Friday, May 26, 2006
More on Subway
In my last entry I said I might write more about high school. I know the suspense has been killing you, so, without further ado, I will bring on both da noise and da funk. Please remain seated and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Do not attempt to exit the ride until it comes to a complete stop.
So, back to Subway. One more thing came to mind. During the last summer I worked there between semesters at Clemson, my bosses decided, based solely on my age that I was responsible enough to take on some light managerial duties. The most puzzling aspect of this, to me, is that they knew me long before making this decision. Newsflash: Turning 18 in no way, shape or form made me more responsible or any smarter. Really, ask anyone that knew me. It only meant I could vote, join the armed forces, and be tried as an adult. Anyway, once again, I have gotten off track.
Quick background info: Each employee was assigned a weekly “chore” which, if completed, earned them a slight per-hour bonus. My boss decided I could come up with each employee’s chore and assist with the scheduling. The scheduling I was fine with, we all worked together fairly well, except for Brandi, who I will tell you about in a bit (I had forgotten about her until just now.) Anyway, since I knew and liked most of the people I worked with, I assigned relatively easy, but somewhat wacky chores. For instance, Chief (I can’t remember his real name, never could, so I always called him “Chief”) was assigned the task of polishing the door knobs. I also did this because it amused me to no end to tell Chief he needed to go polish the knob. I’m hilarious. Some other tasks included dusting the bottom of the tables, making sure the plants had enough water (they were fake,) and polishing the fire extinguisher. My boss was not amused, but I was, and that’s what I was going for.
Now, really quickly, before I forget: Brandi, the strangest coworker and one of the worst liars I have ever met. Even worse than local politicians. She regularly wore a bikini under her Subway uniform, which I knew because she would always show me (which didn’t bother me in the least. I said she was crazy, not ugly.) She also had some of the most bizarre excuses for not showing up to work. Once she called in (and I am not making this up) and said that her ex-boyfriend had threatened to blow up her house, so she was in hiding. Then, about 3 hours into what would have been her shift, she comes strolling in to pick up her paycheck. When asked what happened to being in hiding, her reply was “Yeah, I was earlier. Not now.” Seriously.
Tune in next time for stories about home-made horror movies, swimming in the river, and the answer to the age-old question “What the hell is wrong with you?”
So, back to Subway. One more thing came to mind. During the last summer I worked there between semesters at Clemson, my bosses decided, based solely on my age that I was responsible enough to take on some light managerial duties. The most puzzling aspect of this, to me, is that they knew me long before making this decision. Newsflash: Turning 18 in no way, shape or form made me more responsible or any smarter. Really, ask anyone that knew me. It only meant I could vote, join the armed forces, and be tried as an adult. Anyway, once again, I have gotten off track.
Quick background info: Each employee was assigned a weekly “chore” which, if completed, earned them a slight per-hour bonus. My boss decided I could come up with each employee’s chore and assist with the scheduling. The scheduling I was fine with, we all worked together fairly well, except for Brandi, who I will tell you about in a bit (I had forgotten about her until just now.) Anyway, since I knew and liked most of the people I worked with, I assigned relatively easy, but somewhat wacky chores. For instance, Chief (I can’t remember his real name, never could, so I always called him “Chief”) was assigned the task of polishing the door knobs. I also did this because it amused me to no end to tell Chief he needed to go polish the knob. I’m hilarious. Some other tasks included dusting the bottom of the tables, making sure the plants had enough water (they were fake,) and polishing the fire extinguisher. My boss was not amused, but I was, and that’s what I was going for.
Now, really quickly, before I forget: Brandi, the strangest coworker and one of the worst liars I have ever met. Even worse than local politicians. She regularly wore a bikini under her Subway uniform, which I knew because she would always show me (which didn’t bother me in the least. I said she was crazy, not ugly.) She also had some of the most bizarre excuses for not showing up to work. Once she called in (and I am not making this up) and said that her ex-boyfriend had threatened to blow up her house, so she was in hiding. Then, about 3 hours into what would have been her shift, she comes strolling in to pick up her paycheck. When asked what happened to being in hiding, her reply was “Yeah, I was earlier. Not now.” Seriously.
