AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 2/26/2004 03:12:00 PM ----- BODY:
Be forewarned - I feel like whining today. First of all, the people at Friendly's here fucking suck, okay? No, really, I'll show you. Try to see if you can master this fact: I always eat lunch by myself. Got that? Always. All the time. Every day. I don't go to Friendly's every day, granted, but I do go there regularly, maybe once every two weeks, once a week max. I've been working in this town since August--you do the math as to how many times I've been there total. I always go during the lunch hour, so it's usually the same staff on their shift when I go there. And, to review, I always want a table for one. It's not like I expect them to have this memorized, exactly, but they can really stop with the "...Just one?" with the big Bambi eyes and the head cocked to the side and the high pitched voice like aww, isn't that sad? Look, I've come to grips with it; I'm not going to have to go on Dr. Phil just because I find myself alone at lunch hour. In fact, I prefer to be by myself on my lunch break, because I like to read, and most people find it rude (so I hear) if you read when they're sitting right in front of you. Another thing the Friendly's people need to cease and fucking desist with is treating me like I'm wearing my fucking Cloak of Invisibility every time I walk in there. It's pretty transparent anyway, considering there's a loud-ass bell that rings every time someone opens the door of the fucking place, probably for the benefit of Friendly's employees who would otherwise just smack their gum out back and throw ice cream at one another. I have been to many Friendly's restaurants. I have never seen one with a bell over the door. Okay? But it doesn't really make much of a difference, because every time I go in there, bing-bong!! goes the door, and then I'll stand there for about ten minutes waiting for one of the waitresses walking by to stop, pick out two menus, look at me, cock her head and say "...Just one?" and put one of the menus back behind the little podium. Then they'll seat me, and at first when I started going there they'd take my order right away. It got so one or two of the girls would know what I wanted to drink and would bring it over without my asking. This is one of the perks of being a regular someplace, provided the staff wherever you are doesn't have the combined IQ of mayonnaise. I don't know what I did wrong to offend the Powers that Be at this Friendly's. Seriously. All I do is go in there every so often, by myself, sit at one of the little tables, read a book, and eat a burger. I don't bother anyone. I tip 30 percent. But it's gotten so that, little by little, the wait once I trip the alarm at the door is stretching longer and longer, even if I'm the only one standing up front. The wait between when a waitress will lead me to a table and slap my menu down in front of me and when she'll come back and pretend she doesn't know full fucking well that I want a regular Coke has been growing, as well. But worst of all is the eons that pass between when I order the same thing every time--Colossal Cheeseburger with nothing on it, and ketchup--and when they actually bring it to the table. And you can forget about the time it takes them to bring the ketchup back over, because they always forget. I try to be understanding about these things. I've worked sucky jobs, although I've never been a waitress-in general I try to be kind to anyone whose job it is to stand on their feet all day and provide service to the public, especially when that service involves any bodily function (eating, in this case). I go out of my way, in fact, to be patient (something I normally am not) and to put myself in their shoes. But it is not that fucking hard to cook a fucking cheeseburger. Shit, MacDonald's can crank one out to you in 30 seconds. What is the big deal back there? It finally reached the point today where I had to have the waitress wrap up my food after she took forty-five fucking minutes to bring it out. You heard me. A burger. Plain. Not even lettuce or tomato. Forty-goddamn-five minutes. By the time she brought it out it was time for me to be at work. So I had to take it back here and eat at my desk, which I hate because it's messy and makes me look like a hog in front of my coworkers. It's getting more and more that I feel like someone at Friendly's decided I'm not "cool" enough for Friendly's. Like someday I'm going to go in there and they're just never going to acknowledge my presence. Like they're treating me like crap on purpose so I won't come back. And that, to answer the burning question that has probably been plaguing your mind throughout this entire long screed, is why I keep going back. Cause fuck them, that's why. Well, that and the fact that I like their