… turn beet red?

It’s funny, because, well, watch.

On the other hand, its sad because … well, that’s not how you spell ‘ceiling.’

Plus, y’know, poor cat and all.

First, an open note to certain coworkers who read this blog. Some of you I’ve given this website’s address. Some of you found out from other people. Read it or not, I don’t care, but if you can’t handle reading the content on this blog with acting in a professional and mature manner, please, do us all a favor, and fuck off. Yeah, I’m writing about you behind your backs (although, since you’re reading this, and I know you are, does it actually count as talking about you behind your back? I think not), but I know everyone in both fuckin’ stores talks about everyone else behind their backs. At least this way you know what I think about you — hey, honesty hurts and this way you get to know exactly what I feel about you from, well, me. Face facts, both Greg and Gary know I write this, and they know I write about work, and they don’t give a fuck. If the medium upsets you so fucking much, or what I write offends you so much, no one is twisting your arm to read this. For that matter, no one is twisting your arm not to find another job. Otherwise, leave me a comment and I’ll make sure you’re no longer to have the opportunity to be offended.

Please, coworkers, keep this in mind before you read the rest of this post. I won’t be offended if you click the “x” at the top right of your browser (I hope you’re using Firefox). Please also keep in mind that this paragraph and the one above it is the extent to which I give a flying fuck if you are offended by anything I write.

(more…)

Before I can talk about D.S., I need to explain some things.

First — S.W. Court is located in the northwest of the Franchise’s delivery area. Number Four S.W. Court is owned by a gentleman who tips very well. Let me put it to you this way — once I delivered him a pizza an hour and a half old because we were very busy. I got the lowest tip I’ve ever gotten from him and it still beat my usual tip average.

Second — There are lots of rules that a Delivery Driver lives by. As far as customer service goes, the #1 Rule of All Time is, “Thou Shalt Not Do Anything to Offend Thy Good Tippers.” As far as poor tippers go … well, rather the reverse.

Third — No individual who has worked at the Franchise for a significant portion of time is going to do anything to risk offending Number Four S.W. Court because he’s a great customer (i.e., “tipper”).

Fourth — “Phone Bitch” is a term of affection used to describe store employees who work inside, primarily on the phones and front counter. Although D.S. is cross-trained also on the makeline, he exemplifies most of the stereotypes of the dumb-as-brick promiscuous VD infected high schoolers for whom the term originated (seriously, when I started working in this business, there was a rash of managers being terminated for “phone bitching”, or being caught by a supervisor having sex on the clock with underage phone bitches*).

That said, let me talk briefly about D.S., and then describe the incident for which he will shortly find himself deposited in the Big Dumpster out back.

D.S. works at the Franchise. D.S. does not stand for D.S.’s actual initials. Rather, they stand for two words which, when combined, describe D.S. pretty acurately. D.S. is a fifteen year old reject who seems to have emerged from the early 1970’s. He’s got a Luke Duke haircut and a Bo Duke attitude. He’s learned to masturbate and therefore Knows Everything because he was spared hairy palms. He routinely ignores instructions, goofs off, and gets upset when asked to do simple tasks. His favorite activity is describing what he would like to do sexually to your mother. The other night, I perhaps not entirely accidently bumped into him, causing him to splash Sprite on his face. He threw the cup at me (and he’s paying for my drycleaning of that store owned shirt, too). I relish the day I overhear him telling someone his parents are going out of town and he’s throwing a party. “Hello, Baltimore County Police Department … ?”

Thursday night, I delivered to Number Four S.W. Court, where Number Four S.W. Court informed me that D.S. had taken his phone order and been rude. I apologized and promised to take D.S. out back and beat the shit out of him. Number Four S.W. Court laughed and I was on my way.

A few minutes later, back at the store, talking with Ross, the story came out — it seems D.S. actually went out of his way to hang up on Number Four S.W. Court several times, finally only answering when Zebulon had a moment to realize what was going on (Thursday night, poor Zebulon was stuck with D.S. as his only insider and we were busier than we usually are on a Thursday evening). Once D.S. finally lowered himself to take Number Four S.W. Court’s order, D.S. was exceptionally rude. Number Four S.W. Court ordered a speciality pizza, but requested that green peppers be removed from the pie. D.S. neglected to make a note in the computer of the removal of this ingredient, because D.S. is, well, a D.S.

Long story short, Number Four S.W. Court was so not happy. Ross and I were equally not happy. Greg was also not happy when this story was related to him (not for once by I).

D.S., here’s hoping your days are numbered!

(*In one case, the Supervisor who did the catching was the wife of the Manager who was doing the underage Phone Bitch who also happened to be her brother’s girlfriend. Happy family, that.)