29 views later...

I know I have been away awhile, but just 29 views for the last post I made?  That first blog post in months shows that I have a long way to go before I can say we have a community again here.

That's OK.  You have to earn eyeballs and I haven't earned anything lately.

If you find the quality of writing to be down don't be too disappointed.  It's going to take awhile before I am confident enough to let loose and present my best stuff.

For now you get what you pay for which is Jack Squat!

Buster Poindexter Must Die

I have been avoiding posting about this shit man, because I need some fucking dignity.

You must push play to read the rest of this post. Otherwise you will not be able to share the sheer hell that is my life.

Once you hear it, this song refuses to leave your brain. It simply deposits itself, like a certain human autoimmune disease, right in your gut-where it waits to strike at you when you are at your weakest.

But as my brother likes to say "at some point you begin to ask yourself, not 'if' but... how many flies in your eye are ok?"

"The Shame and Yeast of it all."

"I did not sign up for this."

It was the only thought that ran through my head, following the explanation by my department manager for our new procedures for selling French Bread.

Well, there was also this:

"I'd rather eat raw the unwashed placenta from Suri Cruise than do this."

We must place a small cd player on the top of a hot rack full of bread, playfully decorated with a Carmen Miranda fruit hat, and blast Poindexter's "hit" while attempting to hock bread to our typically unresponsive customers.

"Some of the stores are even forming conga lines for the hot racks."

Buster Poindexter should die a painful death.

A hot... hot ...hot... death if you will. I wonder though, maybe Buster doesn't realize his masterpiece of kitsch has been appropriated by corporate miscreants.

Maybe I should get somebody from the recording industry to find out if we are paying royalties.

Perhaps, Buster is much of a victim here as I am. Perhaps. But just in case, Buster, I want you to know, if you gave them your permission, I will hunt you down... you dress wearing clown of a fag.

The Butcher. The Baker. The Candlestick maker. An introduction to a done deal.

I have decided to Interrupt whatever narrative flow this blog may have in order to take advantage of some of Blogger's new advances.

I am going to post the 2 missing posts about my short grocery store career. That way if you click on the grocery store work blog label then you will get all the posts from both of my blogs together.
****

Sorry to interrupt all the alone time you've had lately with my light posting.

I am working in a bakery at a local grocery store.

My job consists of placing endless rows of toll house cookies on baking sheets and then into a giant oven big enough to bake several Jews.

I am gonna let you in on a little secret. Flies. The Flies. Big juicy southern Florida flies. Big enough to put on the grill.

A brief intro to the cast of characters:

Marci de sade-

Married with 4 kids. Her husband is 'well connected' within the AB. That's the Aryan Brotherhood to you and me. Her father has given her a Walmart card that he pays off. I tease her relentlessly regarding this. She has asked me if "I wanted to go shopping with it."

Key Talents:Cake decorator and perhaps the finest double barreled fly swatter I have ever seen.

Favorite quote:"Ever had an abscessed tooth? I have one."

About J. -

Female co-worker who worked as a penal officer in a maximum security prison.

Her only regret? When she had the chance to kill a prisoner, she only wounded him.

Key talent. Good with a shotgun.

Favorite Quote:"Can anyone do with out 10 dollars until Tuesday?"

About Me-

Secretly rated Mike and the Mechanics "Nobody's Perfect" as a 4 Star song on his Yahoo Radio Player.

Key Talents:

Using both charm and wit, convinces people the purple Pontiac Sunfire he often borrows from his mother doesn't make him gay. Took it upon himself to "once daily" check the cake freezer display and dump all the frozen flies from the cake lids. Has yet to be on time.

M&M-The boss.

Likes-to throw boxes around and yell.

Dislikes-customers who only buy from the discount rack.

Favorite quote:"Ignore me."

Fun Facts about my former job:

No less than 3 dogs along the 4 mile walk route to work must be avoided in order to arrive safely. Two of the dogs are of "Marmadukian proportions."

