sorry Provolone, but I have hired 2 new people who have offered to work every single day of the week. It is too late for you. You can meet the new employees today."
Since Provolone was never told there would be a time limit on the offer, she became very angry and stormed out of Club Gay to calm down. When she returned, there were two new girls standing in the palace chambers. These two girls would soon be referred to as...
Alright, enough story time, the kids are asleep already and I'm ready to talk some grown-up talk.
FUCK THE RUSSIANS.
Maybe this hatred has all stemmed from the fact that they stole my raise from me, but it didn't help that these two have it out for me. Why they do, I'm not really sure.
Maybe it's because I have a Russian name even though I'm not Russian and they find that offensive.
Maybe it's because I've been calling the tall one the blonde one's name and the blonde one the tall one's name for about a month now without realizing it was the other way around.
Maybe it's because I put 9 Splenda in my coffee. WHO THE FUCK KNOWS! IT COULD BE ANYTHING!
Woo! I'm getting this frustration out now, aren't I! AND IT WILL NOT END THERE.
First, it was little things, like when they were first introduced to the American concept of the "Yo Momma" comeback. This wasn't that bad, I don't expect them to know all the retarded jokes Americans have laughed about for years....and years...and years...but it was the fact that after they learned about it, they decided to put it to use. All. The. Time.
"Hey, will you hand me that tray?"
"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER!"
"Hey, can you grab me some onions out of the cooler?"
"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER?!"
"Hey, will you ring this customer up?"
"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER???"
It never. Fucking. Ends. And they say it loud. And they say it WRONG. But everyone laughs. Oh ha ha, foreign girls misusing American phrases HA. HA. HA. No haha! No. Ha. HA! But I can't say anything! Because I'll look like a bitch! I can't say, "Hey, it's not "What is it you say about my mother," that doesn't even make any fucking sense, it's "Your mom" - and then you repeat what was just said."
For instance, "Will you grab me some onions?"
"Your mom grabs my onions."
See? That's kind of funny, whereas, "What is it you say about my mother" is not.
Because ONE, the 'yo momma' joke is supposed to end all conversation, because it's a comeback; you're supposed to have the LAST WORD. "What is it you say about my mother" is a question. TWO, it's "What did you say" not, "What IS it you say." THREE, IT'S NOT EVEN THAT FUNNY TO BEGIN WITH!
Then, it escalated into them refusing to do what I tell them to do.
"Hey, will you grab me some bacon?"
Neither of them moves.
"Hey. I need bacon."
They both exchange looks with one another.
They look at each other once more, then one of them says, "You get the bacon."
What? WHAT? Excuse me??? I get the bacon? I GET THE FUCKING BACON?!
So I make some loud noise that is kind of between the grunt of a caveman and the toot of a locomotive, like, "EUUHHHHGA!" and I throw my knife down. I've started doing that a lot since the Russians arrived, throwing my knife down. It's really a habit I should get out of...the whole throwing-knives-at-work thing...either way, I did it. I made a loud noise, threw my knife down -
...Then I went and got the bacon.
The third incident is a recurring one, which makes it that much worse. I walk up to the cash register to ring someone up. Russian #1 looks at me and yells,
"We need someone on cash register!"
"Um, hello? I'm right here. On cash register."
"We need someone on cash register NOW!"
"I am on. The cash register."
"Hello? Someone come ring this customer up!"
"I AM STANDING RIGHT HERE."
Then she finally gets the nerve to look at me.
"Only me, Russian #2, and Someone Else Who Hasn't Been Working Here Nearly As Long As You can be on cash register."
"Ha! I think I can handle it."
"SOMEONE ON CASH REGISTER NOW!"
"I'VE BEEN WORKING HERE FOR TWO YEARS!"
Again, I make the caveman-on-a-train noise and throw something. Who knows what. Money, maybe, since I was on cash register. That's right, I threw the mother-fuckin' money. I made it rain, bitches, right there in Club Gay. Toss me a stripper, I got the ones.
The next day at work, I walk up to the cash register and ring someone up. Then I look at The Russians, waiting for a good World War I reprise, but they just look at me and then go back to work. Ha! I'm thinking. I showed THEM! That's right, Stalin-Wannabes! You mess with the bull, you get its horns rammed right up your ASSHOLE! Or however that phrase goes.
So I leave to do something else, then later return to ring someone up again. That's when I see it, the most innocent-looking Post-It note ever to stare up at me, with the words,
"ONLY THE RUSSIANS ON CASH REGISTER" written in not-so-innocent handwriting, no matter how curly the Rs are.
This is when I freak.
"WHO WROTE THIS."
I have it in my hand already. I don't know how long of a shelf-life that thing had, but it soon shortened to 0 days once I crumpled it in my fist and turned to The Russians.
"Who. Wrote. This."
They dare not speak up, so someone else does.
"Russian #2 wrote it."
"Oh really? EUGGHHHHAAAAAA!"
Choo-choo-grunt, throwing of the post-it note, and I've again fulfilled my daily quota of loud noises and the sporadic tossing of objects that don't belong to me.
Then I go wash dishes and satisfy my vengeance by not responding to anyone who says they need help with the customers. It's immature, yes, but I am not at the age just yet where I need to act accordingly in a work environment. I like to look at my age as the age where I can get fired and laugh about it.
"But how does the story end, Mommy?"
"Well, sweetie, Provolone went mad and ended up going on a killing rampage throughout the entire castle and left no survivors. She was later arrested and sentenced to death, but then a magical pony rescued her from prison and now she lives in a world of gumdrops and sugar cubes and naked men feeding her grapes."
"Naked men, ew! I don't like that ending, Mommy."
"WHAT IS IT YOU SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER!"