Stoatbringer posted:

Do you have to get to Black Belt before learning the ancient technique of "kick in the balls"?

Thump! posted:

As far as I know, the Black Belt version has you going past the balls and slipping the foot into their rear end.

Of course, you're only supposed to use any of this stuff if the assailant is going for your purse.

goose fleet posted:

goose fleet posted:

And her name was.. Helen Keller Anne Sullivan.

13Pandora13 posted:

And out of fairness, you must scream, "I don't know you!" immediately preceding said kick.

quote:

Very Long Itching For A Fight
HIGH SCHOOL | TX, USA | BIZARRE/SILLY, STUDENTS
(Students #1 and #2 are senior boys, acting like they want to start a fight in class.)

Teacher: “Guys, can y’all please not fight in my class?”

Student #1: “Why? What are you going to do about it?”

Teacher: “I just really don’t want to do all the paperwork if y’all fight in my room. Can y’all at least wait until later?”

Student #2: “The paperwork? That’s why you don’t want us to fight?”

Teacher: “Yeah. A couple of years ago some students fought in my class, and I was still finishing up reports a week later. I don’t have time for that right now, so can you wait to fight?”

Student #1: “Okay, miss. We like you, so we can do this after class on the patio.”

Student #2: “Yeah, that’ll work.”

Teacher: “No, they’ll just look at your schedules and see that you both came from my class and I’ll still have to talk to the administrators about why I didn’t see trouble coming. You’ll have to wait a little longer. Maybe go off campus?”

Student #1: “Fine. After school in the park?”

Student #2: “No, I have to go to work right after school? Saturday?”

Teacher: “Just a reminder… prom is on Saturday.”

Student #1: “Next weekend?”

Student #2: “Sure.”

Teacher: “Nope… senior trip.”

Student #1: “Right after graduation?”

Teacher: “If you fight then, you won’t get to go to Project Graduation and you won’t get to win money and prizes.”

Student #1: “Oh, yeah. We don’t want to miss that.”

Student #2: “How about the week after graduation?”

Student #1: “I’m joining the navy. I’ll be going off to basic training right after graduation.”

Student #2: “Well, when are we going to see each other again to do this?”

Teacher: “Class reunion?”

Student #1: “Okay. We’ll fight at the reunion.”

Student #2: “Sounds good. Class reunion.”

(They shook on it.)

goose fleet posted:

HOOLY BOOLY posted:

It's more like he's the Boy Wonder am i right guys

quote:

Cancelled Flight- please read!!
Please read entire story, we should be very, very scared about this!
And to think that Fox News was the only channel that reported this. They may be "politically incorrect", but at least they had the "balls" to report it.
In my opinion, the Muslims are all getting very brave now. Read Tedd Petruna's story below. Can you imagine, our own news media now are so politically correct that they are afraid to report that these were all Muslims?
Unbelievable. Thank God for people like Tedd Petruna.
Tedd Petruna is a diver at the NBL (Neutral Buoyancy Lab) facility at NASA Houston . Tedd happened to be on the AirTran Flight 297, from Atlanta to Houston . Here's his report :
"One week ago, I went to Ohio on business and to see my father. On Tuesday, the 17th, I returned home. If you read the papers the 18th you may have seen a blurb about where an Air Tran flight was canceled from Atlanta to Houston due to a man who refused to get off of his cell phone before take- off.. The story was only on Fox News. That was NOT what really happened.
I was seated in 1st class com ing home. Eleven Muslim men got on the plane in full Muslim attire. Two of them sat in 1st class and the rest seated themselves throughout the plane, in coach class, all the way to the back. As the plane taxied out to the runway, the stewardesses gave the safety spiel that we are all so familiar with.
At that time, one of the men in 1st class, got on his cell and called one of his companions back in coach. He proceeded to talk on the phone in Arabic very loudly and very, very aggressively. This activity took the 1st stewardess out of action for she repeatedly told the man that cell phones were not permitted at that time. He ignored her as if she were not there. The man, who answered the phone back in the coach section, did the same and this took out the 2nd stewardess. Further back in the plane, at the same time, two younger Muslims, one in the back on the aisle, and one sitting in front of him by the window, began to show footage of a porno video they had taped the night before. They were very loud about it.

