After the success of my awesome new red boxers story on Monday, I thought it appropriate to cap this week off with another work-related story. Though this story features the rear side of that nether region of my body.
Many of you know that I worked at Dairy Queen during part of High School and a couple years into college. I started out just a normal dude workin' the counter, lovin' life, lovin' work. Wasn't long before I was promoted to "Team Leader", where I got a raise and was able to be in charge during shifts and open and close the store.
It was awesome. Seriously the best job ever.
I remember one particularly rough night partying, knowing full well that I had to be in to the Q early, around 8am-ish, to open the store.
Didn't stop me. Didn't stop my friend from ignoring my mild protests and feeding me more shots of that shitty rum and cans of Red Dog. Whatever, he was driving.
Like a goddamn runaway freight train barreling into a small congregation of baby-filled strollers and their MILFY mothers, 8am came hard and it came fast.
That goddamn alarm was screaming in my hear, my head was pounding, and working was the last thing I wanted to do. Even worse, because I was opening, it was gonna be a couple hours before the ice cream was even gonna be ready. "Eh, it's Saturday, the owner's probably not even going to be in," I assured myself.
As I arrived, yep, there was the maroon Chevy Suburban.
Crawled outta my whip, tried a few times to punch in the code of the always-locked back door that protects us from the weirdos outside before the owner greeted me with that constant smile of his from the other side of the door's window, let me in, and gave me a warm greeting.
Did a pretty good job of initially hiding my poor condition, choked out good morning, and jumped right into my opening duties.
The thing about opening and closing the store that made it great, were the lists. You had a checklist that you could literally go down, and make sure each duty was done sufficiently. Easy enough, right? Nah, not when you're rushing to get things done, and somebody inevitably fucks up their duties, leaving you with a choice - it's good enough (you leave it); it needs a little work (half-assed effort to fix it); or it needs to be redone (you sonofabitch).
And just like that, as I was crossing things off my list, for some reason when I started brewing the coffee, the smell got to me and my innards started brewing something of their own. Long story short, I made a mad dash for the men's room and moaned, groaned and blasted that poor terlet for what seemed like an eternity. Sweating, bleeding, probably a little bit of dying: it was a violent affair.
Twenty minutes later, as I'm stumbling back to my duties, I hear the owner beckon for me from his office.
"Oh, you don't look so good today."
"Yeah, I've felt better, maybe the flu."
"Yeah, sounds like it. Listen, it sounds like you might have a nervous colon. I have the same problem. Sometimes when I get up early, all the time, I have to go to the bathroom. Usually I just try to account for that and get up a little earlier."
"Huh, I'll try that next time."
And the worst part, on the weekends, they have a couple 14 year olds come in and dip the Dilly Bars for a couple hours. Oddly, one of their duties was to do a bathroom check, and any bathroom cleaning.