Scavengers of Human Sorrow

EVERYWHERE! No matter where I go or what I do, I cannot escape the TALKING of SELFISH, NEUROTIC MIDDLE-AGED MEN. And no matter how far backwards I bend over to try to keep them happy, they still will not SHUT THE FUCK UP.

~A TYPICAL SUNDAY~

7:30 A.M: I wake up unnaturally to go to work and the INSTANT I come into view, Dad (Selfish Neurotic Middle-Aged Man #1) begins the TALKING, the incessant, merciless TALKING! "It's supposed to be 95 and humid today! I'm reading a new book about blah blah blah! The birds outside are doing blah blah blah! Vietnam! Blah blah blah!" All this while I'm still in a half-conscious daze. NEVER TALK TO ME BEFORE I HAVE HAD COFFEE IN THE MORNING! NEVER!!! Obviously he believes that sole purpose of my existance is to listen to him talk. One of his favorite things to talk about it how horrible his job was and how happy he is to be retired. At no point, however, does it occur to him that my job sucks too, that I might need to have COFFEE before I can pretend to be interested in the crap he blabbers about, and that ANOTHER HUMAN BEING MIGHT ACTUALLY FEEL THE SAME WAY HE DOES/DID. He believes that he has a monopoly on things like emotions and tiredness and that other people are like little animals that are just there to amuse him.

9:00 A.M: I arrive at work and the INSTANT I come into view, Robin, a.k.a. Pig Pen (Selfish Neurotic Middle-Aged Man #2) begins his own brand of non-stop TALKING. I say something like, "Good morning." He follows this up not with "Good morning, how are you?" but with "I SEE YOU DIDN'T GET TO MAKING THE BANANA CREAM PIES LAST NIGHT! I'M THROWING THREE TURKEY BREASTS IN THE ALTO-SHAAM SLOW-ROASTER BECAUSE SCOTT WANTS US TO KEEP FOUR OF THEM COOKED UP AT ALL TIMES! BRETT DOESN'T MAKE A GOOD ENOUGH LIST AT NIGHT SO I'M GOING TO TALK TO SCOTT ABOUT MAKING SURE THAT I GET TO MAKE THE LIST ALL THE TIME! SPEND TWO HOURS CUTTING STRAWBERRIES AFTER I LEAVE! SPEND AN HOUR AND A HALF MAKING 18 BATCHES OF CREPE BATTER AFTER I LEAVE! NO, NO!!! DON'T MAKE MORE THAN ONE BATCH OF SALAD BASE! WE PROBABLY WILL ONLY USE ONE WHILE I'M HERE! ONLY MAKE ENOUGH TO LAST THROUGH THE TIME WHILE I'M HERE! NOTHING THAT HAPPENS WHEN I'M NOT HERE IS MY CONCERN! THAT CAN BE DONE LATER! THAT CAN BE DONE LATER! ONLY DO STUFF THAT I WANT YOU TO DO! DON'T DO ANYTHING THAT WILL MAKE YOUR LIFE EASIER AFTER I LEAVE! THAT CAN BE DONE LATER! SCOTT!" And yes, you can actually hear the all-caps and exclamation points in his speech. At this point, I will usually attempt to edge my way around Pig Pen's bloated, stinking body, so that I can start WORKING, but this terrifies him into thinking that I'll get away and he won't be able to TALK at me anymore. So he'll literally jump into my path and begin walking backwards as his mouth continues to spew noise, blocking off every move I make, so that my attention must be focused solely on him. "I TALKED TO SCOTT AND HE SAYS THAT FROM NOW ON I CAN DO ALL THE ORDERING OF FOOD FOR THE LAGRASSO ORDER! SEE, BECAUSE OF MY INCESSANT TALKING TO SCOTT, I CAN NOW GET AWAY WITH DOING STUPID PAPERWORK INSTEAD OF HAVING TO ACTUALLY WORK, AND INSTEAD JUST TELL EVERYONE ELSE WHAT TO DO! MAKE SURE THAT AFTER I LEAVE YOU MAKE 457 PANS OF FRUIT, BECAUSE SCOTT SAYS THAT AFTER I LEAVE WE'LL GO THROUGH AT LEAST 432! AFTER I LEAVE ALSO MAKE SURE THAT YOU WIPE DOWN THE INSIDE OF THE INTERNAL FAN OF THE COMPUTER THAT CONTROLS THE OVEN! THAT FAN HASN'T BEEN CLEANED IN TWO WEEKS! SCOTT WANTS MORE CLEANING OF TINY APPARATI THAT NO ONE EVER SEES TO GET DONE AFTER I LEAVE! WHAT, ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE OMELETTE MIX SO THAT THE GRILL COOKS WON'T RUN OUT DURING THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING SUNDAY BRUNCH?! DON'T DO THAT! THAT CAN BE DONE AFTER I LEAVE!!!"

11:30 A.M: Pig Pen asks Scott if he can leave early.

11:32 A.M: Pig Pen punches out.

11:33 A.M: Pig Pen, now off the clock and sipping a drink (his fourteenth of the day, since he always gets a new one, sets it down somewhere, and forgets where he put it) comes BACK INTO THE KITCHEN to continue TALKING at me. "LATER ON TONIGHT, WHEN I'M NOT HERE, FOURTEEN BATCHES OF SALAD BASE WILL HAVE TO BE MADE! JUST MAKE SURE YOU DON'T MAKE THEM NOW WHEN YOU HAVE TIME, BECAUSE I'M STILL HERE!"

