The ABCs of Disaster

A week and a half ago, last Sunday, something very interesting happened at the restaurant where I am employed.

A) We were understaffed.
B) Sporks wrapped in wax paper were the day's utensils of choice.
C) Our manager was drunk.

This recipe, my friends, makes for a guaranteed, Cajun-style ass kicking served with a side of homemade chips n' dip any day of the week. After said ass kicking, our very inebriated manager decided that he needed to "step it up", so to speak, after concluding free lunch was no true reward for his valiant employees.

His version of compensation? A trip to Carowinds, North Carolina's premiere (as in only) theme park.

Come July 30, the day before departure, I learned that the Carowinds trip had been canned. Our expenditure account, used for employee rewards and benefits, had been drained on the owners' personal trip to Las Vegas. Also included in that package of bombshells was the news that a certain manger is fucking our head, half-his-age hostess, and the scoop that an after-hours party, complete with strippers and cocaine, took place at our bar nearly a month ago.

Apparently the suits don't seem to mind that this was all caught on camera. After all, they own the cameras.

In other disappointing work-related news, the "catalyst" of the film studio has returned. With the return of the "catalyst" comes the personal title of "water boy", which can now be added to my other esteemed intern duties such as "dog trainer" and "florist".