Tuesday, May 16, 2017

AM Shift Manager Paul Ryan Speaks at the Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome Morning Meeting

Gather ‘round. Gather ‘round…

“Nice To See You’re Still Alive, Losers.” Why are you guys looking at me like I’m wearing a dead squid like a hat? That’s the official Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome customer greeting. That’s right, troops. I got big news. You no longer work for Happy Humphrey’s Burger Palace. As you know we’re under new management. That said…yes, the five-foot pockmarked vomiting cartoon heart-monitor on the marquee is our new mascot, Barfy McFlatline. A truckload of plush Barfy squeeze dolls for Fuck You Big Smile Kiddy Meals are en route as I speak.

Now, everyone, can we practice the new Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome greeting? With gusto…3,2,1…hell yeah! That’s the spirit. Nice to see most of you are aboard so quickly, and without pause or inquiry. What the heck is wrong with a little less than half of you? You better pep up post haste. You don’t want last Tuesday’s uneaten Fuck You Gone Repealin’ Fish Sandwiches stuffed in your breakroom locker, do you? I’ll do it. I swear I’ll do it.

Listen, when I unlock the entrance and the herd rushes in for their Fuck You Bucket O’ Scrapple with side Turd Tots, smile like you stumbled upon a duffle bag full of white privilege down by the trains tracks, and say “Hey, Nice To See You’re Still Alive, Loser.” Everybody. Loud and proud. Okay? It’s not a choice, people. In case you forget the motto, it’ll be under your name on the shiny new Fuck You pins I’m handing out now. Take a gander at mine: “Hi. My name is Shift Manager Paul. Fuck You.”
Okay, moving on. I need to inform you all of a few more decisions from regional management that need implemented yesterday, no exceptions. First and foremost, the 99 Cent Pocket Change menu has been discontinued. Poof. If a customer can’t afford anything off the regular Fuck You menu, said customer will just have to go hungry. It’s that simple.

Next, we are damn proud to announce that the prices of all items on the Glowering Don Fuck You Combo Menu have decreased.  However, the menu has been scaled back just a wee tad. The advertised price of any of the selections off the Glowering Don Fuck You Combo Menu now only cover a yet-to-be-determined portion of the meat patty, your choice of the top or bottom half of the bun, 13 fries, 7.3 sesame seeds, a “smidgeon” of lettuce, and the bubbly top part of the soda. Everything else—onions, tomatoes, pickles, the other 9 fries or 27.7 sesame seeds, etc.—are priced a la carte. 

Furthermore, we won’t advertise the price of these non-essential items. Customers will receive an invoice from Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome in 1-3 months. Cashiers, you will be required to casually leaf through the written protocol detailing the new billing process. If a customer says “huh?” or “wait, what–?” or issues similar expressions of confusion or incomprehension, read the text to them. But fast, okay? We’re not feeding these people for their health.

Oh, here’s an exciting new feature. Customers may now choose to have one of those colored tooth picks stuck into their sandwich. These adornments are offered at the small fee of full price, as they are for cosmetic purposes only. Customers’ entry into the premises constitute their binding acceptance of a waiver of our liability if they, or their minor child, eats one. FYI.

We will also be following an age-based pricing policy. For instance, take the Fuck You Wake ‘n Bacon Croissant. Let’s say you’re 23 years-old and spry, and just stopping by for a quick bite. You’re still young enough to decide not to be poor for the rest of your life. But the older you get, the more of an investment breakfast becomes. For those older folk who’ve made poor life choices, who depend on the Fuck You Wake ‘n Bacon Croissant for survival morning-after-morning—perhaps because they’re too needy to shop at Whole Foods, or too enfeebled to push a grocery cart, or hell, maybe their nursing home trolley only stops here—there’s a soup kitchen up in Canada, Grandpa. On the other hand, parents of all ages are still allowed to share their leftovers with their children, provided said children are 26 years of age or younger.

