EvilMister Meets Another Retard

The joint I'm currently working at (and kicking some serious ass when it comes to the duties) likes to hire gomers from Express Personnel. This is because, for the most part, the people who come from there are unskilled laborers who are lucky if they can tie their shoes on properly (without, say, having to staple them onto their clubfeet). What does this matter?

You can work the living fucking hell out of your average unskilled laborer. You can punish that nonjob having motherfucker so hard that his eyeballs start to sweat. I know this because I was once at the receiving end. Now I, mighty EvilMister, am on the delivering end. Yeah, that's right, I punish the shit out of my fellow Express bitches. Why? Because I can, that's why.

This new dood we got is called ChronicSmoker. He's got the full meal deal when it comes to his nicotine habit. I've seen him roll his little pinners with one fucking hand, in the rain, waiting for the bus. His got the perquisite finger stains down to his first knuckle on both hands, and when he gets to the end of a smoke, man, that sonofabitch sucks. There is nothing left of the little hand rolled smoke save a greasy nicotine smudge on his fingers. I bet he could stick his fingertips into a fireplace and not feel anything.

ChronicSmoker is also, ahem, tall and ... round. And has a highpitched voice. And, if I'm not mistaken, doesn't have any teeth. (This is intel gathered from a distance, as there is no fucking way I'm gonna get close enough to this mojombo to find out whether he's got choppers or not ... worse still, he might have just one snaggle tooth and he'll use it to bore a hole into my skull to get at the juicy brains up in there.) This unholy tryptic of features (tall, fat, high voice) echoes through time and space and comes up with one creepy guy. I'm sure he's nice. Like, nice to baby kittens until he hugs them to death nice.

He said to me the other day, as we discussed the relative style and skill you can put forth when tossing 25 kilo bags around (which I no longer do, thanks very much), that he's glad he's not my girlfriend, because I'd hug her to death (I am proud to say that EvilMister is not only rapidly losing weight, but he's also growing muscle.)

I'm glad I'm not your girlfriend, because I'd hug her to death.

I didn't sleep well last night. I prolly won't sleep well tonight, either, because that shit is just fucking wrong. I could care less if this guy likes other guys. It's trite and cliche to say it, but 'some of my best friends are gay' is a true thing to say. I could care less. You're gettin' some, get some, motherfucker, and tell me all about it. No, it's the creep factor. Giant fat men with high voices don't get to say shit like that. They get to keep it bottled inside until they go home, strip down, then lather on the shaving cream and call themselves Jesus of the Soap Clan.

Also, the place we work at doesn't give us the full alottment of breaks most people are used to; we get the one coffee break and a half hour for lunch. I was perhaps a little shocked when, after nearly passing out on my first day from all the exertion, that I wasn't going to get that last break, but whatever. Water off a duck's back, man. We have a late lunch anyways, and two and half hours flys right the fuck by. ChronicSmoker, on the other hand, doesn't really breathe oxygen. He breathes cigarette, and as such, needs to replenish his dwindling reserves every few hours or he begins to whine incessantly about how a) we should switch over to 4 kilo bags (not realizing that we would still need to do a two thousand kilo batch into those bags, thereby making a shitload more picking up and bending over) or b) we really should get that last break because it's the law. (In my opinion, we should start doing 50kilo bags, 'cuz that's less overall bending, and if you bend with your knees like a good drone, you can do that all friggin' day.)

Now me, I could give a shit. As far as I know, it's a paid break, and if the guys don't wanna have us sit on our asses for fifteen minutes, that's fine. We spend at least that much standing around, waiting for the fucking machines to get fixed when they go down, and they go down every day. ChronicSmoker likes to complain a lot, which is okay by me so far, 'cuz he might be fat, a whiner, and has the approximate muscle mass of the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man hooked on Little Debbie's Cakes, but he does try.

He's just lucky that we've only been running one line of the surimi shit. We increased the speed of one our lines to roughly twice the usual, 'cuz we're all so fucking cool and shit, and once we start busting out that second line and start ripping out the bags like lightning, we're gonna see one of two things.

1. ChronicSmoker keels over dead on the spot, and the liquified nicotine and tar in his system begins to pool out of his ears onto the floor.
   
2. ChronicSmoker runs for the hills, leaving a trail of Zig-Zag wrappers and tobacco flakes gently flapping in his wake.
   

Either way, all we gotta do is call Express Personnel and have 'em send another zombie, hopefully someone who can actually lift 25 kilos (when we get the call, we are asked how much we can lift, and if this mojombo lied, he's paying the price now!)

Well, droogies, that's it for now!