Tune in next time for stories about home-made horror movies, swimming in the river, and the answer to the age-old question “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Breaking News!
Okay, not really, but my friends Avril and Aubrey have set up this tshirt store online, and it’s pretty cool. If you don’t buy a shirt, you’re supporting Communism, Canadians, the French, and the metric system all combined. You know you want to…all the cool kids are doing it.
Graduation Memories
Well, my two youngest cousins are graduating from high school this weekend, which makes me think about two things:
I’m getting old
My high school years
Gather around, kiddies, and I’ll share the bits and pieces I remember of my high school career, or at least the ones I’m willing to go public with. Keep in mind that these memories are foggy at best, most of them happened about a decade ago, and I’ve spent four years at Clemson since then (read: replaced them with more entertaining memories and/or killed off the brain cells that they occupied with alcohol.)
I’ll go ahead and lead off with this one: I was in the marching band for three of the four years (I quit my senior year.) I played the tuba, and we wore berets instead of those funny hats with plumes. (This is something I rarely do, but I would like to thank French people for berets. Without you, my cheese-eating surrender-monkey friends, I would have had to wear a hat with a plume. Now go surrender to someone.)
Sorry about the random sidebar. I’m lacking sleep and trying to curb my coffee problem, so my mind is wandering at an alarming rate. Like right now, for instance. Dear God, I’m out of control. I’m going to get some coffee…sit tight, everyone (although you’re actually reading this after I write it, so)…holy hell, nevermind. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.
Anyway, what I was writing about before my evil split personality who hates coffee and wants to make me look like a complete ass (as if I need any help) so rudely interrupted, was playing the tuba. I would like to state, on the record, that the tuba is the most badass instrument in a marching band. Not only is it big and shiny, it’s also heavy, obnoxiously loud, and can be used to make all kids of fun noises. Everyone else in the band hated the tuba players, because we were as rebellious as you can possibly be and still march around playing music. That’s just how we rolled. But, as all good things must, it came to an end. My tuba exploded violently one night, and I felt I could never love another tuba again. Actually, I just decided I needed money, which required a job, which required some free time. Let me explain how I came to this conclusion:
Money = girls
Tuba = not girls
Which brings up another memory: working at Subway. That’s right, boys and girls; you’re in the presence of one of the greatest Sandwich Artists to ever walk the face of this forsaken planet. To this day, I can tell you what is on each sandwich, and I still cut a mean u-gouge (all you old-skool Subway kids hear me, they don’t do that any more.) I remember one day when Matt Koon and Hook decided to refer to each other by serial number in front of the customers (pass me some wheat bread, employee X493K.) The customers loved us. Really. I would go into more detail about some of our wacky hijinks behind the scenes, but the statute of limitations hasn’t quite run out on all of them. Let’s just say we had a lot of fun, and no one got hurt. We also never messed with anybody’s food. We’re pranksters, not felons (okay, maybe felons, but unconvicted felons who didn’t mess with anyone’s food.)
Well, I’m tired of writing, and you’re probably tired of reading, so I’m signing off for now. I may write more tomorrow, I may not. Or even later today. Who knows? Not this guy.
Gather around, kiddies, and I’ll share the bits and pieces I remember of my high school career, or at least the ones I’m willing to go public with. Keep in mind that these memories are foggy at best, most of them happened about a decade ago, and I’ve spent four years at Clemson since then (read: replaced them with more entertaining memories and/or killed off the brain cells that they occupied with alcohol.)
I’ll go ahead and lead off with this one: I was in the marching band for three of the four years (I quit my senior year.) I played the tuba, and we wore berets instead of those funny hats with plumes. (This is something I rarely do, but I would like to thank French people for berets. Without you, my cheese-eating surrender-monkey friends, I would have had to wear a hat with a plume. Now go surrender to someone.)