The 3rd stewardess informed the two men that they were not to have any electronic devices on at this time. One of the men said "shut up infidel dog!"

The stewardess attempted to take the camcorder and the Muslim began to scream in her face in Arabic. At that exact moment, all eleven of the men got up and started to walk throughout the cabin. I guess that because of the noise, the flight crew must have decided that there was something amiss and changed the plane's directions to head back to the terminal.

The com motion and noise was reaching a feverish pitch, and at this point I had had enough! I got up and started towards the back of 1st class when I heard a voice behind me from another Texan twice my size, say, "I got your back." Then I grabbed the man, who had been on the cell phone, by the arm and said, "You WILL sit down in your seat or you WILL be thrown from this plane!" As I "led" him around me to take his seat, the fellow Texan grabbed him by the back of his neck and his waist and headed him back to his seat. I then grabbed the 2nd man and said, "You WILL do the same!"

He protested loudly, but my adrenaline was flowing now and he was going to go also. Just as I escorted him forward, the plane stopped, the doors opened and three TSA agents and four police officers entered the cabin. Myself and my new Texas friend were told to cease and desist for they had the situation under control.

I was quite happy to oblige, actually. There was still some sort of com motion in the back, but within moments, all eleven Muslim men were escorted off the plane. The TSA agents then had their luggage unloaded. We talked about the occurrence and were in disbelief that it had happened.

Then suddenly, the door opened again and in walked all eleven Muslim men! Stone faced, eyes front and robotic, (the only way I can describe it) and they were reseated. The stewardess from the back had been in tears and when she saw the men, she was having NONE of it! Since I was up front, I heard and saw the whole ordeal. She told the TSA agents that there was NO WAY she was staying on the plane with the Muslim men. The agent told her that they had searched the men and were going through their luggage with a fine tooth com b. However, nothing had been found and that the men were allowed to proceed on to Houston .

The captain and co-captain came out of the cockpit and told the agent, "We and our crew will not fly this plane!" After a word or two, the entire crew, luggage in tow, left the plane. Five minutes later, the cabin door opened again and a whole new crew walked on. Again, this was where I had had enough! I got up and asked the TSA agent, "What the hell is going on?

I was told to take my seat. The airlines and TSA were sorry for the delay and we would be home shortly. I said, "I'm getting off this plane". The stewardess sternly told me that she could not allow me to get off. Now I'm really mad! I said, "I am a grown man who bought this ticket, whose time is mine, with a family at home, and I am going through that door, or I'm going through that door with you under my arm, but I AM going through that door!"

And then I heard a voice behind me say, "So am I!" Then everyone behind us started to get up and say the same thing. Within two minutes, I was walking off that plane where I was met by more TSA agents, who asked me to write a statement about the incident. I had five hours to kill at this point waiting for the next flight to Houston , so why the hell not give them my statement. Due to the amount of people who got off that flight, it was canceled. I was supposed to be in Houston at 6 PM , but I finally got there at 12:30 AM . If you don't believe this, look up the date and then Flight 297 from Atlanta to Houston .

If this wasn't a terrorism dry run, I don't know what is. The terrorists wanted to see how TSA would handle it, how the crew would handle it, and how the passengers would handle it. I'm telling this to you because I want you to know. The threat IS real. I saw it with my own eyes."
Tedd Petruna

Minarchist posted:

subpar anachronism posted:

My dad shared this on facebook (of course as the gospel truth). A Petruna story about he was an all american hero against those brown terrorists, when accounts from other passengers directly contradict his stupid bullshit.

'Those brown people were terrorists. I just know it. I protected 'murrca!'

subpar anachronism posted:

Further back in the plane, at the same time, two younger Muslims, one in the back on the aisle, and one sitting in front of him by the window, began to show footage of a porno video they had taped the night before. They were very loud about it.

subpar anachronism posted:

My dad shared this on facebook (of course as the gospel truth). A Petruna story about he was an all american hero against those brown terrorists, when accounts from other passengers directly contradict his stupid bullshit.

