A Quick Update

 I murdered a fruit fly with my beer. It's not what you think. I guess, I didn't actually murder it, rather it suicided itself into my beer and I plucked it out before consuming it. Having a beer on the clock is pretty neat. I can do that at my store. One of the perks of having a brewing supply store is drinking on the clock. I can't do that at my other job.

Much like most people in the brewing world, I have to have secondary employment, because no matter how awesome the beer world is, for small players, it isn't at all lucrative. In my case, I work at a middle school. It's cool, the kids are bonkers in every way, so I have plenty of material to work with in whatever slight social interactions are allowed these days. 

We went into a new building this year. Every middle school in town is now under one roof, where, back when I was a youth, there were three. The one you went to was geographically chosen, not predicated on subject matter. There were no STEM schools, arts academies, or alternative schools for kids who wanted to pursue a specific academic path. Rather, we had to deal with whatever bullshit was handed to us. I didn't give a hot fuck about shop class, but I would have LOVED an art history option. 

I'm not going to get into too many details about school here. I don't think it is fair to the people involved to drone on without consent, and I don't care enough to create nicknames for everyone. But I will talk about the facility. It's enormous. 4 floors of shiny educational awareness. 

I'm on the 4th. Of course I would be on the top floor, I have terrible knees and there is only one elevator. It is up in the air on how the students will do with the stairs, as they haven't come back yet. For the hobbling members of the support staff, we can only hope that they are cool with taking their time going up (down is easy, if you aren't afraid to roll a little).

The one thing that I did find that seems hidden is the faculty lunch room. I'm not telling anyone where it is. It's hidden. A gem among generic classrooms. On the map, the room it is purported to be is actually a conference room. The lunch room is just a quiet place with big windows. It's an oasis away from everything else. It's alone in its locale within the confines of the building. A place for a meal and respite. It's got two refrigerators, and they are better than any that I've ever had. There's a popcorn machine.

I'm keeping this place to myself. If a coworker asks, I'm lying to them. 

Nothing is set in the rest of the building yet. Schedules are still being finalized, the facility itself isn't done being built. No students are there yet, but they were supposed to be in school this week. More distance, or at-home, learning on the docket for now, creating confusion among both the staff and the kids, which can't be good. Confusion and frustration abound, creating an atmosphere of shrugged shoulders and deep sighs. Many people are desperately searching for tasks to get them through the day, grasping for ways to feel productive. 

But I have my jewel. My faculty lunch room. It has a popcorn machine, and I want to take full advantage of it. 

Back Up (Out of Touch White People vol. 4)

 I'm not a bartender, but I've worked behind a bar. Shucking bivalves in a dark restaurant for dipshit white folks as they talk their way into a martini soaked haze. Most of them are innocent enough, going about their lives oblivious to the world around them. It's nice to live in a bubble. It's safe, secure, easy. The rest of us in the real world, the ones who toil away to expand the riches of the bubble class, we see things they they will never understand.

Many of these people have never been told "No." There are the people who grow up without having to worry about anything because they have been coddled for their entire lives. They get every advantage, from mommy trying to pass off an ice allergy so little asshole's teeth won't hurt, to a plush position in a company that they didn't earn. 

There are two meritocracies in this world. One is sports, where you have to work your ass off to get to the top of your field. The other is restaurant. Sure, you can get into culinary school and learn skills and food theory, but working a grills station on a hot line, or shucking for so many hours your hands are prone gives you clout with those who matter. You get promoted, raises, and better jobs by being good at what you do. There are no "failsons" in the kitchen. If there are, they don't survive. They can't. Working a line is a war, and the daddy's boy prep kid will die before working a double.

One night, Dollar Oyster Night, saw me behind the bar, shucking so fast that people stopped and watched. I had a partner who was way better than me, but this night I was keeping up. We shucked and plated for hours on end. There was a revolving door of middle aged me in fleece vests and salmon colored shorts sitting down at the bar, ordering a cocktail and slurping down salty sea snots from the moment we opened that night. 

