Thursday, January 27, 2011

Yay for Feel-Good Bloggy Awards

I received an LOL award from The Restaurant Manager the other day, and I must say I'm super pumped. Although I have a modest following, I relish any time I can make anyone LOL.

Most blog awards have "rules" attached to them, which in this case entails the recipient naming ten good blogs and sharing some facts about him or herself. I already named ten blogs a few months ago, so I'll add to that list with five more I've been lately reading.

1. My brother-in-law, a former marine, recently joined the police academy. All I have to say is that those guys are some sick bastards. Read all about it at Crossing the Thin Blue Line.
2. My long-suffering sister listens to the aforementioned adrenaline junkie's rants and drives him to the hospital when he injures himself. She also happens to be the exact opposite of me; rather than writing about Shit That's Really Starting to Get on My Nerves, she writes posts like Things I'm Excited About. If you ever tire of my bitchiness, go there instead.
3. I think restaurant managers have the worst jobs because, while they get paid (slightly) more than us floor-mopping peons, they have to deal with both the "I want to see a manager" customers AND the "ummmm....I can't come in today because I have, like, a hangover..." employees. So, Restaurant Manager, I hereby bestow the same award onto you which you have bestowed onto me. And thank you.
4. You know that friend you have who's endlessly fabulous but knows it, so you have a hard time admitting to her fabulousness because you're annoyed with her gargantuan ego even though you secretly want to be her? Enter the Barrenness, the self-identified harem-keeping hedonist: 30-ish, thin, childless, stilletto-wearing, London-dwelling, totally full of herself, and totally cool. Oh, and the writing's good too.
5. I don't know why I didn't start following A Bitch Called Mom sooner, but it's probably the most deserving of an LOL Award just for the fact that I snicker out loud at just about every post I read. To explain what it's about, though, I think Ms. Hyde's own words are sufficient:

A Bitch Called Mom is the side of myself that I try to deny; the side of motherhood that people pretend doesn’t exist. The side that needs a glass of wine before family game night and is suspicious of her husband’s fidelity because she's gained 25 pounds. The bitchy side. The Bitch is not grateful for the joys and wonderment of motherhood. To the contrary, she’s damned sick of it. My purpose is to give a voice to those who might not otherwise have one. Sometimes that voice has something good to say. Other times the voice is a bitch. Either way some woman, somewhere will smile, cry or breathe a sigh of relief because FINALLY someone understands.

Oh, and I'm supposed to say seven things about myself you don't know. (Or, at least, most of you.)

1. I have traveled to China, England, Ireland, and Greece, but not to Canada or Mexico.
2. I wrote my first short story when I was about seven or eight, in a small, lined notebook with hearts on the cover. It's about a little girl who, at the end, decides she loves Jesus.
3. When I was little I thought cheese was fruit. Among other things I said when I was little, I haven't been able to live that one down.
4. I've marched in a Gay Pride Parade.
5. I was once a cheerleader. (Yes, I can feign pure, unadulterated joy.)
6. I have played the violin for fourteen years.
7. I get a pleasant tingling sensation in the back of my neck when I hear soothing voices or sounds.

I'm also supposed to comment on these people's blogs and tell them about the award, but I'm not going to do that. I'd prefer to pimp my blog other ways.

Monday, January 24, 2011

I suppose I always have wanted a gay following...

Ever since this post went up, it alone has brought over 100 gay men viewers to my blog. The only post that ever brought more was this one. Seeing as the former has been up for a month and the latter for over half a year, it's pretty obvious that Big Cock will soon eclipse Kim Kardashian.

For those who stumbled in here looking for porn and found only a picture of a giant chicken, I apologize for deceiving you. I realize it was a cheap trick to get more blog traffic, and while the ploy was successful, I imagine you were more inclined to click the 'back' button than to read further. In any case, you'd already had to double the effort because you were likely typing one-handed, thereby making it that much more inconvenient.

I'd like to make it up to you. If you really want what you were looking for, don't click the back button. (DISCLAIMER: It really is what you think it is, so if your delicate sensibilities are offended by Spartan Men, DO NOT click on the links.)

Click here, here, and here. You're welcome.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Shit That's Really Starting to Get on My Nerves, Part II: People Airing Out All Their Dirty Laundry on Facebook

Though these folks provide fantastic entertainment value, some of them need to go easy on the updates. Thanks to my internet addiction, I get the pleasure of reading about everyone’s feuds, breakups, diseases, pets’ afflictions, great aunts’ surgeries, minor accomplishments and accolades, meals, and of course oft-feigned marital bliss. No need for a TV—craptastic train wrecks are brought right to the glowing screen on my lap.

But then there are always those people who provide too much of a good thing and ruin the fun.

