on
I sometimes feel like I had something to say in this space, but I forget between the thinking and the getting about actually writing the damn thing.
Pretty good day all and all.  Avengers tonight and next week I will have a job.  Cant ask for more than that.
I will set up a blog for my work, to keep tabs on how I am teaching.
I just need something punny with ‘Celta’ in it.
Which means I will be running three blogs total, as I have decided to stop uploading quotes I like here and start putting them elsewhere.  Elsewhere being http://pleasuretext.blogspot.com/
Someone remind me to decorate that fucking thing.
Anyway.
If you have nothing to say, then the best thing you can might just be to recall a random anecdote.  If you work in the service industry and you are not fortunate to be employed by yourself, you are likely going to think someone you work with is a colossal moron.  If, however, the person you consider to be a colossal moron is your boss, the owner of the place you work at, it seems all the more painful.  Such is my case.  The owner of the restaurant I work at often comes in to speak to the customers, which would be fine if he could as well maintain a minimum standard of basic hygiene.  Be restaurant folklore, a review on Yelp once mistook him for a homeless man the restaurant let in to speak to customers.  Though I don’t really care to verify this story, he does make a point of introducing himself as the owner to every table he speaks to, so it may well be true.  On another occasion he came in to the restaurant with a pair of jeans on and a shirt that was prone to riding a little too high, exposing all the customers to the worse case of plumber’s ass imaginable.
It was so damn funny I waited nearly fifteen minutes before saying anything.  It might have effected my tips, but seriously, who cares.  It was comedy gold.
Let me give you a better idea of who we are talking about.  An unkempt, balding elderly man who runs an Italian-American restaurant, and isn’t even Italian-American.  He’s of Lebanese decent, which is still slightly more Italian than the kitchen staff.  The day I met him (end of summer) he turned up wearing a pizza costume. I shit you not.  Anyway, he spends most of the day belching out “try our pizza!  Try our pie!” In a god-awful New Jeresy accent.
It’s delightful.
A couple of days ago I was at work I had another one of those occasions were I had to call a colleague over to join me in watching the idiocy.  He had been chatting up one of my tables (something so frightening we all hold our breaths when out turn comes) while he was waiting for some food to come out.  He walks away for a while, and the table called me over to order a dessert, which I promptly brought over.  As they are enjoying their dessert, the moron owner returns with a plate of fettuccine with pesto, and he insists on twirling some around a fork and feeding these two, right in the middle of their desserts.
They say some people laugh as an automatic nervous reaction to genuine trauma.  But my reaction was different, it was waves of trauma being overtaken by waves of pure hysterical laughter.

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