The Butcher of Palmetto.

I am not the kinda person who likes drama. I try to avoid drama in my personal life as much as possible. I go so far as to avoid watching TNT because I dislike drama that much.

That being just said, I think we all say that we dislike drama. So I don't think you should just take the word of people when they say something. Because there are facts in the world we can discover things. And sometimes those facts have a way with not corresponding to our expectations.

The other day I went to work and both my store manger and department were waiting for me. Turns out they "don't have enough work to justify the number in the bakery." But they did have the "numbers" to justify hiring a person at the meat department. So I was offered the choice unemployment/meat department.

"You're not gonna quit are you?" The bakery manger asks. She repeats the question three or four times before I can think about an answer.

"No, I am not going to quit." I finally decide. "I guess I will take the butcher position."

"Great." The store manager declares and then he inquires about my payscale.

"Oh. Well that's fine." It is? I am not sure you heard correctly then.

"You start tomorrow." He informs me.

Nice.

My first day as the Butcher of Palmetto is my last.

Customer: "Can you rinse off the ice off my crabs?"

Me: (but to myself) "Are you fucking serious?"

The first and only lesson you need to know in regards to the etiquette of the butcher's block at your local grocery store.

1. If you cannot afford to pay for the "ice" that sticks to your crab meat, you cannot afford to buy crab meat. Try frozen ground turkey. It comes in a at around $1.69 a pound. And I would be happy as fuck to rinse it the fuck off for you.

How I stopped working and started loving being a bakery team member.

You would think standing around in a 34 degree cooler with your hands in frozen chicken blood would be the bomb. But it's not all what it's cracked up to be.

First, I would like to remind you that chicken blood is basically fecal matter. By basically, I mean it would be cleaner for me to have the chicken squat over my face and take a shit in my mouth than it would for me to rub my eyes after working with this product.

I only make this point to indicate to you that it is impossible to work in the meat department and not get blood splashed in to your eyes. They should issue you one of those high school chemistry class goggles that only the nerds wore when they toss you your apron.

Second. I don't really have a second. Working with guts and intestines was not what I signed up for. I will not even mention that the meat department requires you to work.

"We are not even in our busy season yet." I was told by one of the very brave meat guys. We really need to have 2 or three times the number of guys working that we have.

The first and only rule you need to learn on how to make sure you frighten the staff on their first day of work.

1. Tell newly hired staff members "how it's just a matter of time before they get a rash that starts near your fingers and ends at your shoulders." But "not to worry about it, you probably won't die."

Got a Job?

The Minor Accomplishments of RomiusTexis.

I am listening to Keith and the Girl on my I-pod and washing dishes. The dishes are actually large metal trays covered with bits of baked on bread.

Baked-on dough does not come off easy. I have to let it soak for several hours and then take a scouring pad to it.

I apply myself to the task and begin with forceful elbowed jerks to the pans followed by splashes of hot water to rinse. The banging and rinsing of pots and pans in a sink located at the back of this bakery makes it a bit difficult for me to hear you calling for assistance sometimes.

"Excuse me!" "Excuse me!!" "Excuse ME!!!"

At first all I hear are the pans banging against stainless steal sinks, but soon it dawns on me that someone is yelling. Yelling. And I mean YELLING at me at the top of their lungs.

It is the screaming voice of a child no more than 6 years old. And if you have ever had the unfortunate experience of being a parent then you know the freakishly large lung capacity that human offspring have.

This little fucker is standing there and facing me with his hand on his hip muttering "it's about time" and asking me for his goddamn "free cookie."

I am not ashamed to tell you my reaction. At least the reaction in my head.

"You little fucker. I am gonna strangle you. I'll watch as your last breath leaves your body, then I am going to cut that lifeless body into bite sized portions I'll ingest in front of your sibling. I will then shit out your sibling with dysenteric force and compel your brother... that oh so willing accomplice, to eat your remains as shit."