Example—there’s a woman I internet-know from an online forum from years ago. We’ll call her Trish. She is in her late twenties, has two kids (each of whom has a different father) and as far as I’ve been able to gather, lives with her parents and does not have a job. And what do 20-somethings with no job and two young children do? They spend all day on Facebook, apparently.

I’ve been following this person’s life for two years, and would have long since deleted her for status updates such as “made scrambled eggs and toast for the kids. Now i'm enjoying a cup of coffeeyummy lol” were it not for the fascinating study of human behavior that is her life.

One of the more notable catastrophes of the past year was when she very publicly broke up with this guy, whom she had of course been professing to love in every single status message. After the post-breakup announcements about her loneliness and oblique references to self-mutilation had been up a while, they were curiously now accompanied by barely-rhyming poetry about backstabbing friends and subsequent comment wars. What had happened, evidently, was that Trish’s “bestie” had slept with the skeezball. Trish also revealed in a note (for the FB uninitiated, a “note” is like a blog post) written in the interest of explaining her early rants that the bestie—we’ll call her Sarah—had also slept with Trish’s ex-husband when they were married—at least twice. Oh, and the husband paid Sarah for it once. (What an idiot—if you get punani for free once, you’ll probably get it free again, dude.) Anyway, if I’m getting my timelines correct, this all happened before the hubby went to jail—for what, I’m not sure. Trish and hubs were on and off again, during which time she had a second baby with someone who’s never mentioned except when Trish bitches about the lack of child support for the younger son.

And what darling boys they are, as Trish makes sure to kindly remind us in two-hour intervals. For, when she’s not with a man and ending each of her status messages with how much she adores the next love of her life, she’s ending each post with some sort of reference to her boys. We get to hear about when they’re being fussy, when they’re running around the house, when they get sick, when one’s getting dropped off at Daddy’s house, when one poops, when the other poops, when they both poop, and the sundry things Trish contemplates doing when both boys are away to remedy how “bored” she is—typically “watch TV lol” or “read Twilight lol.”

The latest melodrama occurred after Trish met a young man nearly ten years her junior—19, the age I usually like ‘em—to whom, after a very short time, she became engaged. Call me cynical, but I scratched my head at that one. Why, I asked myself, would a young, childless, barely-out-of-high-school man suddenly want to move in with a poor, overweight, nearly 30-year-old mom and raise her two children in his future in-laws’ house? I still don’t have the answer to that, but the following sequence of status messages should explain how successful that union was.

January 7 at 8:46pm both boys are in bed. missin my love, sucks being so far away from him. ILY M.

January 7 at 10:39pm I may not be the most beautiful or sexiest, nor do I have the perfect body. I may not be someone's 1st choice, but I'm a great choice. I don't pretend to be someone I'm not because I'm good at being me. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done in the past, but I'm proud of who I am today. Take me as I am, or watch me walk away.

January 8 at 3:47pm Wow everything is falling apart. i fucking give up. guess i'm not meant to be happy! *M's wifey♥*

January 8 at 6:28pm Take this knife to my throat, cut me deep and watch me choke. kiss my cheek and walk away. and i'll use my last breath to say, i still love you anyways.

♥ Trish is no longer listed as "engaged."

January 8 at 9:41pm feels like my heart is shattering into a million pieces.

January 9 at 3:53pm so sick of all the hurt and pain

January 9 at 6:02pm So sick of being used and hurt. so done with everything. just going to live for my boys.*Broken*

January 10 at 12:24 pm so hate fucking men!!! They all lie and break your heart! Just going to focus on me and the boys for now. Going to enroll K in headstart. and I'm going back to school. Just gonna do me!

January 10 at 11:41pm Don't worry she say's all those scars on her arms are just lil reminders of all the times you broke her heart

January 12 at 6:53pm My Heart aches from trying my eyes hurt from crying my wrist burns from cutting and in the end i still have nothing. *No lies just love*

January 13 at 6:44pm sick of crying, tired of trying. Yeah I'm smiling, but inside I'm dieing!

I won’t bother posting the ensuing comments, but they usually go something like this:

Friend: OMG hunnie, are you ok?
Trish: No, my heart is broken and I hate men.
Friend: OMG I’m soooooo sorry. What happened?
[…no response from Trish…]

Apart from the adolescent cries for attention and appalling English-language butchery, Trish’s greatest offense is, in my opinion, her blatant refusal to accept responsibility for anything that goes on in her life. Men seem to continue to come along and screw her over, thereby putting her constantly in the position of either boasting about her good fortune or remaining snuggled in the warm blanket of victimhood. If you ask her, she was just minding her own business and living her life when a man came along, swept her off her feet, and then left abruptly and without adequate explanation because, you know, ALL men are pigs.