Sorry about the random sidebar. I’m lacking sleep and trying to curb my coffee problem, so my mind is wandering at an alarming rate. Like right now, for instance. Dear God, I’m out of control. I’m going to get some coffee…sit tight, everyone (although you’re actually reading this after I write it, so)…holy hell, nevermind. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.
Anyway, what I was writing about before my evil split personality who hates coffee and wants to make me look like a complete ass (as if I need any help) so rudely interrupted, was playing the tuba. I would like to state, on the record, that the tuba is the most badass instrument in a marching band. Not only is it big and shiny, it’s also heavy, obnoxiously loud, and can be used to make all kids of fun noises. Everyone else in the band hated the tuba players, because we were as rebellious as you can possibly be and still march around playing music. That’s just how we rolled. But, as all good things must, it came to an end. My tuba exploded violently one night, and I felt I could never love another tuba again. Actually, I just decided I needed money, which required a job, which required some free time. Let me explain how I came to this conclusion:
Which brings up another memory: working at Subway. That’s right, boys and girls; you’re in the presence of one of the greatest Sandwich Artists to ever walk the face of this forsaken planet. To this day, I can tell you what is on each sandwich, and I still cut a mean u-gouge (all you old-skool Subway kids hear me, they don’t do that any more.) I remember one day when Matt Koon and Hook decided to refer to each other by serial number in front of the customers (pass me some wheat bread, employee X493K.) The customers loved us. Really. I would go into more detail about some of our wacky hijinks behind the scenes, but the statute of limitations hasn’t quite run out on all of them. Let’s just say we had a lot of fun, and no one got hurt. We also never messed with anybody’s food. We’re pranksters, not felons (okay, maybe felons, but unconvicted felons who didn’t mess with anyone’s food.)
Well, I’m tired of writing, and you’re probably tired of reading, so I’m signing off for now. I may write more tomorrow, I may not. Or even later today. Who knows? Not this guy.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Columbia Drivers
Wow…I know I've always ragged on Greenville drivers and Canadians. After what I’ve seen this week, I feel that I should apologize. To the Greenville drivers, not the Canadians. I will never apologize to the Canadians…unless they deliver several wheelbarrows full of Moose Head Lager to my door, in which case I will not only apologize, but offer to help them move.
Anyway, on to the reason I feel I owe the Greenville drivers an apology: Columbia drivers are so much worse that there is not an actual term that quantifies it enough. My daily commute now is almost exactly the same length (in distance) as it was in Greenville, but I find myself screaming obscenities at an exponentially higher rate. In all fairness, the road systems in Columbia are much more poorly designed (in my humble opinion, whoever is responsible for Malfunction Junction at I-20 and I-26 should be publicly humiliated to the severest degree possible, and then his genes removed from the gene pool,) but the drivers are still responsible for most of the mayhem. Judging by my drive in to ye olde office this morning (I work in an old English village), I think there are two things that could be causing this.
The first is that, every morning at exactly 7:15 AM, someone gives all of the short bus kids car keys and an assortment of minivans and SUVs. Then, just for good measure, they feed each kid a cubic ton (roughly 8 deciliters metric) of sugar and put Def Leppard in the CD player at maximum volume to agitate them a bit more.
The second scenario is my favorite, and much more likely. Every morning, one half of the population gets up at 5:30 AM. They immediately start drinking cheap whiskey. Then, when they’re feeling good and drunk, they head out to their cars, put on blindfolds, and head for downtown. The other half of the population, meanwhile, is getting all jacked up on the uppers of their choice, while listening to whatever type of music makes them the most angry (most likely also Def Leppard). They head out of the house at 7:25 and are given the mission to make it to the center of downtown Columbia by 7:30, no matter how far away they live. Some of them actually live in Spain.