Towards the end of the night, a guy in the traditional garb of the overprotected white sat down with his date. It could have been a wife. It could have been a hooker. I didn't care to find out. This wasn't their first stop of the night, as I could smell. She was disinterested in his bullshit, and he was desperately trying to get some late night fun. I was too busy to get the whole conversation, but it was certainly the man bragging about something he didn't deserve, and her half listening while pretending to read a menu.

Then he turned his attention to us. "Yous two are good," he said, and we looked at each other. This wasn't our first rodeo, so we just kinda smiled back with a chuckle and an affirmation and kept working. Those tickets were coming in fast. The printer sounds haunt me to this day...........

Anyway, Old Dunk and Horny went too far. After a few moments of silence, he went bold. "Gimme a try" he said to us.
"Haha, no way, man. We're professionals," I said back.
"No, gimme one try," and he reached out. I took a step back and he knocked over his glass and shards of gin smeared glass shattered across our workstation.
"THE FUCK??" yelled my partner. We weren't supposed to swear at our post, as we were supposed to be professionals. This was different. We had to get rid of everything we had open for risk of a glass shard getting into someone's throat via oyster. An unwanted pearl if there ever was one. 

Who does this? Who does this exact thing? Rich people who have never been told they aren't allowed to do something. Middle aged profiteers who expect everyone to do what they ask. So when the workers rightfully deny said middle ages butthole the ability to shuck an oyster at a restaurant they balk. They try to do it anyway,. and smash their glass all over the damn place.

In the aftermath, as we were frantically cleaning and reshucking the dozes of sea creatures we had to discard, he tried to help again. 

Eventually I said "Yo, back up, bro" (I worked in a toxic environment, it was easy to get caught up in the lingo of the line). Managers were involved at this point and he was starting to get upset.

"Sorry 'bout the glass, but I just wanted to do one," he plead as the discussion was had whether to boot him out or not. We, the aggrieved puds had no say in the matter and had to keep working without a break, were not consulted. I wanted to stab his hand with an oyster knife and let him bleed out on the street. The gall of this chode to think not only he could do my job when he's never done anything real in his life, and then to just assume that it would be okay to barge forward like a vertigo addled elephant is insulting. 

Just be a jackass and leave me alone. You wouldn't think about me if it weren't for the fact that you wanted something, so back the hell off. 

His whore just sat there staring at her phone. She's a peach.

Prank War

 I wasn't a bad student. I wasn't a great one either. I was one of those kids who was, academically speaking, a little better than average. I was, however, a shithead. I was good at being a little shithead, and the adults in my life during those years didn't appreciate it as much as my peers did. 

If there was any type of minor shithead activity that could be performed, you better believe I would be the first one to sign up. I'm not proud of these little dalliances, but I did them, so I have to own it. I didn't steal things, or cause any permanent damage, I was just a little shit. 

If there were snippy comments to be made, I would make them. Need someone to fake cough any time the physics teacher said "gravity?" Pick me. I was such a little bastard that one time, in the 4th grade, I got under my teacher's skin so badly she just up and dumped out my desk in the middle of class. Nobody else got that kind of special attention. Just this fucker. For the record, I'm not necessarily proud of that particular incident. But it happened, so whatever, it happened.

The peak of my asshole adventures (youth division) came in my freshman year of college. I was away from home for the first time, as we all were, and I was far enough away that I couldn't just go home for the weekend. With that in mind, I was ready to really open up the floodgates of being a problem.

My floor was in the basement of the dorm. My campus was on a bluff, so there were hills and slopes everywhere. My dorm was built into a hill, so the bottom floor was part underground, part at the ground, and always musty. We also had a storage room that took up half of the area, so we had fewer residents than other floors. It was cozy, if dank.

Somehow, a prank war started between us and the 4th floor. They had twice the kids, so a larger roster of talent to choose from. But I was in the basement, a secret weapon living below decks. It began innocent enough, with the random ceiling tile being swiped to replace a broken one. Slowly, the inevitable escalation happened. More tiles, moving common area furniture, swiping toilet paper. The toilet paper thing was huge, as our bathroom was half the size, and we only had three stalls. Two were designated as "poop only" and the other was where we went if we drank to the point of barfing, so a "poop at your own risk" stall.