'Those brown people were terrorists. I just know it. I protected 'murrca!'

Stroop There It Is posted:

That whole thing is laughable, but this is my favorite part:

Yes, because if there's anything extremely conservative Muslims love, it's porn. Which they apparently filmed themselves.

corn in the bible posted:

but the muslims turned out not to have any weapons or anything, in the story

how do you do a "dry run" of a hijacking

canyoneer posted:

I remember reading something in a reputable magazine about laptops/electronic devices recovered from Taliban, terrorists, and insurgents. Turns out they are just chock full of porn.

Khazar-khum posted:

What's the punchline?

Avenging_Mikon posted:

Overbearing Jewish Mother.

Jay Rust posted:

Today, my professor made a Doctor Who reference, comparing hermeneutics to using a TARDIS thing. This was followed by him continuing the lesson, without anyone in the room declaring their love for the show by engaging in a long dialogue with the professor coated in more Doctor Who references. Therefore there were no marriages.

Thump! posted:

And you didn't go up to him and knock him out?

A shameful marine you are. Einstein would never marry you.

ibntumart posted:

quote:

A customer asked if only beautiful people got hired at my store.

Answered yeah it's kind of a requirement here, that being said would you like an application.

She blushed all the way to the fitting room.

First FP edit: First time coming to the front page, I almost downvoted my own post this morning when i woke up.

I request thy titties as an appropriate first time front page congratulatory congratulations.

FP edit two: someone was insulted that i asked for their wife's titties, so just regular titties will now be accepted.

ibntumart posted:

Jay Rust posted:

[On a day of the week], my [instructor of some level of education] made a [popular science fiction television show] reference, comparing [class subject] to using a [item from popular science fiction television show]. This was followed by [him/her] continuing the lesson, without anyone in the [space] declaring their [emotion] for the show by engaging in a long dialogue with the [instructor of some level of education] coated in more [popular science fiction television show] references. Therefore there were no [sacraments].

ibntumart posted:

I remember a goon in the previous thread writing a mad lib generator for an NAR story... wish I could find that link or that he/she would do another one.

bryce jamison posted:

My place of work happens to be very close to a Subway, so I often grab a quick sandwich from there for lunch, and over the past year I’ve gotten to know the people who work there. I recently went in and found a new employee working behind the counter, wearing the trainee badge and all. She made my sandwich, and being a trainee, it took a little longer than usual. I’m not here to judge her for lack of sandwich perfection, she was new to it. However, I will judge her for something else.

When we got to the condiment section, I requested mustard. She took the bottle out and squeezed, and I noticed that rather than mustard coming out of the bottom as is normally the case, a little bit of mustard oozed out of the top. No big deal, she had grabbed the bottle upside-dow]n.

However, she hadn’t noticed her mistake, and became determined to get the mustard out. She squeezed the bottle significantly harder, and this time mustard shot out of the top of the bottle and smeared all over her hand and arm (she was wearing short sleeves).

She still did not notice her mistake, despite her arm dripping with mustard. Her brow furrowed in frustration and she now used two hands to squeeze the bottle with the force of a thousand suns, thus creating what future historians will call The Great Mustard Geyser of ‘15. It shot out of the top and splattered all over her arm, her hand, the counter, the sandwich next to mine, the vegetables, it was a mess. There was more mustard in the room than there was oxygen.

And the most insane thing is that she was so razor-focused on getting the mustard on the sandwich that she STILL HAD NOT NOTICED. She reared up for another go at it and started to squeeze.This time I stepped in and muttered “Um, I think it’s upside-down.” She finally, finally looked at the mustard apocalypse that she had created...and just shrugged, flipped the bottle over, and applied the mustard. When she was done she went to the next customer, completely ignoring the mess that her mustard adventure had created.

Strangely enough, not a single drop of mustard got on my sandwich before she flipped the bottle.