I know I’m being awfully hard on someone I’ve never met, but you could argue that, after getting as much information as I have, I have a pretty good idea of how I would feel in real life. I also admit that I’ve participated in comment wars and posted stuff on the internet I probably shouldn’t have—overshares, offensive stuff, etc. But you won’t see me announcing every misery and joy in my life in the hope of having them constantly validated by other people. I do have a blog and Facebook profile of my own, but it is my belief that my private life belongs nowhere on either.

And, unless you would like to read about my bowel movements and breakups, I imagine you readers feel the same.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Shit That's Really Starting to Get on My Nerves, Part I: People Getting Married

Everybody's getting married, and they can't wait to tell us all about it on the internet.

When it comes to my friends and family, I’m genuinely happy for them when they utter, “’til death do us part.” My mom, dad, and sister all got married within three years of each other (literally—winter 2008, summer 2009, and spring 2010 respectively). It’s not that weddings bug me – I’m just tired of hearing about, reading about, and living and breathing the marriages of people I don’t care about. Maybe it’s my own damn fault for being a Facebook addict and having so many individuals on my friends list whom I don’t actually talk to in real life, but having it constantly thrown in my face is getting really old. (If I still watched TV, it would be even worse; Real Housewives, Say Yes to the Dress, and Bridalplasty? No thanks.)

Dozens of my old classmates have gotten married within the last few years, and their wedding albums, honeymoon albums, changed names, and self-congratulatory status messages litter my news feed every day. Okay, so you threw an expensive-ass party, bought a couple of shiny things, signed some papers, and perhaps got around to popping out some offspring. Now you can actually be honest with your parents about living together and enjoying your newly Jesus-approved sex. Whoopee. You don’t need to end every status message, wall post, etc. with *love my [cutesy name for spouse]* because of it. And if you feel I’m a sourpuss for thinking your posts obnoxious, we’ll see how much you like it when I start ending all my posts with *love my freedom, autonomy, and empty uterus*.

Again, I’m glad for those who are genuinely happy with their marriages and children. I’m just irritated by certain people who feel the need to mention it at regular intervals; the more efforts you make toward plastering your matrimonial bliss everywhere—forcing it, insisting on it—the more suspicious I become that you’re overcompensating for its shortcomings.

Plus, these obstinately asserted declarations of happiness reinforce bullshit cultural myths which state that marriage is something everybody (especially women) should want; that it is the finish line that we all must cross, and the end-all, be-all road to happiness. Nearly every movie, TV show, and book marketed to women deals either with women who are in relationships or women who aren’t and are bitter about it; fictional characters spend entire movies and novels trying to get men, grumbling that their friends all got married before they did, thereby sending a warning to the rest of us: Don’t be like her! Find a man now! (Not surprisingly, the resolution of most such movies and books is that the woman does, indeed, find a man, before fading to black—because what else could a happy ending possibly entail?)

So when I read “I ♥ my hubby!!!!!!” ten times a day, I don’t feel bitter about it, but I do feel annoyed at the implication that I’m supposed to. After all, what is the real purpose of celebrating one’s happiness but to rejoice in one’s lack of misery? To differentiate oneself from other people who might not themselves be fulfilled? To say, “I’m glad that I feel happy, but even more so that I can display it proudly for all to see?” Once happiness ceases to be a private emotion, it often also ceases to be true and genuine.

By all means, get married. Show me your ring so I can say “ooh” and “ahh” at the designated moments. Let me marvel at your honeymoon pictures, and coo at how adorable your puffy infant is. But don’t expect it more than once, because the rest of the world and I will get over it pretty quickly.

Monday, January 10, 2011


Blog Stats


Pimp My Blog: Big Cock

69 Pageviews

69 - get it? He he, he he, he he heeeeeeeee...

(Also, please note that my plan was successful, as this has the second most hits out of all of my posts.)

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Il Duce Nuovo

The cafĂ© has a new regional manager, a man to whom I refer simply as Il Duce. As I filled out the new paperwork and signed the revised dress code policy, I erroneously believed that, because the same people run our store day-to-day and because it’s still the same company, very few adjustments would be made.

Allow me to itemize what has changed.

Where the uniform used to be any solid-colored pants and polos, any not-too-loud shoes, and company hats or visors, under the new policy the pants must be khaki, the shoes must be black, and we cannot under any circumstances wear anything over or under our polos if it gets cold. Managers must wear black pants and Oxford-style shirts provided the company: pink ones for women, powder blue checkered ones for men, and red ones for both sexes.

Shift and Assistant Managers are advised to keep women on the registers and men on the food line and back of the house, washing dishes or prepping food. Women who normally work on the line are either given something different to do or instructed to back cashiers, and men (except managers) are no longer assigned drawers. This has not been formally sanctioned, but a couple of managers have slipped up and admitted to the owner’s “preference” in roundabout ways. This is a good policy whether official or not, for a few reasons: women clearly do not work as fast as men, men clearly are not as adept at customer service as women, and I cannot maintain my focus when I find myself within five feet of a dick. So really, it benefits us all.