The 4th floor stole our toilet paper, so we took off the doors to one of their stalls. They had more than us, so it wasn't as big a deal. Then they took all our stall doors. Then we took their trash cans. Then they took all but one of our shower curtains. We had three showers, each with two curtains, an outer one for privacy and an inner one to keep water in the shower. They left us one. Total.

Now, we had convenience stores on campus where a student could get snacks, ramen, better than industrial toilet paper, etc. They had Jell-O boxes there, as well. So I bought some. And in the dead of night, I, with my 6 boxes of red flavored Jell-O, went to work. 

The next morning, red tinted students came to our floor, waving a white t-shirt. During the peace summit, I explained my deed. They were red because I unscrewed each shower head and filled it with a pack of red Jell-O, causing the water to come out of the head in a color reminiscent of a horror movie. We came to a tenuous cease fire, as we all came to the realization that if we kept going, something might get out of control. It was a good thing, too. The war had gone on for weeks, and the Jell-O shower was our nuke. Our last chance to come out victorious. 

It worked. 

As I didn't want to be a sore winner, my team and I invited them down to our floor that evening for a party, funded by us. One of the combatants had a brother who was unscrupulous enough to get us liquor, so we took full advantage. As we were all 18 years old and shitty, we went hard. 

Turns out, they won the war by barfing in all three of our stalls, and not taking care enough to aim. A noncombatant, one of the good students who took life seriously despite being a teenager, was also a narc, and tattled on all of us.

The war was over for real now. We had to sit down, not dyed red, with the RA's of both floors and sign some bullshit document of reprimand and stop pulling pranks, not just with each other, but in general. It sucked. Fucking federales got to us.

As a post script to the whole ordeal, our RA, despite making sure we didn't reignite the war, was happy with us because he hated his 4th floor compatriot. As a reward, he got us a case of beer to enjoy quietly and without guests. We obliged.

As a result of this whole ordeal I learned the importance of extra toilet paper. And not being a little shit, but I don't know how well I've adhered to that bit.

Allergies (Out of Touch White People Pt. 2)

There is a commercial on television these days for some insurance company in which a home owning couple is happy for their new home and low rate, but laments the house having "aunts" (pronounced ANTS, which is another issue, but English is stupid so whatever). There are a few aunts...ahem...ANTS...milling about the house saying passive aggressive things that elder family members tend to do.

Other peoples elder family members. Mine? Not so much. 

Now, I have a mild shrimp allergy. If they are cooked in a wok, shrimps will cause me to break out in hives. Fried shrimp, grilled, shrimp cocktail shrimps? Nothing. I can eat those until I turn pink like a flamingo. Shrimps cooked in a wok, however, will make my eyes warm and just fuck me up in the dumbest way. I'm pretty good at avoiding wok shrimps. I don't generally buy shrimp to cook at home, and if I order out (fuck if I'm going to sit in a restaurant in public during a pandemic) I just avoid them. 

Occasionally I'll have some shrimp without issue. I worked in a seafood restaurant where I was around and had to test them on a daily basis. No problems. No woks. So when I was at my aunt's house for some clams on the half shell and cocktails, I didn't think twice about dipping into the shrimp that someone brought. Then it started.

I started to break out in hives. I could feel my face and arms get itchy, eyes watery, and otherwise grow in discomfort. I was fighting through it, trying to not make it too obvious that everything was terrible. 

The aunts in the commercial would have said something cutting, but nuanced. "You look warm," "You seem to need a glass of water," something like that. Not mine, and definitely not in front of company.

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR FACE?" is what I got. So I explained what was happening, then I went and got at Benadryl from the medicine cabinet (luckily they had some) and immediately started feeling better. I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.

I have an admittedly stupid allergy. It doesn't make sense, and it's the only one I have. But, I can avoid shrimps for the rest of my life if I have to. Other people don't have it as easy as I do. 

Take for instance, a very specific allergy for a very specific family. While working at the aforementioned seafood restaurant, I heard this interaction:

Waitress: Can I start you with something to drink?