2:15 P.M: Pig Pen finally leaves.

2:16 P.M: I begin to actually get work done.

2:17 P.M: One of The Managers, noticing that I'm accomplishing work, becomes terrified of the possibility that The Company might have to actually pay an employee to get shit done, and immediately tells me to finish up all of my out-jobs and leave within five minutes.

2:18 P.M: Tomas, the token Embittered Mexican Guy (Selfish Neurotic Middle-Aged Man #3) is assigned by The Managers to take over the kitchen while I go home, because the Managers hate to pay all of their employees except Tomas. Because Tomas is a middle-aged embittered Mexican, they figure that they can just force him stick around for 17 hours with no break and do everyone else's jobs for them. (Obviously I feel sorry for the guy in this regard, BUT, please read on.)

2:20 P.M: Tomas enters the kitchen, wearing his patented Tomas Sneer (tm). Somehow he prostitutes his dignity enough to force himself to TALK to me. Barely able to stand the stench of stupidity and incompetence that I exude, he asks, "So... what has to be done?"
"Uhh..." I think about it, "Everything, basically."
"Ah," Tomas says, his nose and curling lip raised to Heaven, "I see." He strolls about, surveying how ineptly I've done everything, and asks, "So... why did you only make one batch of salad base?"
"Because Robin told me to only make one."
"Ah... I see. So... why aren't all 457 pans of fruit cut?"
"Because Robin told me to make them after he left."
"Ah... I see." Etc.
At this point I will usually be trying to finish up some of the 184 things I was still in the middle of working on because I couldn't get anything done while Pig Pen was still there and I wasn't expecting The Managers to kick me out two hours early. Tomas, uttering a long-suffering sigh at seeing me fiddle about attempting to do something correctly, will then say, "Just finish up and get out of here. I'll handle all of this stuff. With my decades of experience of working shit-jobs, it doesn't matter if you leave it all to me, because that way I can act all masochistically self-righteous and assume that God likes you better because you're young and white."
So, I will then stop getting work done so that I can get the hell out of there, which seems to be what everyone wants me to do. While I'm cleaning up, one of the servers will usually bring some bus tubs back to the dishtank, and Tomas (who at this point is also singlehandedly running dishtank because The Managers didn't feel like paying the dishwashers to do their jobs) will say something like, "Why are you bringing that bus tub back when it only has five dishes in it?"
Server: "Uhh, because The Managers told me to."
Tomas, firing lightning bolts of death from his all-powerful sneer: "If you don't have the Common Sense to consolidate the dishes into one tub, I'm going to be... irate."
Server, pissing their pants: "Ok, ok, I'll do that, just please don't hurt me, embittered Mexican man!" The server then runs back up front to consolidate dishes. Seeing that they have been defied, The Managers then proceed to fire the server.
Just as I'm about to leave, Tomas aske me, "So... did you do a freezer pull?"
"No, Robin did that before he left, it was one of the few things he did. But, uhh, I'll go double check it right now, if you'll just please not hurt me."
Tomas follows me into the cooler so that he can personally see all the things I've screwed up with my idiocy. "So..." he asks, "Why aren't the 18 batches of crepe batter done?"
"Because Robin was too busy talking to Scott to do them himself and he told me to do them after he left and The Managers told me to leave before I could make them."
"Ah... I see." Says Tomas. "That stupid fucking idiot." Fortunately, Tomas hates Pig Pen even more than he hates everyone else, so by blaming everything on Pig Pen (which is usually the truth anyway), I can escape the full brunt of Tomas's Sneer. He figures that I'm just another stupid and incompetent white kid who doesn't have the Common Sense to stand up to someone like Pig Pen. Which is also probably the truth.

2:48 P.M: I quickly leave, saying "Bye" to be polite but trying to run away before Tomas can say anything back, since his tone of voice would presumably cause my heart to freeze solid and then shatter. On my way out the door, The Managers, relieved to see that I'm no longer being paid, say, "Bye, Nathan! Have a nice day!"

3:01 P.M: I arrive home, and with a groan see that all 27 of Dad's reading lights are on and, from the middle of the driveway, I hear the radio blasting. Obviously this means that he is upstairs, rather than downstairs watching TV. The INSTANT I come through the door, he says, "Hi, Nate. It's supposed to be 97 and humid tomorrow! I'm reading a new book about blah blah blah! Tonight on TV there's a documentary on about 17th-Century Hungarian cabinet-making if you want to watch it! Today the dog out back was chasing the birds and blah blah blah. Vietnam! Blah, blah, blah, etc." I pretend to be interested for the amount of time it takes me to get out of my work clothes, take a piss, and grab something to eat and drink really fast, so that I can barricade myself in my room for whatever amount of time it takes for Dad to get bored with reading and listening to the radio and instead head downstairs to watch TV. Once he's gone, I can come out without fear of being talked at.


Fortunately, my life currently involves fewer Selfish Neurotic Middle-Aged Men than it might otherwise, but still, three is plenty. Plus there's the fact of periodically reading the news and seeing that the various Selfish, Neurotic Middle-Aged Men who control the world's governments are killing young people en masse by Talking them into fighting stupid wars. Thus, I hereby propose that all males be killed off on their 40th birthdays for the good of the human race.