But instead all I did was look around for his parents in the hopes that I could give them a look that says "Is that really necessary? Couldn't you learn that child some manners?"

But in my world even this small amount of satisfaction will not come. Instead I just meekly hand over the cookie failing to give the miniature tyrant his napkin. He views my restrained philanthropy with the native unimaginative curiosity of his age, operating only at Level 1 (Pre-Conventional) on Kolberg's Moral theory of development.

1. Obedience and punishment orientation
2. Self-interest orientation

Psychology 101 is not very helpful to me at this point in my life. I don't want tips to help me understand the ego-centric nature of childhood wants.

I only need tips on getting the balls up for killing the personification of those childhood wants.

I understand fully now how people crack. When interviewed the friends and family members of discovered serial killers always trot out the same hollow cliches. Like..."He had a job." "Seemed normal enough." "He seemed like a pretty smart guy."

Just smart enough to to be aware of my growing and total frustration with life. And my complete lack of ability to persuade hot chicks to fuck me. I was once asked, "What's it like to be you?"

Now you know. Imagine if you will a man with no discernible talents or skill who winces at even the slightest tug from inertia to defend his low rung beta-status.

"Poke that little fuckers eye out!" Shouted out my ghosts of evolutionary past. But I abstained. And because of that abstention I am ashamed. And too pathetic for words.

What if I were to lazy to post today?

Couldn't I just google for a few 'grocery store blogs' and send them my massive traffic?

This Garrick knows way too many languages and is "made ill at ease" in grocery stores "by the artificial lighting, the monstrously huge red and green peppers, the giant, perfectly yellow Costa-Rican bananas."

I don't really know why he is afraid of large red bell peppers. They are the best kind. Also I tend to think we are a bit high up on the food chain to be concerned by something without teeth.

Any visit to the grocery store for Garrick becomes unsettling as he "wander(s) from vegetable to vegetable like a lost nomad, gazing with glazed eyes at the products of pesticides, herbicides, fungicides."

"I can spend thirty, forty-five, fifty-six minutes wandering the isles thinking of consumerist food bliss. Buying prepackaged this and precooked that," but "eerily, my societal musings don’t end here."

Getting eerily freaked out by ordinary things like grocery stores, leaves Garrick plenty of time for his Early Critical Theory ponderings on preferred shopper’s cards, RFID's, weird stickers, consumerism and just plain old Idenity Theory.

Good luck with all that thinking. Just remember, Garrick, too much thinking and the Terrorists win.

The Baker's Moral Code. A code I can't live by.

"Do you have an 99 cent Donuts?"

Asks Diabetic Amputee Girl.

Sure she has one leg already amputated, and yes the other one is grossly swollen. But as she likes to say "I needs my sweets!"

So now I have to ask myself "Do I have some kind of 'Moral' obligation to prevent said single amputee girl from actually becoming double amputee girl?"

Too late! Before I can get all "Kantian" on Diabetic Amputee Girl she powers up her scooter and races over to the reduced table and snags the last three bags of donuts.

"It's the only time I can afford them. When they are reduced and all!"


What sort of insulin doping junkie knows how to time her visit to 8 p.m., right after I break down the bakery bins? Nice.

***
Attention Shoppers:

From now on if you make the manager call "customer service to the bakery" when I am on the john taking a shit, you will be getting a very special chocolate chip cookie.

P.S.

If you are gonna make me leave the washroom early just so your stupid little kid can get a chocolate chip cookie, you might wanna pretend to buy something from the bakery. Grocery stores are notorious for their sectarian infighting, so I could care less that that you will be buying 3 dollars worth of fish sticks.

***

And now more of:

ASK the Baker.

Q. "Dear Mr. Baker, what is the difference between French Bread and Italian Bread?"

A. You mean other than the label on the cardboard box of frozen dough in the freezer? Not a damn bit of difference. I think we charge more for the Italian. But when we run out of the French bread we just substitute the Italian for it. Don't worry you can't tell the difference and either can we.