Zoe leventhal posted:

I spent a good twelve years of my life working for Fazoli’s. Now, for those who haven’t heard of it, Fazoli’s is essentially the fast food variant of Olive Garden. Crappy Italian food, served by underpaid, overworked, underappreciated people. The original goal of Fazoli’s was to provide “upscale quality Italian food at fast food speed and prices”—which it actually did when Kuni Toyoda was still in charge, until Sun Capital bought it out and proceeded to try to turn it into Italian McDonald’s, only without wanting to spend all the money McDonald’s has to make it the way it is. (Editor’s Note: If you guys remember Dustin Hucks’ Breadsticks story, that was at a Fazoli’s, though he never explicitly stated such)

The first GM I worked with had quit, and it was the first week of our brand new GM (I will refer to him as “Charles”). Now, we had another gentleman who worked there (who I will refer to as “Buddy”). Buddy was a really nice guy, but he was rather...unbalanced. As such, he was on medication to control his mood.

So, it’s a Friday night and we’re packed to the gills, I’m on the register, we’ve got a line to the door, and buddy is out delivering breadsticks to the tables. That’s when Buddy completely flips.

It turns out his new doctor had decided to tinker with his medication and the changes had a rather bad effect on him. Buddy starts screaming, throws his breadstick basket to the ground, and tries to shove over the soda machine. By the grace of god, he didn’t manage to tip it (although he almost managed to). So he grabs the lid off the soda machine, and, using it like a Frisbee, hurls it at some kids in a nearby booth. Charles, in what can only be described as luck granted to him by the Lady herself, manages to catch it in MID-AIR, right before it slammed into those kids.

Buddy still isn’t done, though. Still in a Hulk-like rampage, he plows into the line of people, grabbing these various decorative bottles that were glued to the shelves on the other side of the soda machines. He RIPS THE BOTTLES OFF THE SHELVES, before hurling them onto the floor. At this point, Charles and two other managers tackle him, trying to get him under control. He actually manages to throw them off of him, before running for the door, kicking it open (and shattering the glass in the process) and running off into the night (presumably to climb the nearest skyscraper and swat at planes).

Amazingly enough, they gave him another chance—only to fire him about a month later after another freakout. As for Charles? He stopped showing up to work a couple of weeks later. That probably should have been my clue that I should have done the same thing.

Ella creegan posted:

The summer after my senior year of high school, I was dating a very good looking boy. He was very tall and broad shouldered and looked like he was in his 20’s, while I was very short and looked younger than 17 (this has benefited me in the 13 years since). We went out to dinner, a lot, because his parents gave him a huge allowance and were never home. It was great.

I mention that he was good looking because a lot of waitresses would flirt with him. Most would figure out relatively quickly that we were on a date; they’d notice us hold hands, or that I was wearing his class ring on a necklace, or maybe we’d say something; whatever it was, the flirting usually didn’t go past the drink orders.

One time, however, we were at a TGIFriday’s or some place like that and the waitress did not get the message. It was late, like 10:30 or so. We were waiting to order our food when our waitress came back with our drinks - we were holding hands, so obviously on a date, but she didn’t notice. She plopped my soda in front of me, then leaned over to place his soda near his left arm. She leaned in, as if she wanted to brush her breasts across his chiseled jaw. It was weird.

Then she took our order: she barely acknowledged me, but touched his arm when he ordered (meatballs) and giggled, like meatballs are the funniest word in the world. She actually winked at him as she walked to the back to put in our order. We were cracking up at this point, because we were obviously together.

She came back with our food a little later and after again, plopping mine down, she leaned over and gently placed his plate in front of him. “If you want more *meatballs*,” she said, channeling her inner Marilyn Monroe, “just ask. It’ll be...my...pleasure.” She winked again and walked away.

By now I was starting to get uncomfortable, so I decided to say something when she came back. But, when she did, she has 3 meatballs on a small plate, which she delicately added to my boyfriend’s food, WITH HER FINGERS. “I thought you might like some extra...meatballs.” she said.