As you can probably surmise, these two groups cause massive collisions, extreme delays, and like to cross three lanes of traffic at once with no warning or indication whatsoever. I know that the new politically-correct, one-world-minded approach would be to be “part of the solution, not the problem.” But I say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Pass me the whiskey, it’s time for work.
Anyway, on to the reason I feel I owe the Greenville drivers an apology: Columbia drivers are so much worse that there is not an actual term that quantifies it enough. My daily commute now is almost exactly the same length (in distance) as it was in Greenville, but I find myself screaming obscenities at an exponentially higher rate. In all fairness, the road systems in Columbia are much more poorly designed (in my humble opinion, whoever is responsible for Malfunction Junction at I-20 and I-26 should be publicly humiliated to the severest degree possible, and then his genes removed from the gene pool,) but the drivers are still responsible for most of the mayhem. Judging by my drive in to ye olde office this morning (I work in an old English village), I think there are two things that could be causing this.
The first is that, every morning at exactly 7:15 AM, someone gives all of the short bus kids car keys and an assortment of minivans and SUVs. Then, just for good measure, they feed each kid a cubic ton (roughly 8 deciliters metric) of sugar and put Def Leppard in the CD player at maximum volume to agitate them a bit more.
The second scenario is my favorite, and much more likely. Every morning, one half of the population gets up at 5:30 AM. They immediately start drinking cheap whiskey. Then, when they’re feeling good and drunk, they head out to their cars, put on blindfolds, and head for downtown. The other half of the population, meanwhile, is getting all jacked up on the uppers of their choice, while listening to whatever type of music makes them the most angry (most likely also Def Leppard). They head out of the house at 7:25 and are given the mission to make it to the center of downtown Columbia by 7:30, no matter how far away they live. Some of them actually live in Spain.
As you can probably surmise, these two groups cause massive collisions, extreme delays, and like to cross three lanes of traffic at once with no warning or indication whatsoever. I know that the new politically-correct, one-world-minded approach would be to be “part of the solution, not the problem.” But I say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Pass me the whiskey, it’s time for work.
Monday, May 08, 2006
I don't care about the sunshine, yeah...
'Cause mama, mama I'm coming home...
That's right, boys and girls, I'm moving home to Lexington. I can't wait. In fact, I already started moving last weekend...which brings up an interesting story. Since I have one more week of work here in Greenville, I had set aside the proper amount of work clothes for the week (a few pairs of khakis, a few polo shirts, boxers, socks, eyeliner and black lipstick...you know, work attire.)
However, at some point, someone wound up grabbing those clothes and putting them in the truck (I'm looking at you here, Dad.) I found this out last night when I arrived back at home and started consolidating all of my belongings into one room so the house will show better (anyone want a house in Williamston?)
Let me review what my clothing options are this week:
One (1) pair of khakis that happened to be in my car
One (1) bright blue polo shirt, also in my car
One (1) pair of grey and bright orange swim trunks
One (1) Tshirt with an obscene drawing on it
One (1) Hawaiian shirt with cacti
Two (2) pairs of boxers
One (1) Duff Beer hat
This is going to be fun...I'll keep you posted.
Update #1 (Monday)
I spilled the toner from the copier by my desk all over my pants. This spoils my theory of khakis being generic enough that no one would notice the pants being worn over and over again. Also, if anyone has any suggestions on responses should someone call me out on wearing the same clothes repeatedly, leave them in my comments section.
Update #2 (Tuesday)
Wow...no one noticed. This says one of two things. Either everyone hates me, or I'm spending so much time sitting at my desk cruising the internet and doing crossword puzzles that no one has actually seen me long enough to notice. Or, I'm invisible.
Update #3 (Wednesday)
Well, no one noticed today either. Actually, I should say no one said anything to me. I noticed a few sideways glances and strange looks, but I was hoping for a direct challenge. So many people contributed ideas for how to handle it, it seems a shame. Oh well. On to moving to Columbia and a better job. Peace out, Greenville.