You want a real answer? In theory Italian is supposed to be chewier, but I am not an Epicurean expert. I am trained only in the meticulous nuances of placing frozen dough on metallic trays. And you're just going to slather it up with butter and garlic spread anyway completely obliterating any taste difference if there was one to start with. So I have a question for you. Why do you care?

Attention Shoppers: You get nothing out of licking the Package.

So please stop.

Are we running some sort of after school lunch program here?

It would be the only thing that would explain why the same two kids come into the bakery everyday asking for a cookie. Where are your parents? Go buy something. Do you really need that cookie everyday?

M&M insists she is Culturally Sensitive: Because we now a "Mexican Section" in the bakery. Which today consists of 5 packages of 'mini' corn muffins.

Why mini-corn muffins? I guess because M&M thinks Mexicans just love Corn Muffins. I can attest to the fact that the Ex (A Mexi-can not Mexi-can't) loved the Jiffy Corn Mix.

Today's Rosie Poem is dedicated to:

Gross Customers

Customer
today
asks for discount
on Donuts
for Mom And Dad
Cause the tray with donuts has a fly in it,

Still she wants three
I give 'em to her for 50 cents

But after you do that
don't try and flirt it up
At the Hot Box
tellin' me you want to see me dance


You're so 40 something.

Ignatious J. Reilly, An old man is pissing, Guest edited by Rosie.

Employee bathroom
has no lock
So nothing can stop
an old homeless man
from walking in on me
and nothing can stop him from pissing
before I can leave

No sir, an apology is not good enough.

State inspector
is a big fat Ignatious J. Reilly.
Who sticks his flashlight into our decorative pipes, looking for rust
Somehow he misses the flies.

The girl who might like me
and who quit working here
to make 7 dollars an hour elsewhere
returned to work here
because the other place had perv mangers
I once told her I had a large penis and often wear see through clothing

It's been two days
since I have needed an Aleve to get through the day

when my back hurts
I want to recruit 500 members for the Red Army
to go all Columbine
in America's malls
right before Christmas
and cost the Economy
2 trillions of dollars

i hope the fbi
does not read this blog

Securing America: Health Inspectors Florida, U.S.A.

"I don't know what you did to the floor yesterday, but the health inspector sure was impressed. He said the floors look good."

It's good to see Mr. Magoo has found work at the Florida Health Department.

Mopping is for clean bakeries anyways.

I refuse to mop any more at work. But I don't think any of you who visit Palmghetto's 'ghettoiest' bakery will notice much of a difference though.

I refuse to notice some things too. Like the way you cough up your 27 year old lungs each morning like you're already half dead from emphysema. Or the way you have meticulously place the paper waste basket directly opposite the commode against the wall, so each time I take a shit I can get a clear view of all the bloodied tissues face up in the basket.

You could at least put a clean tissue over all that stuff, nobody wants to watch your lung slowly decompose. You are only 27 after all. Not quite like the old men who sit out in front of Walmart coughing like they are talking into a tin can, three seconds from having a hole drilled in their necks.

I get paid an embarrassing low amount of money. I have already thrown my back out mopping with a standard kitchen mop. Now that is broke. I can't seem to locate a large "industrial" sized mop and bucket together at the same time.

I think it's some sort of conspiracy, started by the Visitors. Sometimes I think they are talking to me. "C'mon man, don't you wanna make some more of those cinnamon rolls?" Never buy the cinnamon rolls here, it is simply impossible to keep flies out of the breakfast glaze.

This post is dedicated to the indentured servitude now festered on to me by a growing and demanding readership.

I like it better when he wears the Glove.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Small Meat.

Since you can't stop wondering about what your favorite grocery store baker does... when not picking flies out of your bread...I give you....

From the unwritten screenplay "Baker's Boy-Actual Conversations Are Never Verbatim."

Scene 1 Act 1

Interior of a Grocery Store Breakroom. Populated by 3 teenaged wannabe Gangsta's and a white smocked, pudgy-cute, goatee wearing, Philosophy buff.