Mother: Just some water. No ice, though, we're allergic.

Waitress (looking at child): Allergic?

Mother: Yes, we are allergic to frozen ice.

Waitress: ...

Kid (at full kid volume): IT MAKES MY TEETH COLD AND WET

Waitress (understandably concerned): Okay, luke warm water it is.

So, if you are allergic to water, you die. That's just how it goes. Nobody is allergic to ice, that's just not a thing. Your shitty teeth are not an allergy. Your shitty teeth are a product of bad dental hygiene and genetics. 

Allergies are real. Some are dumb (exhibit a: my dumb shrimp thing), and some are very serious, like a peanut allergy, which can be fatal. 

Lady, ice is just cold. Get over yourself and stop trying to make your weak shit a medical issue. You don't have an ice allergy, you have an addiction to WebMD. 

The worst part is she is dragging her kid into it. This kid is going to grow up with poorly calibrated measurements of maladies. He's got some vapid, wealthy, helicopter of a mother who saw Dr. Oz say some stupid shit about minerals or oils or something and now thinks she's a healer. YOU. ARE. NOT. A DOCTOR. You're just thirsty for daytime television quacks with a good tan and crap ideas. 

If I remember correctly, she didn't tip for shit. Of course she didn't.

Furries. Goddammit.

When I was a child, the adults told me I could be whatever I wanted to be. They were lying.

I wanted to be the shortstop of the New York Yankees, but my lack of genetic athleticism and poor eyesight pretty much killed that dream when I was in middle school. I never had any other real dreams of grandeur or star reaching goals. Apparently I learned to be pragmatic at an earlier stage than other people. 

It's a nice sentiment, though. "You can be whatever you want, child, the world is your oyster." I guess, technically, that is true. Nobody knows what the future holds, and nobody knows a result until an attempt is made. That's why schools offer elective classes, special programs, and activities to expand the horizons of children, so they can figure out for themselves what they like and potentially what they want their futures to look like. 

Schools also provide social interaction. Social interaction is important because without it, especially these days, kids can get lured into parts of the internet that nobody has to see. The dangerous parts. The parts adults tend to hide from. At least, the adults that aren't terrible. 

Of course, some kids are behind the eight ball a little in their development, making "You can be whatever you want to be" a falsehood. That sentiment then becomes something else, something more muted. Of course, as an adult, you can't say "You can only be one or two things, sparky. Sorry." You don't want to be rude. So you promote their fantasies and interests and try to get them to focus on the schoolwork that they need to do to reach whatever aspirations they might fancy. 

These are the kids that I work with. Mostly, they are great. They try hard, they work, but they get frustrated and don't deal with that very well. They take a little more time to fully comprehend their work. All that is okay. Really. In fact, these kids are so grateful that there are adults there to help them that they are more than happy to share facts about themselves, lives, and dreams than you would EVER want to know.

Of course you have to build trust and have a basis of honesty for these kids to open up. It's not like an old person who just goes in about their fluids to anyone in earshot. However, once one of these youths thinks you are okay to talk to, boy howdy, do they tell you things.

An assignment came along the way about hopes and dreams for the future. A what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up type of writing assignment. Most kids had very basic answers. Teacher (noble), Army guy, astronaut, professional wrestler, etc. 

Then I read one boy's paragraph. It started thusly: "I want to be a furry."

That's where I stopped. Nope. No. Just...just no. You can be whatever you want. Except that. You can make whatever choice you want. Don't make that one. Don't make the worst choice. Sex weirdos in mascot costumes? No way. Kid, you're 11. You need more supervision. 

Then I continued reading. "My mom says I shouldn't be a furry because it's not a real job." Mom is right, listen to mom. "I think being a squirl (sic) would be fun or a cat that jumps." 

That's where I stopped again. I went over to the child. I had questions.

"Hey bud. What's with the furry stuff?"
"They seem nice."
"Have you met any of them?"
"No, just pictures. I like cats."
"So...why, though? Why dress like a cat?" I should mention here that I am no mental health professional by any stretch, but even I could tell there is some underlying stuff here that might make someone veer to that particular side of weirdness.
"I don't know, I just like them. I don't think I want to go full cola though, just Diet Coke."