At this point I was enraged and about to say something, but before I can my boyfriend said, “Excuse me, we’re on a date. And I don’t want your meatballs.”

WELL. She was in utter disbelief that he could be on a date with me (!!!) so laughed and said, “You’re making GBS threads me, right? I thought she was your little sister!” then starts laughing maniacally, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. My boyfriend asked for the check. She stopped laughing immediately and stomped off towards the server station. We just sat there in complete disbelief and try to ignore the patrons around us who have, at this point, all noticed what was going on.

She came back with the check, flung it down in front of me and says (no lie), “Well if you’re old enough to date HIM, you’re old enough to pay!” She then gave him the saddest puppy dog face and flounced off.

On the check was her phone number and a little heart.

Jenna Carmine posted:

Years ago I used to work in Human Resources. Our department was made up of about 6 women at the time, and we all got along pretty well. On Fridays we would often order in lunch and all eat together. The head of our department kept Kosher, but this wasn’t generally an issue, as long as she didn’t mix milk and meat, or eat non-Kosher cheese, she was happy to join in and eat with us.

One Friday we ordered from a catch-all kind of restaurant we’d ordered from before, one of those places who specialize in either pizza, fried chicken, or salads and sandwiches, depending on which delivery menu you happened to pick up. I wouldn’t bother hiding the name except I can’t remember it anyways, a local place, not a chain.

So we’ve got the guy on the phone and the rest of us give in our orders, and then we hand the phone to my boss. “Hi,” she says, “I’d like to order a tuna sub, no cheese.”

“No.” We cai kn all hear it through the phone. “No substitutions.”

My boss looks up, confused. “No, no, I’m not asking for anything extra, I just don’t want the cheese.”

“No,” the guy repeats, “no extra, no substitutions.”

“I know,” my boss says again, “I don’t want you to substitute anything FOR the cheese. I just don’t want it. I can’t eat it. Leave everything else the way it is, a normal tuna sub. Just hold the cheese.”

“No substitutions!”

Now we’re all looking at each other like we were being punked. My boss looks baffled and speaks slowly into the phone: “you can keep the cheese. Can’t you just make me a tuna sub and keep the cheese? Save it for someone else?”

Again the guy was adamant. No way was this crazy lady gonna talk him into making any substitutions on his menu.

At this point we were starting to fidget. If he wouldn’t fill her order, we’d have to all agree on a new place, and hurry to get the order in before it got too late, since we all had assorted meetings and things later in the afternoon. It had already taken us long enough just to agree on this place...

Suddenly my boss had an idea. “What if,” she asked into the phone, “you make me a tuna sub...and put the cheese...on the side?”

“No problem,” the man’s voice rang out, “Delivery will be about 40 minutes.”

Carly ballantino posted:

Here’s what happened to me many years ago at a soup-and-sandwich shop in downtown Philadelphia.

ME: Hi! What’s your soup du jour?

GIRL BEHIND THE COUNTER: It’s the soup of the day.

ME: Yes, I know. But what is it?

GBTC: It’s a soup we make special—it’s different every day.

ME: Yes…and what is today’s special soup?

GBTC: Gestapo soup.

ME: I beg your pardon?

GBTC: Gestapo soup. You know, the cold stuff.

Judging from her sighs and eye-rolls, the girl behind the counter clearly thought I was an idiot.

Caroline Akers posted:

I was attending a play at the Hobby Center for the Performing Arts in Houston. There are several fully stocked cash bars set up in the lobby and during intermission I ordered what I assumed was a simple drink. It turns out I was wrong. I’d like to point out that these are professional bartenders and the guy in question was clearly in his thirties. The following conversation followed almost verbatim after I asked for a whiskey neat.

Him: “Do you mean whiskey with ice?”

Me: “No, neat.”

Him: “Like on the rocks?”

Me: “No, neat means no ice.”

Him: “So like, just whiskey?”

Me: “Yes, just whiskey.”

Him: “Like a shot of whiskey?”

Me: “Kind of, only in a regular glass, not a shot glass.”

Him: “With nothing else?”

