As I unloaded the milk crate of frozen lamb into the cambro of water, as I took out the last package of meat, I discovered two hot dogs, forlornly freezer-burned and sadly out of place. How they got there, I do not know. But I did know exactly what to do with them.
It wasn't enough to simply go around the kitchen, tapping unsuspecting co-workers on the shoulder with a frozen hot dog, a rather large bulbous hot dog, so when they turn their heads they come face to face with said hot dog. My childish sense of humor, which knows no bounds, demanded something more.
Thanks in part to my co-workers' similar childish tastes, we decided to plant hot dogs in various places around our establishment. The giant meat pot, the dishwasher's sinks, the sausage mixture I was making that day, inside of the roasting chickens, the dishwasher's gloves, inside the robot coupe... we went a little overboard. But we also spent the entire day cracking up hysterically every time someone made a new hot dog "discovery." Specifically L. Marge, who bore the brunt of the hot dog "discoveries," swearing worse than a sailor each time, vowing to get us back, or to stick those hot dogs in places on our bodies where they should not go.
I can honestly say I had one of the most enjoyable work days I've had in a long time, all thanks to the hot dog.
...
We are, of course, they same group of childish late-twenty something men that for a good month or so would draw little tiny "cock and balls" in various places around the establishment.
exceedingly immature: very.
F-ing hilarious: completely.
Especially on the day of the health inspection, when one of the managers came over to me while escorting the inspector around the basement, and whispering, asked me to relabel a certain item that was merely labeled with a rather large representation of the male anatomy.
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Today has been a productive day off. I managed to visit the Secretary of State's office to renew my license. Though I had a little bit of a dilemma, in whether or not to shave off the mutton chops (which I have neglected to trim, so they appear quite fierce indeed), or to keep them for my new photo.
You see, my license has had the same picture for the last ten years. A slightly disturbing representation of myself, a younger me, a somewhat misguided me, that appears to be wearing a hemp necklace that some hippy made me years ago. Also this photo has the first incarnation of my trademarked mutton chops, which sort of has slightly vexed me over the years.
Typically I get two responses when I show my ID. The first being, "Whoa dude! Sweet chops!" The second being, "is this really you?" Assuming I had to fake my ID, I do not think this type of facial hair would be the most convincing manner in which to do it.
So I did it anyway. It is too early to shave off my chops. Besides, they give me power. The tradition must live on. I mean, license photos are supposed to look like shit, so why not have a little fun with it, have some choice in the matter?
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Otherwise, dancing this weekend was a complete success. I had oodles of fun and actually danced with no shame in my game. I've made a couple new dude friends, who according to other friends consider me a cool dude as well.
And I'm pleased to say that I have my first editing/writing job lined up... well, ok, its not technically an actual job. Its more of an assignment, and its for a friend who is putting together a cook book, an amazing cook book that I will go into more detail about a little later. She's also going to give me credit for reading it over. Though I have to admit I gotta brush the dust off my grammar and editing skills, because I haven't used them in quite some time. (Any one who reads this blog can probably attest to that).
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1 comment:
Well written article.
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