Managers are still not required to wear hats, though they continue to work with the food. (I can only suppose that managerial tresses must be more sanitary than mine.) The rest of us have been provided with new black baseball caps bearing the company logo.

Women are permitted to wear ear piercings, but only small studs, no more than one in each ear, and none anywhere else. Men are not permitted have any piercings at all, or to have any facial hair except “neatly trimmed” moustaches, which apparently are no longer just for old men and child molesters. No tattoos can be visible. Shirts must be tucked in, and they really mean it this time.

Women can wear makeup, but only if it is “tasteful” and not too heavy. We are also permitted to wear nail polish, but only if it is clear. When one associate inquired about this policy it was explained that chips of nail polish getting on the food was a health concern. When she pointed out that clear nail polish chips as well, she did not get a response.

The employee meal discount has been reduced to 50% from 65%, we will no longer be awarded semi-annual pay raises, and full-time hourly employees are no longer entitled to vacation time. Salaried managers are now required to clock in and clock out, but only for accountability, as they are still not eligible for overtime.

We are not permitted to have drinks, no matter the length of our shift, and regardless of whether or not we are given breaks (which are not typically doled out unless the shift manager needs to save labor). If we are thirsty, we are to obtain permission from the shift manager to walk away from our stations and drink from the six ounce cups the customers use for water. We can also use the restroom and smoke, but not without notifying at least two people (the Zone Leader and Shift Manager). We cannot leave our stations for any other reason or at any other time; this was confirmed by an employee who was chided for walking about ten feet away from her register to discuss an order with the Catering Manager.

The dining room floor is to be mopped every hour, and the other floors swept at least that often. The cubbies underneath the registers must be scrubbed every day, and the counters kept spotless. If you can find anything such as a pen, stapler, or stack of napkins, it’s probably because it’s in a place it’s not supposed to be (read: visible).

Every item in the bakery has a specific plate designated for it, as well as a precise spot where it must be placed, and a specific angle at which the plate must be tilted. And shame on you if you use the stainless steel plate when the display chart calls for ceramic. Today one of the Higher Ups came in for a visit while I was on the register.

“Did you do the display this morning?” Blondie asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Awesome. The bear claws go on the large flat basket.”

I fixed the display and threw away my triple-shot iced peppermint mocha while Blondie went into the office to e-mail her boss. Then, after she gave my Assistant Manager some further instructions and left to go back up north somewhere, I made myself a new triple-shot iced peppermint mocha and drank it while crouched, out of view, underneath my register. Awesome.

Managers from stores in nearby regions (presumably also now owned by The Italian) have been in to *help out* all week, according to my co-workers, while I was at my other job. They make corrections using either wordless hand gestures or rhetorical questions such as, “Now, is this where we put the cookies?” Upon further contemplation, I have concluded that The Italian simply made half a dozen clones of my District Manager, disguised them, and scattered them throughout the city to whip us into shape.

For those of us who don’t know the new Regional level management, they are more than happy to identify themselves. One provided a co-worker, who was recently promoted to Shift Supervisor, a list of “important people” she needed to know and gleefully pointed to his own name on it.

The minions have also provided tips for increasing efficiency. One suggested cutting ticket times by ceasing to list side choices for the customers. (No word on whether or not they want us to also cut ticket times by ceasing to attempt to upsell.) As far as I can surmise, no other mention has been made of the actual customers during the implementation these new procedures.

We will also be getting a new Shift Supervisor. He lives in an apartment in a pricey nearby district, where the average rent exceeds his bi-weekly paycheck (before taxes) by 6%. He also happens to be the son of our new franchise owner. You do the math.

When one of the Higher Ups overheard an employee complaining that she doesn’t make enough money to justify the new policies and extra work, he denied that anything had changed besides a few tweaks to the uniform policy.

Five people have already quit (all of whom had been working there for a year or more), and others are submitting resumes around town.

It’s just like that Joni Mitchell song:

Don’t it always seem to go/That you don’t want to put on eyeliner/And tattoo your face/And pierce your eyebrow, nose, lip, tongue, cartilage, septum, nipple, navel, and genitals/And wear giant press-on nails/And grow a beard/And drink a gallon of coffee before nine/And take a dump on the clock/And leave your shirt untucked/And take a paid vacation/And put the muffins in the flat basket/Till it’s gone?

Or however that song goes.

Monday, January 3, 2011

When People Besides Your Family Start Reading Your Blog...

An updated list of keyword searches that have been bringing people to my blog:

big cock blogspot
is this desire bagel fairy
asshole customers
big dick blog
blog big cocks
blogspot big cock
kim kardashin who is this piece of shit
models babies porno

I know my family is so proud.

Also, I keep getting Russian readers through this site, but cannot figure out for the life if me where (or why) it links to the American Bagel Fairy. I am intrigued.