Me (growing exasperated but trying not to sound condescending): “Nothing else. You just pour the whiskey in a glass and hand it to me.”

He picks up a bottle of Jim Beam and shows it to me.

Me: “No, that’s bourbon.”

He picks up a bottle of Johnny Walker and shows that to me.

Me: “No. (pause) Never mind, sure.”

He pours about four fingers of scotch into a highball glass and hands it to me like it’s a glass full of warm spit.

Him: “Is that what you want?”

Me: “It’s[ close enough. “

The best part was that the elderly couple who was standing next to me was so amused by the exchange that they paid for my drink and covered the tip as well. The lady said it was funnier than the show.

greg morris posted:

Years ago I worked in a hotel in a sleazy seaside town that hosted every kind of lovely event, from disappointing weddings to soul-numbing trade shows. One time, we hosted a meeting for a notorious animal testing company who’d been exposed a few years before for horrific animal abuse, including vivisection.

The guy responsible for making the coffee for this event was the most clueless, unhygienic piece of crap I’ve ever worked with (outside of academia). The coffee goes out and straightaway our manager gets a call complaining that the milk is bad. He goes to check it out, and sure enough, the milk’s turning into cottage cheese in the coffee. Because the coffee isn’t coffee.

Turns out dumb co-worker ignored a whole bunch of massive red barriers and yellow DO NOT USE warning signs, and made coffee from the water boilers that were being de-scaled with industrial-strength hydrochloric acid. The manager ran back to the meeting room in a panic and pretty much grabbed the cups out of people’s hands, then destroyed the evidence before anybody twigged what was going on. And that’s how [Hotel Chain] nearly killed the entire senior management of [Evil Company].

(Editor’s Note: And somehow, improbably, there’s still a better story this week.)

Austin hargrave posted:

During my junior year at Tennessee, I worked at a place in Knoxville called the “Silver Spoon Café.” Silver Spoon’s allure was Five-fold: Sunday Brunch, a boursin butter so addicting I often saw customers “covertly” emptying ramekins into plastic bags under the table, Baked Pastas (that always came double-bowled and with the warning “Careful, that top bowl’s hot”), a peanut-butter pie which could’ve held over the Donner party, and, oddly enough, the $3 margarita.

Now, I’ll remind you that this is not a Mexican restaurant, so apparently the $3 margarita was the perfect gambit to get Knoxvillians who wanted to eat incredibly unhealthy food, but also get their drink on to the white-trash-tune of a $3 18oz margarita. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for us to stand scratching our heads as multiple $3 margaritas stacked up on a table that had just eaten enough food to feed a small country.

(Editor’s Note: Stick with this one. Trust me)

One particularly busy night, we were all slammed and margaritas kept flying out of the bar faster than normal. Manager calls a quick team meeting to tell us all how good of a job we were doing and realizes one of my co-workers is bouncing around to his tables still. He finally shows up from a table with the most odd request of the night: “Hey...so table X wants to know if we can make a “Kid’s Margarita...”

We all were laughing our asses off thinking they wanted a kid-sized margarita as if $3 wasn’t cheap enough, but apparently the kid was throwing a fit because both of his parents were drinking margaritas and he felt left out. Our bartender, the quick-thinker she was, said “sure, i’ll just throw some margarita mix in some sprite.” Drink made, taken to table, happy kid, crisis averted.

But it stuck in our heads: “Kid Margarita”...

For the rest of the night, the running joke was to come into the bar, and yell out “kid” drink orders...

- “I need a KID SCREWDRIVER”

- “Hey can we get a Kid Mudslide?

- “We need 4 Kid Pina Coladas”

- “Where are we on that Kid’s Martini?’

- “I need a Kid’s Bloody Mary!”

Duplicates got punches, so you had to pay attention. It was a riot, and helped bust-up the craziness of the shift...until the moment I was ringing-in an order at the bar POS when one co-worker had to put in a drink order and shouted it at the top of his lungs:

“HEY, CAN I GET A KID BLOW-JOB?!”

Deafening. Silence.