The fuck?

"What does any of that mean?"
"I think I'll just be a part time furry."
"That's...uhh....ok."

THE FUCK? I had to get away, as my inherent and justifiable fear of furries persuaded me to get the hell out of that conversation. I had just seen someone, a child with so many choices available to them, make the worst decision and there was nothing I could do about it. I was helpless. . Luckily he has time to walk this back and be something else. Anything else. Literally anything other than white supremacist is better than furry. Be into weather. Cars are something that people like. Fantasy baseball. There are myriad other things other than fucking furry. Exotic fish if you want to keep with the animal vibe. Not birds, though. Fuck birds. 

I'm also disappointed in his choice of character. A cat? You can do better than that, you strange little person.

Out of Touch White People No. 1

 When you work in a downtown environment, you quickly learn about the different elements of that ecosystem. Stray animals, less than reputable street folk, and the day laborer are all creatures that cross your vision on a daily basis. I'm not trying to disparage the street folk or day workers at all. Everyone has a story, and most of those stories are rife with struggle. Certainly, a human life needs to be learned before they are judged, and judging without knowledge is a dicey proposition because you really don't know anyone's history.

Sometimes, however, you have a gut feeling about a person. And sometimes, your gut is right. 

My store is in the heart of my downtown community. The storefront is at the end of a giant parking lot, and in the slower times, (which are more than I would like) I get to watch the comings and goings of said lot. Observation breeds knowledge, and seeing certain people day in and day out, and what they happen to do day in and day out can give the observer certain information about certain individuals. For instance: the guy with the sweatpants hanging off his ass, who gets into random cars for about 5 minutes at a time? He's PROBABLY (not certainly) up to no good, legally speaking. He's probably alleviating someone's daily pain, but chances are it's not in the most reputable of means. 

I'm not judging sweatpants guy. I think he's working, and everyone needs a job. I don't have concrete evidence of anything, so I don't actually know what his job is, but I think sweatpants guy doesn't pay his share of taxes.

A young woman works in the lot in a different way. She shows up and leaves. Then comes back a little less put together, and then leaves again. She works in a more physical field than sweatpants guy does. I don't know their stories, but I think I know their jobs. I saw her meet a fella, take cash from him and they started walking past my store. I stopped paying attention. Commerce happens.

Then the bell on the door chimed. Someone was coming in. At noon on a Wednesday, any customer is unexpected and welcome. The daytime prostitute bounced up the stairs.

"I see this place everyday!" she smiled. "It's so boujee!" Then she bounced out and went off to work.

"Huh," I said out loud to the ghost of the working girl. "That daytime hooker fucking nailed it."

She really did. My store is bright and clean, and it smells like warm bread. It's very much of the bourgeois. My clientele is middle to upper middle class white dudes with extra money. In fact, that is literally my demographic. Boujee as hell. 

Then I realized that Sunshine Whore had explained my entire working experience in one happy exclamation. "It's so boujee" is what I see every day. It's been a trend for the last few years.

It started  when I was working at a high end French bistro in Madison, Connecticut, perhaps the whitest place on Earth. I realized I was around a different level of white person when bottled water became a talking point.

At this bistro, I was working the line, sweating in a cramped area with two other men. We made exceptional food. Food I can't do on my own. Food I am shocked they let me near. 

We were motoring through a dinner rush when the bartender pokes his head into the kitchen "Hey, what is our most expensive bottle of water?"

We stopped in our tracks. Sauces bubbled. Steaks seared. Salads sat idle in a bath of dressing. We looked at the bartender, who's wry smile let us know he had a special pair of patrons awaiting an answer.

"Well," I said, breaking the slack jawed disbelief, "I can spit in their mouths for $200 an hour. Nothing fresher than straight from the tap."

Our Chef was French, so he said with his thick accent "Wee can owlays deep from zee toilet for zem."

Now, the line, regardless of restaurant, is a brutal place. It's a vicious and unforgiving life that breaks most people. It becomes fractured, with cliques forming, pitting person against coworker for no reason other than bullshit. We were all on the same page here.