Listen up, this is an important one—customers seeking the Great Again All-You-Can-Eat Salad Buffet will not be allowed to partake in dining if they enter the premises with pre-existing hunger. A fellow who skips breakfast then pays seven dollars for the buffet, but eats seven dollars and thirty seven cents worth of iceberg lettuce and fixins’…well, you don’t gotta’ be Copernicus to know that that equals an unsustainable lunch model. Hunger must be acquired on Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome property, formal geographical co-ordinates of which are of course available at the Country Registrar’s Office.

Finally, and we won’t advertise this for obvious reasons, but one out of every 150 Fuck You Big Coup-huna Burgers may or may not be saturated with potassium cyanide. Hey, such is the unavoidable collateral cost of providing such hearty meals to a hungry populace at the cut-rate costs available only from your local China. Besides, Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome mercifully gives customers the god-damn freedom to opt out of any participation in dining. Which is to say,  nobody here is being strong-armed to pay a grossly unfair fee for possibly dying. It’s called “freedom” for a reason. We all want freedom-from-death, and sometimes you can actually have it.

I know what you guys are thinking. “Shift Manager Ryan, as both an employee and a loyal customer of Big Ol’Fuck You Burger Dome, will I also be eligible and/or forced to take advantage of all these awesome changes?” The answers is no. All employees are exempt. Sorry.

Ok, so let’s all hustle our butts today, and be sure to implement and enforce all policy changes as hurriedly as possible. Yes, some customers may give you guff concerning the new and improved Fuck You policies. Tell them to call their congressman. Oh, one last thing. Fuck You Super-Patriot Freedom Fries are off the menu today. Bernie, the mouthy line cook, called in sick.

Hey, who knew the deep fryer was so complicated.

Hey Ellis

I have pledged to myself time and again to ignore the headlines and go back to writing Monongahela River Fish Power Rankings, or Gary Busey's Commencement Speech at Southwest Paducah Institute of Driveway Drainage, or whatnot. But I can't. My buddies say "less politics, and more Bumper Balls reviews." But I just can't.

The chorus of gobbledygook sung from the DC Shitshow All Star Band is an earworm that's munched into my brain and nests in the frontal cortex. (I mean, for Christ's sake, whenever Trump sullies the airwaves you can practically see the shiny zipper on the human body suit that disguises the babbling gollum underneath). Short of pouring potassium cyanide into my ear, I'll just have to deal. 

I don't blame Trump for the mess. He is who he is; I don't blame my four-year-old son when he dumps his bowl of noodles. I don't even blame the GOP in Congress, really. Sure, they're greedy cutthroat mercenaries who disembowel common feeders to feast like royalty themselves, but god love 'em for being true to themselves. Who I want to curb stomp with nuclear-tipped duct boots is the sea-to-sea league of nincompoops who rolled out the plush red carpets for the child king and his merry gaggle of dickheads. These people are the real disease, and they've developed pseudoscientific, dogmatic, patriotic antibodies to facts and critical thinking.

Regarding genetically engineering embryos to achieve certain traits—I recall my college Biology 301 professor saying that humans have evolved to the point where DNA can be altered so that a baby is born with blue-eyes and a cleft-chin, if that's the parents' desire. Therefore, the thinking goes, genetic engineering is as biologically natural as two penguins humping or a sprout of ragwort growing in a cruddy gutter. That concept blew my mind. That humans have developed the technology capable of destroying the planet via greenhouse gases or H-bombs, or mastered the mass manipulation skills to convince a zombie population to vote against their own interests, etc, etc, etc...I can't help but think that the self-inflicted oxidation of mankind is simply nature taking its course, albeit in a macabre yet poetic way, like when a bee stings an enemy to survive, but dies when it rips its fucking guts out attempting to flee. 

As George Carlin once said, we in America have front row seats to the freak show that is humanity. Maybe it's time to stop throwing tomatoes at the stage, and start eating popcorn instead. White cheddar, please.