(Editor’s Note: Told you)

To make matters worse, our bar was full of regulars who, seeing the wait times, had opted to sit in the bar instead of waiting for a table in the main dining room. When I looked over my shoulder, one such regular; a sweet 60-something-year-old lady and her husband looked as mortified to hear those words as if the act itself was taking place in front of them.

I’d never seen my manager comp a meal faster in my life. If we hadn’t been so busy, I’m sure we’d have ended up with one less coworker, too. He kept his job, but also an unfortunate nickname: BJ, which customers who were there that shift continued to call him for as long as I could remember.

fucker compiling this poo poo: posted:

Do you have a crazy restaurant or other food-industry story you’d like to see appear in Behind Closed Ovens (on ANY subject, not just this one)? Please e-mail WilyUbertrout@gmail.com with “Behind Closed Ovens” in the subject line (or you can find me on Twitter @EyePatchGuy). Submissions are always welcome!

Note: I do not want poop/vomit stories. Please stop sending me poop/vomit stories. Also, if your stories are not food-related in some way, I am unable to do anything with them. Sorry.

Also, note that for this subject in particular, the employee really has to have screwed up in a unique and interesting way for anyone to have a reason to care about the story. If you specifically requested a sandwich with no mayo, and a server then brought you a sandwich with mayo on it, well, I’m very sad for you, but that is not an interesting story.

dustin hucks posted:

I worked in food service for three long, awful months in my mid-teens, and I would happily cabbage patch into traffic with a sparkler hanging out of my rear end if that were the only other option outside of serving other human beings a meal for money.

I was kitchen staff at an Italian fast food chain in West Texas, which is exactly as lovely and depressing as that sounds. Horrible, greasy pizzas that tasted like they were sauced with Pixy Stix, baked ziti that came out of the tray in one rubbery piece if you forked it, super jizzy-looking Fettucine Alfredo. Everything, so gross, except for the breadsticks. They were pretty alright, because how hard is it to not gently caress up breadsticks?

I did a few things at the restaurant, including pizza-making, dishwashing and general prep if I did mornings, but my main thing was making the breadsticks, which consisted of drowning a tray of two dozen frozen sticks in a mixture of melted butter, garlic powder, and salt with a paint brush, and shoving them in an oven. I did this for eight to ten hours.

We had the same policy of unlimited breadsticks with your meal as Olive Garden, with the wonky twist that these came no matter what you ordered. Come in for a piece of our freezer-burned cheesecake? Have all of the breadsticks. Order a side salad and nothing else? Breadsticks! Maybe a slice of cheese pizza from the kid's menu because that's a thing management allowed dickhead adults to do? Put these breadsticks inside of you until you can't do that thing anymore. Just wanna fountain drink? Sit down! Breadsticks. For the mouth part of your face. As long as you were dining in, there would be some poor, hollow-eyed teenager hovering nearby with a giant basket full of breadsticks and a pair of tongs silently wishing you death as soon as it was evident the breadstick rule was going to be abused. And man, did customers ever, and gleefully.

I'd always simply been a supplier for those poor kids, and after a few weeks of absorbing garlic butter in my shirt, apron, pants, shoes and invariably my skin, I could hardly stomach the thought of eating one, much less walking around with a basket of piping hot ones wafting in my face. So, I was legit horrified when one of our approximately three hundred and forty one associate managers walked into the kitchen fifteen minutes to closing and was all, "Hey D, we need you on breadstick duty. We've got a church crowd just walked in."

Our other policy, no matter how slow the night, was if a customer walked in the door even thirty seconds before someone had the presence of mind to lock it, we're not shutting down shop until they're satisfied and out the door. People also took advantage of this. Associate manager bro-guy gave me a spare shirt (seriously, you get so gross in the kitchen) and told me to snag a new apron so I'd look semi-presentable, and stuck a visor in my hand, because handing people food in restaurants often means outdoor headwear indoors for no reason ever logically explained in the history of ever.

