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Down With Capitalism Contributed by Compute My freshman year of college, I worked at Fazoli's. If you don't know what Fazoli's is, it is an Italian fast food restaurant that serves 'REAL Italian, REAL fast ®.' Basically, they dish out freeze-dried garbage. Lasagna that tastes like what I would imagine giving a Nigerian prostitute a rim job would taste like, salads assembled by illegal Mexican immigrants whose job consists of both washing the dishes, and compiling salads, both barehanded in the back room... and of course, everyone's favorite, the Submarino sandwiches, which are just like regular sandwiches with regular lunch meat, except they throw them in an oven for 5 minutes and charge $6.49 for them. My fellow employees consisted of, as previously stated, a plethora of Mexicans, but there were also a few pasty, disgusting, white-trash teenagers thrown into the mix. One girl I worked with was morbidly obese, and was constantly hogging down on the bread sticks while she thought no one was looking. She was probably 17 years old, and her tits sagged well below her navel. She was absolutely born and raised white trash, and even rocked the nauseating southern accent, despite living in Ohio her entire life. The assistant manager was some 20 year old bitch who thought she was hot shit because she is an assistant manager. She believes that because she fucks some Mandingo drug dealer and has shit out two half-breeds of her own, she is entitled to use the word 'nigger' every other sentence, and still become enraged when any other white person says it. And finally, the 'dining room attendant.' This bitch was a 60 year old, mute dwarf. I shit you not, she was 4'1'' and cannot speak a word, although when she wants to get someone's attention, or make someone move, she would make a noise that resembled, "Meeeeeeeep!" Clearly, my co-workers were among America's elite. My job was to man the cash register, and to "appear busy" at all times. When no one was indulging their shameless urge of consumption, I would wipe down the counter-top, sometimes for hours at a time, jam as many paper cups as possible into their respective holders, praying that someone would come and take a cup or two so that I could 'appear busy' again and jam a few more cups into the holder, and constantly freshen the crouton bowl by sneezing in it. Sometimes I would just lounge around the cash register and hope the manager wouldn't notice I wasn't 'appearing to be busy.' The manager was constantly warning me about having my hands in my pockets. That was just how I liked to stand. I mean, I was there, not doing anything, so I put my hands in my pockets, but apparently this is "wildly unprofessional," and if a customer were to see me with my hands in my pockets, they would become deeply offended. The day that I quit was a typical one. A few fat fucks for the dinner rush, and then nothing. I did my pointless busy work for awhile, but it ultimately degenerated into me standing around at the cash register with my hands in my pockets. Then my manager came out from the back and saw me. "How many times have I told you not to stand there with your hands in your pockets? It's offensive to the guests (that's another thing, the patrons were to be called 'guests' at all times and never customers)!" To which I replied, "There's no one looking at me, and if there was someone looking, they wouldn't care anyway." He just snarled and returned to the back room. A few minutes later, he came back with a stapler, and said, "I've got a way to make sure you don't put your hands in your pockets!" Followed by a jolly, fatass laugh. I told him, "If you staple my pockets I will quit." He just laughed, like he thought I was joking, and went ahead and stapled one of my pockets shut. I lost it. "What the fuck is your problem?" I practically shouted at him, and walked into the back. He just laughed and said, "Oh, come on Brandon! I was only joking!" I was sick of dealing with all the shit, and had fantasized many times about quitting, and this was just the last straw. I went to the back room with the Mexicans and began to undress. I took off my shoes, my pants, my Fazoli's t-shirt, and even my Fazoli's hat! I bundled them all up and went over to the Mexican guy who was mixing the generic "marinara" sauce in a 100 gallon tub, that goes on everything from lasagna to spaghetti. I took my heap of Fazoli's paraphernalia and dropped them in the tub, and then grabbed a ladle and pushed the heap deep into the concoction, for total saturation. The Mexican did nothing but stare at me in disbelief. "FUCK YOU DAVE (the manager)!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, and proceeded to walk out clad only in my socks and boxers. A month later, I finally worked up the nerve to go in and pick up my last paycheck. The assistant manager gave it to me in complete silence. A few of the other employees, most of which weren't even there at the time, stared at me in awe. As I left, I heard the assistant manager mutter to someone else, "I cannot believe he came back here." But it was a $220 paycheck, and the opinions of a few slack jawed rednecks definitely weren't going to keep me away from it. |