Happy Birthday Smeagol
of the raptor you're the best
may your thong hang low
I was a little saddened that Jason's lovely daughter (congrats, man!) did not wait to be born on Smeagol's birthday, but then again who wants to share a girthday with a raptor? Anyway, I am going to hold off on the product review, as I have a special treat: I am going to try to get Smeagol to review the first product, Boulevard Wheat Beer.
I figured I would post a couple of blurbs about my few years at Burger King today, with more following this evening or early tomorrow if I am too lazy.
Life was rough at Smeagol's house. Food was hard to come by, much as success and prestige were. Self respect was a long gone luxury that none of us could afford. I needed a job.
In the ghetto (47th and Paseo area) there were not many job prospects for a fat guy with glasses on. Due to my corrective lenses being gangsta was out of the question, and I was too lazy to deal drugs, as it apparently warranted a lot of running fro the authorities and salesmanship skills, which anyone who has known me for more than a year knows I do not have. That left jizz-mopper at the Tiger's Den, a nudie bar on 46th and Troost, or one of the fast food restaurants on that same block. I opted for fast food, though jizzmopper would have been a better career choice in the long run.
I for some unknown reason chose Burger King, as the KFC would have required crossing another street and I was apparently too fat and lazy to do that. They must have been hard up for workers, because the manager came out and gave me the basic Burger King interview: "So, you gone show up on time nigga? Cool, cool, you got a job son!" (say thi in your head with a faux Brooklyn accent). My pay was 4.75 an hour, and there I was.
So I started down the career path toward greatness, and my trainer and mentor, a young lad named Jason. Jason was a drug dealer who, I assume, worked at Burger King because he could attain free food and ply his trade more easilly there, picking up contacts and allowing people to sample his wares by sprinkling marijuana on their food, most awesome.
I feel like I have told this story before, and if I have my bad, but Jason has done some pretty awesome things to people's food. He has jammed his middle finger up his own ass, getting shit and blood on it, and wiped it on people's burgers before, he has rubbed cock-cap paste (I know I called it a different name before, consistency is not my strong point), that oily stuff behind the head of a circumcised cock that builds up if you do not wash it enough, all over someone's burger because they were rude to him once, and once on a dare shit in the little stall where we squeegeed water after hosing the floors down.
I hate to say it, but this gentleman was my hero. I was not brave enough to do a tenth of the things he did, and so was completely content to live my life vicariously through him. He was awesome, if someone made the mistake of trying to peek through the fry hood to see what he was doing, they would get s little spit in their burger, unless he was feeling gamey enough to rub his "shit-finger" all over their sandwich, good times.
"Why didn't you tell on him, Stevester?" You might be asking aloud. Well I can't hear you, the tube that your internets is delivered on is not connected to the one I am sending this out on, if you do not understand that ask Senator Stevens. The reason why is because:
1. Jason was humping the shift manager, Stephanie. Turtle, the token Older Black Guy Who Thought This Was A Career Guy, was also humping her, I think. I think I was the only one who was not fornicating with her, and that was because she was a little large for my tastes, plus I was going out with Camel, and there was that stupid "faithfulness" thing, which I know sounds lame but shaddup.
2. I was pretty sure Jason carried a gun, one clue was that Jason had a gun handle sticking out of his work pants on many occasions, another was he pulled out a gun and showed it to me once. Other than those two instances I was not sure though.
3. Jason was cool as hell, and I did not want Turtle being my manager.
Anyway, we soon learned Jason would do literally anything we dared him to do, either because he was high or because he just didn't give a shit. Either way our favorite days on the job was when he was dubbed manager for the day due to his seniority when Stephanie took the day off to get her nails done or whatever, because he would shut the lobby down and we would trade food with either Dairy Queen or KFC and eat int he lobby while people came up to the door confused and stand outside the windows, lonely Smeagols watching sadly as we all had fun jack-assing around and usually drinking Hurricane on the job. Good times.
Anyway, congrats again to Jason (not the one in today's story) who had a baby girlenhausen, as they say in Germany, and to Smeagol for raptoring it up yet another year.
On a side note, does admitting I absolutely hate the taste of Guinness make me a terrorist? I am going to get one of those Guinness surger thingies, but as it stands I do not even plan on doing a product review on that crap, it tastes like tree bark that had been fermented in a tub of firty bathwater that was also used to launder 3 or 4 of Smeagol's thongs, gently squished between Mystery's toes as she stomped on the clothes to simulate a washing machine agitator.