Release the Hounds
There are some people out there that hate their jobs. Now, I’m not talking about the normal I-don’t-want-to go-to-work-today kind of hate. We all have that. I’m talking about the I-would-rather-be-skinned-alive-with-a-rusted-razor kind of hate. The kind of hate that actually makes someone shoot fire out of their eyes. Those kind of people are scary. It’s especially bothersome when these type of people are in the service industry. We’ve all been there, I’m sure. All you do is ask for a Frosty and for some reason the man on the other side of the counter is offended that you’ve interrupted him from his pity party. He glares at you, yells a nasty “What?!” in your direction, and proceeds to place your order as if you’ve just insulted his mother. You then question if you should actually consume the Frosty. I’m sure there is a button on the register that says “I Hate Customer; Spit in Food” so that the guy in the back gets this message without us ever knowing about the interaction.
Last night we went to the dog tracks with my brother, sister-in-law, and some friends. It was 50 cent Thursday. 50 cent beer, hot dogs, popcorn, cokes, and $1 margaritas. It’s a great, cheap thing to do. So we all get there and the guys discuss how many hot dogs they are going to buy. (Because, apparently, when hot dogs are 50 cents, calories or gag reflexes don’t matter.) My brother volunteers to go get the first round. He walks up to the counter (to avoid confusion, in the following stories my brother is playing the role of Innocent Customer and the hot dog vendor is playing the role of Fire Breathing Hot Dog Lady):
Innocent Customer: Hi. I need to get 8 hot dogs.
Fire Breathing Hot Dog Lady: We aint got none. Period.
Innocent Customer: (looking at the giant pot of boiling weenies) Umm, well what are those?
Fire Breathing Hot Dog Lady: They ain’t done yet.
Innocent Customer: But they will be done sometime? So you actually do have some hot dogs. Yes?
Fire Breathing Hot Dog Lady: They ain’t done, thirty mo minutes.
By the way, to get the full effect, you should stand up and put your hand on your hip, slouch, and maybe smack some gum as you are reading the Fire Breathing Hot Dog Lady parts. I think you will have more pity on the poor, innocent customer. So Justin comes back defeated (but not entirely, he was able to get a glass of Shiner draft for a mere 50 cents, so we all know he was slightly optimistic.) He tells me that he wishes he would have had the time to discuss the meaning of a period with this woman… we both agree that she should have said “We ain’t got none. Comma.” We’d even agree to ignore the usage of “ain’t” and a double negative. It’s the Period that really made the difference. Anyways, a few races pass and the stomach growling becomes unbearable. It was time to try again. Now, my brother is a big man. He’s also a loud man. So I halfway expected this lady to be somewhat polite. Oh what a fool I am!
IC: I need to get 8 hot dogs.
FBHDL: We ain’t got 8.
IC: Okay, well how many do you have?
FBHDL: (opens drawer) We got 7.
IC: Okay, I’ll take 7.
FBHDL: (grabs hot dogs, slams them on tray) You get 6.
Justin dodged the fire breath, took his tray, and bought two more beers.