I peek out of the kitchen through the little window we stick finished pizzas through to the cashier folk and saw three dozen people, all of which I knew. See, in West Texas, at least where I grew up, if you want to interact with your peer group in any significant way, you go to church. For me, church was youth group every Wednesday night (I picked up work shifts every other Wednesday), which was basically church with minor supervision in the form of a cooOoOOoooky youth pastor that was totally down and hip to our jive and cooly fresh yo, and understood our young feels, and, "...word, dog. I get you. I GET you, and Jesus gets you. Isn't that so dope and slammin'? Let's pray."

Even though many of the guys my age that went were legitimately way stoked about god and stuff, even the most devout couldn't pretend the fact that we were all teenagers, our world was boners, and the healthy ratio of girls to dudes there was rather high wasn't a major factor in going. I was pretty much out the door on believing already, so I was attending on the futile hope that maybe someone cute wouldn't notice how debilitatingly awkward I was and would maybe let me touch their butt in the hall or something.

Nope.

So, Super-Relatable Friend-Guy Youth Pastor™ and a couple of adults had packed up the church vans and taken everyone out for horrible Italian at my poopy chain restaurant, and I was about to serve breadsticks to everyone I knew for however long thirty people can handle consuming sticks of bread. I looked like a barely presentable grease monster after nine hours in a dirty kitchen, which coupled with the fact that I was über-greasy by design because sixteen, and suddenly stink-sweating because of anxiety, and just...gently caress, man. I was pretty close to peak gross.

I spent the next two hours not only serving breadsticks while they ate their meals, but due to our associate manager being a leaking canoe full of emulsified dick-meats and refusing to actually do any work, pulling double-duty prepping frozen trays in the back (my colleagues helped, but they still had end-of-night prep to deal with so they could go home) and putting them in the oven.

The youth pastor wanted to chat me up every time I approached his table, my friends were jackasses because that's what teenage boys are, as I'm almost positive some of them absolutely made themselves sick eating breadsticks simply to experience the power of making another human being do their bidding. Every single girl I thought was cute was there, and thus I remained perpetually mortified every second I was in their sight, and thus increasingly stinky and nervous.

And again, two hours. Two. Exactly one hour and fifteen minutes longer than people that aren't evil would have stayed, as anyone that truly believed in our Lord and Savior Jesus Heffernan Christ and his teachings would have looked at our hours on the door, and been all, "Let's order to go," or, "Let's go bother the nice people at Olive Garden." Instead, because they were all collectively the devil, they pretty much killed their meals in thirty minutes and spent the rest of the time casually chatting, pushing me closer to my inevitable atheism, and eating almost forty trays of breadsticks before they called it a night.

And there was nothing to show for the trouble either. Being breadstick guy isn't being a server, and even then most meals are picked up at the counter. Fast food, remember? Youth pastor gave me an awkward side-hug (it was awkward because he hugged me at all, but also because it was clear he didn't want to get any of my labors on their behalf on him), said something something Jesus something something god bless something something bad old white guy joke, and left.

I quit that night. Both youth group, and my job. (Editor's Note: This is the most entertainingly-written story I've ever received)

kizudarake posted:

Edit: breadstick story.


Goddamn, that editor apparently doesn't read anything.

MonoAus posted:

You might be thinking of my NotAlwaysRandom generator, I think it was an hard drive that failed some time back. I might still have some output somewhere though.

quote:

customer: "F*****! What are you going to do about it, You better do what I say?"

nerd: "I am a master of psychology." *spits on the customer*

quote:

in perfect french the nerd says "I believe the lady asked you to leave."

person: "SH**! What are you going to do about it, gay?"

nerd: "I am a convicted rapist" *punches the person in the face*

kizudarake posted:

Goddamn, that editor apparently doesn't read anything.

GOTTA STAY FAI posted:

Those xoJane/Jezebel etc first-person STDH stories apparently get them a veritable shitton of pageviews each, so don't expect them to go away any time soon. People eat that poo poo up

kizudarake posted:

Knoxville story

kizudarake posted:

Jezebel again:






Yes, you live in the movie Dumb and Dumber.





Edit: breadstick story.


Goddamn, that editor apparently doesn't read anything.