This afternoon, a customer told me she heard on the news that pizza-guys would put 400,000 miles in on Superbowl Sunday. “Not me,” I replied with a smile (although I might come close to 200).

**

Today during prep-crunch-time, Zap was having trouble figuring out who to root for the Superbowl — “I hate Pittsburgh,” he said. “Diehard Baltimorean, you understand. So I can’t root for the Steelers — it’d be like cheering for the Yankees. On the other hand, do I want to root for Seattle? A city full of liberal pot-head nutcases, a city which has contributed nothing to the good of the nation with the argueable exception of grunge music and fasionable flannel shirts?”

Zap decided to let his wallet do the talking — he figures most people’ll wager heavy on Pittsburgh, so he’ll go for Seattle in the hopes to make a killing.

It’s not hard to be a good employee, right?

1. Don’t make calling out a habit.
2. Show up on time.
3. Do your work without having to be yelled at.
4. Don’t cause the boss’ (or, for that matter, you coworkers’) bullshit detector to go off the second you walk in the door.

Easy, right? Easy?

Why, Ass Alex, is it so hard for you?

“Oh, I’m feeling sick, I have to go home…” Two Fridays in a row he expects to leave ahead of his turn? Ratshit asshole. I am, at last minute, free Saturday night so I offered to cover Alex’s schedule if he calls out or is removed. If not, I plan on pitching my case to Greg as to why Alex should be permanantly removed from the schedule Saturday nights so I can get his hours. (What this comes down to is that poor E.G. — who closes inside Saturdays — deserves reliable drivers).

What it boils down to is that Ass Alex is not a good employee.

Greg’s been doing this “employee of the month” contest since the summer and in addition to a small cash bonus, employees of the month are awarded a uniform shirt with their name embroidered on it. Zebulon was the first EotM way back in July, and he has worn his special shirt every day since.

It’s not just limited to him — Chewbacca also has worn his EotM shirt almost every day since he got it. I recieved my shirt earlier this week, as I was EotM for December. Yeah, I know, right? Had less to do with me being an outstanding employee and more to do with me reminding Greg how many days in a row I was working to cover for Ass Alex and other individuals who either forgot their schedule or just didn’t show up. Anyway, I got my shirt Wednesday, and when I walked into work last night, I was inquired of why I wasn’t wearing it.

Reasonable question — see, I kept pestering Greg to get the shirt into the embroiderer, so wouldn’t I want to wear it immediately and often?

No!

Why no?

That’s simple: I don’t want to be one of these head-up-the-ass self-important bimbos at the shop who get their self-worth through wearing a shirt with their name embroidered on it. Hello! It’s a pizza shop! You’re not working in a hospital or curing cancer or something, y’know, important.
(I was employee of the month five times when I worked at Blockbuster Video, and I only worked there eighteen months … you do the math. I was proud of that when I was there, now, well, I’m kind of ashamed and I think the plaques are still there displaying my loser-dum).

(I’ve got a little thing called a “name tag” that I have to pin to shirts without my name, and that works just as well as embroidery).

(Maybe I’ll ask Greg for an engraved gold nametag…)

(And a side note addressed to one of these bimbos: just because you were employee of the month six months ago doesn’t mean your work today is cutting mustard, chap, let’s try to make pizzas faster, hm?)

Alternate Title:

“That’s One Small Moon!”

or …

“That’s too small to be a space station!”

or …

“If we all run to the side at once, maybe we can roll the Death Star over that AT-AT!”

Found in the Brickshelf Gallery of one cbolego:

Niiiiice, but where’s the big ass laser dish, huh?

(Oh, and see title reference here. That sketchy Yoda’s using the Force to help Biggs win!)

Old Man Rich returns to work at The Indy on Saturday day-shift. He’s been away taking care of his mother following his father’s death, and this is only a one-shot deal — on occasion, when he’s back in the area, he’ll pick up a stray shift and Gary’ll pay him under the table … one afternoon, he’s the only driver (that’ll be interesting for him, area’s changed a lot the last year), and everything in greenbacks.

Rich — like, frankly, most of the employees at The Indy — is a true character. He’s an aging skinny hippie with a penchant for short-shorts that make daisy dukes look conservative (we once all chipped in and bought him cargo shorts so we wouldn’t have to see quite so much of his remarkeably smooth legs). His hair hangs to his shoulders and he’s losing quite a bit of it up top — I’m fairly certain he once had a ponytail. He has a habit of almost randomly launching into stories about doing various drugs, banging various chicks, and listening to various bands on the radio. Once, James asked if he’d meant the previous Saturday, because he thought he recognized the descriptions of one of the girls … Rich thought about it for a moment, then finally concluded the events had actually happened sometime in the early 1960’s (maybe the very late 50’s but … no, no, scratch that, he didn’t start doing cocaine until ‘61…)

***

Zebulon is the only person I know who takes it as a personal insult when people call to order pizza. Dude, seriously, they don’t hate your guts and they’re not trying to drive you to suicide — they just wanna order a fuckin’ pizza, man.

(If it was anyone else, I might suspect he was putting on an act, but I’m quite certain Zebulon has a list at home with names of everyone who has ever ordered a pizza when he was running the shift, and one day he’ll be sitting at home with a high-powered rifle in his lap, scratching names off said list with a tube of lipstick).

***

Speaking of ponytails, [Franchise Employee Who I've Mentioned Before But Will Remain Anonymous] has one, and can often be found starring into the reflective side of the office’s one-way window, stroking the long hair and turning his body so he can admire its — what I’m sure is — luxurious mane from different angles.

Someone, as a result, questioned his sexuality.

Here’s a lesson as to what you don’t say if you want people (read: mostly younger, not particularly liberal folk and some staunch conservies) to seriously believe you are heterosexual: “Well, yes, I did french three guys, but I got paid for it, $20 each.”

Right. So you’re not gay, you’re just a prostitute who sells his body to other men?

“Exactly!” was his enthusiastic response.

(I swear, I just don’t understand some people).