Kid A (but not the Radiohead one) "Hey, say what you said on speakerphone."

Kid 1 then turns on the speakerphone function to his cell phone. He then holds his phone at directs it at Kid "b".

Voice on Speakerphone "No." Cackles of laughter then emanate outward. Her voice is both shy and strangely commanding.

Kid 1 Enthusiastic. "Come on tell him he's got ...Small Meat." "He's got small meat." The repeated line is to no one in particular.

The whole breakroom explodes into a cacophony of "oh no you didn't 's" and such.

Kid "c" "Can anyone hold my wallet for me after I get it cashed? It'll have 89 dollars in it and I will be going away for a few days."

Kid "b" "Juvey?"

Kid "c" "Yea."

Kid "b" "They said I tried shooting something."

***

M-16's ( the 16 year old) Mom is now working in the store with us.

Here are M-16's tips for selling bread.

1. Wear the Carmen Miranda Hat
2. Tell People "Nothing says Love ...like warm bread...

Attention Shoplifters:

Business Week offers up the details on how the revolution in surveillance systems will take place.

For the most part it will be unadvertised, as most consumers prefer not to be followed and observed silently while they purchase their children's milk.

"Already, tech startups are working on even more promising -- or intimidating -- systems to track customers through the entire shopping process. There's even talk of stores installing facial recognition programs and license plate readers to catch repeat offenders. You're not likely to notice much of a difference at your favorite shopping haunts. But make no mistake -- they're noticing you."

I just hope they allow employess are allowed a glimpse of all the hot milf's missing thongs with "cameras mounted in cashier stands about six inches off the ground scrutinize the bottom racks of passing carts."

That would almost make working at agrocery store worth it.

Just a quick note...please leave with all the underwear you came with.

Attention Shoppers:

"Will the person who lost their black thong in the grocery bread aisle please come to Customer Service to claim their belongings."

No, I did not make that announcement today. But I could have.

My store (as far as I know) does not sell loose thong underwear for women. But that did not stop me from finding a pair of loose black thong styled panties in the bread aisle today.

"Did you pick it up?" My brother asks. "Fuck No!...Who knows where its been?"

Just as mysteriously as it appeared... it disappeared. My exit from the store takes me right up that aisle and alas ...no panties.

Long Live the Revolution!

I only celebrate 2 religious holidays a year. May Day and Labor Day.

I will be working my religious holiday this year.

I don't work Mondays normally, so I didn't think to ask for it off.

So of course I got scheduled on Labor Day.

"I just treated it like any other day." Answered M&M when I asked her about why I was working the only day working people shouldn't have to.

Of course you did. Why not? Just like I treat the fact that I have been disfigured* and disabled** as just a "regular part of working for the capitalist pigs."

Lucky for me though, this is PalmGhetto. So a regular workday is never just a "regular workday." Instead of spending my holiday trying to avoid chanting pro-union songs all day (I don't know any lyrics), I can spend the day trying to avoid white trash conversations at my lunchtime locker.

The following conversation is not verbatim:

After informing me that the "Bitch in the register next to me" better "watch her ass" mostly because "she is talking a lot of shit," I overhear the middle aged cashier on her cell telling her prospects that she "had a little something if you are interested."

Next she busts out with her "tabs" and asks if I needed any. I politely declined and mentioned I'd rather continue to vomit up my own blood up instead.

* I hesitate to place a picture of the hideous scar on the lower half of my thumb which I received from scraping it against the trash can bin.

** I've been vomiting liters of blood from all the Aleve I've been taking for the back pain I incurred whilst mopping an entire bakery floor with a kitchen sized mop.

I'd walk through a hurricane to get to my paycheck.

Or at least a tropical depression. But that probably won't hit me until the walk home tomorrow.

Of course if you worked at my store you might think twice about braving such a storm as your paycheck would be Nelson de la Rosa tiny.

