Last night, I had more weird dreams. This time, about this job that I had back in college. I think it was probably induced by the crappy fast food I scarfed down at about midnight after revisiting the infamous turtle races. Not that I�m knocking low-rent �Tex-Mex� cuisine, or anything, but my dream was pretty fucked up.
So I�m back at the Restaurant of Terror, where I spent the better part of six hellish months my senior year in college. Only I�m not actually working there; I�m just visiting. Now, none of you guys were there when I worked at Restaurant of Terror, but I assure you here and now that there was absolutely no one involved in that experiment in human debasement that would be worth my setting foot back in that dirty hell-hole. No, I was there specifically to visit the fried chicken strips.
And let me tell you, for an organization chock full of dickless, turd-smoking pantywaists, Restaurant of Terror really made some delicious fried chicken strips! So there I am, suddenly in the kitchen again after all this time, and I�m looking around all furtive-like, afraid someone will spot me and know I don�t belong there. Only I�m evidently not that worried about getting spotted, because I decide to make myself a delicious fried chicken strip for the road.
Well, I look around and discover that since I left, the place completely revamped itself, and it�s all up-to-date and space age and shit. Plus they�d added a bunch of safety precautions that I used to bitch about them not having, so go figure. Those whores. Anyway, I�m dipping a chicken strip in the World Famous Restaurant of Terror Top Secret Recipe Blue Ribbon Delicious Fried Chicken Strip Batter of Wonderment and Overpriced Glory, when I look up and spot my old arch-nemesis, the Night Manager, Evil Bitch.
Now this part was kind of neat, because I haven�t seen Evil Bitch since lo those many moons ago when I told her to stick it in her craw and suck on it till her eyes popped, but my dream had apparently adjusted her appearance for age. Like, my dream had Age Progression, sponsored by�you know, whoever sponsors that stuff. She looked about ten years older (which is slightly inaccurate, as this was less than four years ago that I walked out of Restaurant of Terror for the last time, but whatever), and dress and hairstyle had been anticipated. She actually looked much better in my dream than she did in real life, so I wonder what that says about me?
But anyway, she walks up and she�s all, �What are you doing?� Casually, without losing my cool, I drop the chicken strip into the fry vat (incidentally, I dropped it into the wrong one and she got on my case about it, like, some things never change, I guess), and I go, �Oh, I just started today.� And I could tell that she kind of recognized me, but couldn�t place me, because she looks at me all suspicious and then goes, �Oh, okay.�
So she gives me a big lecture about following procedure and needing to keep up with the tickets and blah blah blah (I don�t remember that part, because I didn�t give a crap -- I was just nodding and waiting for her to shut the hell up so I could get my chicken strip and walk back out the door), and finally, I was out of there.
But I gotta tell you�as good as those chicken strips are? I don�t think I�ll ever go back to Restaurant of Terror. Ever.
Well, at least, not to work. I mean, I may be a man of principle, but I�m not made of stone, yo. Those chicken strips are good!