burgers. Meanwhile, another thing that bites is the fact that I realized today that I seemed to have picked the most pain-in-the-ass things to be a fan of, namely, the Boston Red Sox and Trent Reznor. Why did I do this to myself? Trent hasn't released an album in approximately one average human lifespan, or at least that's what it feels like. Hell, in the past six months alone, Meathead has had to nearly double his dosage of Thorazine. And really, I understand that the music he's trying to make is not like nuking a Pop-Tart. He's not going to just throw something together, and I respect that. But he said in an interview today that the newest album will have 12 tracks on it. Twelve. Five years for twelve fucking tracks? One CD? At least last time Trent fell off the face of the planet, it was only for three years, and we got a double album out of the deal. I mean, twelve tracks. That's a little over two songs per year. No offense, there, Trent, you're still like, my dark idol and everything but two songs a year? Fuck, I could come up with two NIN songs a year, no offense. Granted, they wouldn't be very good, but whatever. At least there'd be something. And the Red Sox. Oh, those lovable losers. Not a single pitch has been thrown and I'm fucking sick of them already. I'm sick of the speculation and the arguments and the "think positive" vs. "We're fucked!" mentalities battling it out for domination. I am sick of a group of professionals with a $125 million payroll not being able to win a fucking World Series, which, when you think about it, is exactly what they're being paid to do. And I am definitely already sick of Pedro's Jeri Curl. Seriously, though. Why couldn't I have chosen to be a fan of say, Justin Timberlake or, say, the Arizona Diamondbacks or the Florida Marlins? Why couldn't I just go with what's easiest? What the hell is my big "ooh, I have to be different" thing anyway? Why not go with the mainstream? It has its rewards. No, wait, this is what really bothers me: that it comes down to a mutually exclusive choice between liking what's popular and liking what's good. I mean, fuck that. And finally: I have to say, my job's not bad. Sit on my ass, type, get paid, get health insurance. It's okay by me. The only thing that makes me want to bash my head repeatedly into whatever firm surface is nearest is the stupid faxes. Yes, the stupid faxes. I've talked about them before, but I'll talk about them again, so if you're bored now, find something else to do. You self-absorbed prick. A message to all those who may soon be calling my company to request that they be removed from our fax list: as the outgoing message on the voicemail clearly states, you must state your fax number and the removal code that is clearly printed at the bottom of the fax. DO NOT:
1. Dial your number on the keypad into the voicemail. Really, are you some kind of fucking moron? 2. Expect that your rant will be heard and / or absorbed. Frankly I don't give a rat's ass if you received an unsolicited fax. It's just a piece of paper, get over it, and know that as soon as you give me the information I need, you're cut off whether you're done flipping out at me over wasting your paper and toner or not. 3. Give me your name, address, zip code, social security number, mother's maiden name, or any other information besides the fax number and / or removal code you are clearly asked to state in the outgoing message, especially without spelling any of it, and expect me to remove your name from the list. 4. Tell me you're disabled / hard of hearing / constipated / whatever, expecting the "sympathy" priority to be placed on your call. This goes double for if you fail on tip #3. 5. Scream and yell. This will not get you removed any faster. In fact, it might make me "accidentally" delete your message before you manage to snarl out your fax number and / or any pertinent information that might solve the terrible problem you have trying to handle the shock, grief and despair of receiving one unwanted piece of paper. 6. Call and leave the same message 14 times in a row. It's not going to make me get to it any faster, and you're just making the next angry person down the line even angrier. Maybe I should give that person *your* number. 7. Expect me to know Johnny Lee died last year. 8. Expect me to know that Bobbi Sue hasn't worked for the company in three years. 9. Demand to know how I got this number. Even if I knew where it came from, I wouldn't tell you, and you should know where your information is going. Jerk. 10. Finally, and most importantly, sign up for Publisher's Clearinghouse / / any other spam service / contest / sweepstakes / raffle, actually divulge your personal information such as a fax number and / or mailing address and expect not to be inundated with junk mail.
Do we understand each other now? Good.