Other than low pay another bonus for working at my store is that they would only pay you for 19.5 hours rather than the full 35 plus hours that you actually worked. That's because my time clock doesn't record you as punched "in" if you are more than 7 minutes early or late. I am late everyday. That means I basically work for free.

"Um..there seems to be a problem with my check..."

"Hey, are you doing the bread promotion?" This is not the answer you are looking for when 46 dollars of you hard earned money has suddenly gone missing.

"But I can assure you that someone is looking into it."

Very comforting. This coming from an assistant manger who's training video I watched told me that if I was asked to work off the clock I should say "no." Really? You need to tell your employees that they are actually supposed to get paid. I still have no idea how they got the shot in the training video of an entire store breaking out in song and dance about how great working for $6.55 is.

The industry I work in is rife with this kind of exploitation. It commonly employs child labour (under 16), refuses to pay overtime. Blah... Blah.. Blah.....

I know what you are going to say, 'get another job'. Maybe like a pharmacist. I could still chat it up with all the 16 year old cashiers (who totally looked 18) and I would still find the time to laugh it up and 'fake meringue dance' every time they see a baker walk past with his "hotbox."

But I live in Palmetto. There are only two other places hiring within a five mile area. Circle K and 7-11. While both are "always hiring," in fact just the other day a guy walked into a Circle K without enough money for a big gulp, and he got hired for 24 minutes to work it off. Meanwhile, I can't even get an interview.

**Update**

The birds are no longer bothering me, they have taken up root somewhere in the back storage of the store. Showing themselves only occasionally by dive bombing for food on my daily trash runs.

You might not think that this would still be a bother, but I throw away more food in a day than the guys in the local homeless shelter could possibly eat. Not that they will get any of that food anymore, because the director of the homeless shelter somehow pissed of my bakery manger 'M&M.'

Now I guess the only complaint I have is when I am chattin' it up with said 16 year old is that I keep getting interrupted by Weird Leprosy Guy. I don't wanna sound like a jerk, because the guy is in a wheelchair, but he had amazing 'life like" leprosy soars all over his body. And because this is Palmetto he did not feel the need to put on a shirt just because he was making a trip up to the store.

What does Weird Leprosy Guy want? Well, it isn't easy to figure it out initially. He mumbles. It requires you to get really close to him. Close enough to 'catch something' if you get my drift.

"Beer!"

He finally exclaims to my young workmate. Cleaverly depositing enough saliva and germs to kill all of Tom Cruises enemies in seconds. What else could he have wanted?

Welcome to PalmGhetto.

All you want is to get to Rally's to
get a few of those 69 cent cheese burgers in you.

Then you could woolf 'em down before your break is over. Hopefully without an 'incident' breaking out. Not likely.

Welcome to PalmGhetto.

First, you must realize that you if you want the '69 cent' cheeseburgers advertised on the Rally's Sign, you must ask for the '69 cent version' of the cheeseburgers.

Or you do not get the '69 cent' cheeseburgers. You get the 99 cent cheeseburgers. This same philosophy applies to getting the 69 cent shake or the '69 cent' hot dog.

"You want the 69 cent version of the cheeseburgers?" Inquires the ubiquitous Mexican fast food employee. All employees are Mexican at fast food restaurants in PalmGhetto, in compliance with city ordinances.

"Um...ya...I guess." By now you will have regretted your decision to get the 69 cent burger. You will wonder what the non-69 cent version of the "same as far as anyone can tell" cheeseburger is.

"I suppose they don't funnel any of their biological juices into the buns." You think to yourself.

Conveniently located accross from the puerile spitting cashier at the second of Rally's/Checkers famous "walk up windows" is one of the native species of PalmGhetto's White Trash. Teen boy/girl couple.

Teen boy/girl couple are joined together in a sort of conspicuously pre-coitus poise. Hands run from buttocks to back. Legs are intertwined. Tongues dart.