That's right, boys and girls, I'm moving home to Lexington. I can't wait. In fact, I already started moving last weekend...which brings up an interesting story. Since I have one more week of work here in Greenville, I had set aside the proper amount of work clothes for the week (a few pairs of khakis, a few polo shirts, boxers, socks, eyeliner and black lipstick...you know, work attire.)
However, at some point, someone wound up grabbing those clothes and putting them in the truck (I'm looking at you here, Dad.) I found this out last night when I arrived back at home and started consolidating all of my belongings into one room so the house will show better (anyone want a house in Williamston?)
Let me review what my clothing options are this week:
This is going to be fun...I'll keep you posted.
Update #1 (Monday)
I spilled the toner from the copier by my desk all over my pants. This spoils my theory of khakis being generic enough that no one would notice the pants being worn over and over again. Also, if anyone has any suggestions on responses should someone call me out on wearing the same clothes repeatedly, leave them in my comments section.
Update #2 (Tuesday)
Wow...no one noticed. This says one of two things. Either everyone hates me, or I'm spending so much time sitting at my desk cruising the internet and doing crossword puzzles that no one has actually seen me long enough to notice. Or, I'm invisible.
Update #3 (Wednesday)
Well, no one noticed today either. Actually, I should say no one said anything to me. I noticed a few sideways glances and strange looks, but I was hoping for a direct challenge. So many people contributed ideas for how to handle it, it seems a shame. Oh well. On to moving to Columbia and a better job. Peace out, Greenville.
Disgraceful, at best
Note: I originally had a much longer version of this posted, but I removed a lot of it for the sake of brevity.
Wow...anyone who knows me will know that I do not support the current administration. This, however, is not about politics. It is about simple respect for those who are willing to sacrifice for this great nation. It also is a strong reminder of why I have such an intense dislike for "religious leaders." BLIND OBEDIENCE WITH COMPLETE DISREGARD FOR COMMON SENSE OR COURTESY. This takes insanity to another level. Whether the war is right or wrong, nobody deserves this at their funeral. I fail to see how one of our own can fall honorably, while following orders (be they right or wrong,) and be subjected to such vitriolic hatred. For those of you who know me, you know that I am not a biblical scholar. Maybe it would help if these people who profess to speak the Word of the Lord would review it?
Matthew 6:34 - Matthew 7:6
34. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof. Mat 7:1. Judge not, that ye be not judged. 2. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. 3. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? 4. Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam in thine own eye? 5. Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye. 6. Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.
IF YOU FEEL THE SAME WAY I DO ABOUT THIS PLEASE REPOST THIS.
OUR TROOPS DONT NEED THIS AND DONT DESERVE IT.
To our troops:
God Bless.
Please copy and paste this link to anyone you know. Do not let this get out of circulation. People need to know about this "church."
Wow...anyone who knows me will know that I do not support the current administration. This, however, is not about politics. It is about simple respect for those who are willing to sacrifice for this great nation. It also is a strong reminder of why I have such an intense dislike for "religious leaders." BLIND OBEDIENCE WITH COMPLETE DISREGARD FOR COMMON SENSE OR COURTESY. This takes insanity to another level. Whether the war is right or wrong, nobody deserves this at their funeral. I fail to see how one of our own can fall honorably, while following orders (be they right or wrong,) and be subjected to such vitriolic hatred. For those of you who know me, you know that I am not a biblical scholar. Maybe it would help if these people who profess to speak the Word of the Lord would review it?
Matthew 6:34 - Matthew 7:6
34. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof. Mat 7:1. Judge not, that ye be not judged. 2. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. 3. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? 4. Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam in thine own eye? 5. Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye. 6. Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.
IF YOU FEEL THE SAME WAY I DO ABOUT THIS PLEASE REPOST THIS.
OUR TROOPS DONT NEED THIS AND DONT DESERVE IT.
To our troops:
God Bless.