This was the moment I realized that white people are insane, especially when they get some money. It's bottled water, who gives a shit? I was serious about spitting in their mouths, as a momma bird would for her chicks. As the night went on, we continued to laugh about these honkeys.

We developed a business idea, too. A restaurant called Baby Birds, where the staff chew the food for patrons and drop it, mouth to mouth, to the customer. It'll be flappin' great. And horrific in every way.

I know there is a segment of out of touch rich white people who would be into this. Market it as boutique, predigested cuisine. The shorts and blazer crowd will pay a premium. 

I hate these people and will exploit them at every turn. But if they are willing to give me $200/hr I will absolutely spit water into their mouths.

SD

Meow

Gather 'round, boys and girls, and let me tell you a story about a poop. Now, I know, we all love a good poop story, so I hope this measures up to your lofty standards of dumptales.

Let's set the scene. It's October, I'm working in Special Education at a Middle School, a position that I never expected to be in. My assignment was with the outside kids. Not the ones who prefer the woods or camping, but the kids who have to be placed apart from the rest of the school due to their behavioral issues. These kids aren't bad, they just don't have the ability to process negativity or emotional distress as well as the others in their cohort, so when they can't keep up, they need special help. This is where I was working. It was great.

Most of the time there weren't terrible problems, and since I was working mostly with 6th graders, even if they did start to lose control, they were just too small to break any bones. Most of the time, the kids were just extra weird. One didn't like sitting in chairs. Okay, goofy, have fun on that dirty ass floor. Of course, there are cases of kids who have such sad and tragic home lives that they just don't have the bandwidth to deal with any kind of added stress. These are the ones we naturally watch the closest, because any explosion goes nuclear in a hurry, so we, as adults, have to be empathetic and aware at all times.

Then there are just odd kids who look kind of like Voldemort and are far to flexible for anyone who isn't in a circus. We'll call him Gumby, for the sake of this story. Gumby is a social creature, I was too as a child, before I learned better. He likes to talk to the people around him, whether it's in a classroom, lunch line, or hall way, this kid likes to chat.

Bathrooms, too. Because the classrooms for these kids is outside, and the nature of their needs requires chaperones, adults have to escort them to the bathroom. Not inside, necessarily, unless there is a problem, but just make sure they get to the bathroom and back to class without incident. 

I digress. I ushered Gumby to the bathroom one morning. Every other classroom was closed off, teaches teaching away with glee. I waited across the hall from the boys room, probably flipping through Twitter or some such silliness, waiting for Gumby to do whatever business he has to conduct. Other kids came and went, quickly finishing up while Gumby tried to converse from behind the door of a stall (he went into a stall). After a few minutes I started to get, not concerned, because I hadn't heard any duress. I wasn't worried because...well...sometimes I like a leisurely deuce, so who am I to judge whatever peril Gumby might have found. 

But it had been a while. I had to do something. Any action would have been better than no action at this point. A solid 10 minutes on a public school toilet is a terrifying prospect for an adult. For a weird kid, he could just be in la-la land. So I had to do something.

There were no other kids in the bathroom. I checked both ways before crossing the hall. It's instinct, don't judge me. I quietly stepped through the threshold of the bathroom. The smell was chemicals and sewage, like a boys room should be. My mind was racing.

What shitty dad joke can I throw out there to break the ice. I was listening for the sounds of pooping, also. Pooping has certain sounds. We all know them.

Hey slugger, did ya fall in?

Toilet monster didn't get you did it?

Then....I heard the sounds of aggressive pooping.

Then, quietly "meow."

....yo....dude....

Did this kid just meow? 

I backed out of the bathroom with ninja levels of stealth. And then I had to take a knee because I found that the laughter exploding from my mouth buckled my knees. I tried to be quiet. I had to compose myself. I took a breath, walked it off, and retook my post opposite the litter box....bathroom...and waited for Gumby to finish up. He eventually did, washed his hands, and went back to class. 

I told literally every adult who knew this weirdo about what I witnessed. Holy shit.

-SD