You are able to admire the view of her slender legs and backside because girl distracts boy from his otherwise vigilant eye-patrol of all things "his" by the carefully constructed force of her hands. Hands which pull and tugg at his head creating a managed choreography where once was there was once only youthful incompetence.

You take your time enjoying their display as it appears the show is for you and because the workers at Rally's "We call it Checkers in Florida" are both slow in service and incompetent in filling orders.

That is until some nimrod drives by and shouts "FAAAAAAG!"

This gets the attention of the pimpled yet so obviously hetero boy. He breaks the lustful embrace of his soon-to-be 'Baby's-Mama' and in an evolutionary ironic instant is firmly ensconced in the stereotypical stance of Fight-or-flight.

You then see his his hands go searching for something in his back pocket. And within the instant of the item's appearance you gleam forth its identity. A knife. The young man has drawn forth a knife.

Meanwhile; the hoodlum who was screaming epithets while driving his Ford truck, has dashed away-merrily offering up both his middle fingers in a ritual farewell salute.

You; however, are going nowhere. You cannot get away. You can just stand there hypnotized by the glimpse of metal darting back and forth around the young teen in a primitive pantomime of West Side Story.

You see, you still have an order to receive. It is ony then with cheeseburger in hand that you can attempt your getaway.

And it is only during your getaway that you are able to discern that the boy has not chosen to wield a switchblade, nor even the pedestrian pick of pilferers everywhere the common pocket knife.

But instead he has ineptly chosen to defend his honor with his mother's steak knife. That's right, when not cutting Macaroni and Cheese or slicing through Salisbury Steak the humble steak knife is the trusty sidekick to any Real ASS Kicking which might go down in the PalmGhetto.

Baker's Box. Easy answers to tuff Questions. Otherwise known as Recapitulation to Ontogeny.

Q. Why are there so many flies in your store?

A. First, I am pretty sure that Florida does not have a Health Department. Since I don't have to answer to them, I am not sure why I have to answer to you about it.

Second, we have no blowers in the entrance to our store.

Third, we have no insecticide in the garbage. That would require a telephone call and a repair bill. Thanks to Walmart we can no longer afford either.

Anyways you get what you deserve, I know you Rednecks can see all the birds and stuff. You just figure we are cleaner than your trailer anyways so... wtf might as well ask for a cookie.

Q. Why do you look so pissed when my kids ask for a free cookie.

A. Ok, first it's a free cookie. You have no rights to that cookie. So all you 14 year old punks need to stop with the "you don't have any chocolate chip, I hate brownie cookies?" You get the cookie you get.

You're 14, you can't get that excited by a cookie at your age anymore. I know, I tried using them. Michael Jackson tried it. Why do you think he put an Amusement park in his front yard?

Sure, it would have worked on that Jon Benet Ramsey Kid, but she's like 6 and I gotta have some standards.

Second, I realize the cookie will be the first solid food your kid has had all day, I just request that you wipe his little maggots nose before he tries to pull on my apron or make some skin to skin contact with me, because no one has taught him about the uses of tissue paper.

Q. What is the tissue for next to the sample box?

A. I am not sure, no one ever uses it it. No one does. And most of you fuckers don't wash your hands either. So please, try a little something from the samples box.

Got any more questions for the Baker's Box. Just e-mail me and I will make you famous.

I work in a zoo.

You can't do much to surprise me these days. If I am not being constantly swarmed by flies or attacked by by giant ants called termites or getting drenched soaking wet, I couldn't call it a work day.

So I push through the back door entrance to the bakery to find birds. There are birds in the bakery.

"Is this a fucking zoo?"

Seriously, I do not like birds. I have mentioned somewhere that birds like to attack me. I was attacked by a flock of seagulls, then my girlfriend dumps me on the same day I get fired.

My appreciation for Darwin knows no bounds, but I have no intention of share working space with finches, or whatever the fuck they were.

"I don't think you should put a bread crumb trail down and lead it to the freezer in hopes of killing those cute little birds."

I don't see why not. That's how I kill the flies.