Step Four: Service
Here’s some old "Dad’s Advice" for you: Work as a waiter at some point, even if it’s only a few months (fast food joints don’t count).
Despite being old as the hills, or maybe because of it, it’s good advice (often advice that has survived two or more generations is good advice, think of it as an advice filtration system). I worked in a bar/restaurant for a year or two while I was studying and it teaches you a lot. Working under pressure with constant deadlines (busy nights serving tables before the customers start whinging), working as a part of a team (despite Sarah refusing to talk to Jason because they broke up last night), being able to order another round of drinks for table 12 while remembering how table 6 wanted their steak cooked and which sauce they wanted. You get the idea, there’s a lot going on and you learn to keep on top of it all. Incredibly you can dress all of this up later in life as résumé filler, all the crap people like to see in a job applicant; "proactive" "team-player" "mostly-sober" "wears pants" etc.
This also helps you develop "people" skills, a term commonly used to replace the rather longwinded "dealing with people you don’t know and probably don’t like without resorting to smashing an overcooked steak in their stupid, fat faces" skills. Waiting tables and tending a bar give you a great view of wider society. You meet old married couples out for dinner, mums out for a coffee, teenagers on a first date and big families who have given their kids cocaine before letting them loose in the dining room (they’re going to smile at their "excited little darlings" even if you trip over one while carrying 4 bowls of soup).
One of the most important things you can take away from a job where you are the servant of others for a pittance of a wage is a sense of perspective. You gain a greater understanding of how a restaurant works and who is responsible for mistakes. I’ve had a customer abuse me because I told him the restaurant policy was that only children under 12 could have the "kid’s fish and chips". He was completely reasonable about this and proceeded to abuse me and the place I was working, I had obviously offended him and the last ten generations of his family. My bad. My response went something like this:
*pointing to my staff uniform shirt* "Mate, do you see this shirt?"
‘Yeah? What about it?’ *obviously assuming I’m about to jump up him*"Does it look like I make the big decisions around here, or that I get paid minimum wage to wait tables and cop abuse?"
‘Oh, right...’ *obviously deflated*
It’s amazing how quickly people feel bad for abusing you once the realise the truth; you’re getting paid the absolute minimum your boss can get away with before it becomes illegal and the working conditions are often less than ideal. In this instance read "less than ideal" as meaning "over-worked, under-staffed, zero recognition, stupid, repetitive and demeaning".
That said, you can have great fun and you learn a lot that is important later in life when you’re the customer, like if your steak is undercooked, there’s a good chance the chef stuffed it up and you probably shouldn’t blame your waiter/waitress, if you’re food is taking a while or you have to wait for a table it might be because the place is really busy. This happens sometimes when people all decide to eat at the same time, scientists refer to this phenomenon as "dinner". Once again, don’t blame the poor kid who just wants to make it through another 10-hour lunch-dinner shift alive. Besides, if you’re nice he/she might ‘forget’ to put your next round of drinks on your bill.
Tuesday 26 April 2011
Tuesday 19 April 2011
How to be a Man (Step 3)
Step Three: Get off the damn couch!
Few things are more upsetting that waking up with a fat, sweating heifer in your bed. One of these things is finding out that the fat, sweating heifer is YOU. So now we take at look at a Man’s Body. Ladies, un-moisten your crotches, there will be no shirtless fire fighters here today. Ok, fine! You can have one! But no more or you’ll spoil your appetite (and possibly start want unrealistic things).
We’re not talking about the chiseled jaw and rock hard abs of an underwear model. We shall consider that the equivalent of a rocket-powered school-bus; It’s be nice to have but it’s not really practical for everyday life.
Take a good look at yourself in the mirror. If you have "poor body image" it may not be a result of the media constantly blasting you with images of muscle-bound movie stars and athletes. There is a chance, just a chance mind you, that you feel like you’re fat, pale and unfit because you look like John Goodman after he discovered the all-you-can-eat buffet. There’s nothing wrong with that if you’re happy living the life that fat, pale unfit people live. You can complete all the video games you’ve been meaning to finish, you can ride a mobility-scooter down to the shops, you can wash yourself with a rag on a stick. Great, huh?
The other alternative is to actually look after yourself and occasionally go for a jog. This may be a foreign concept to some but being part of a sporting team, joining a gym, or just generally being regularly engaged in some physical activity more strenuous than masturbating can have unexpected benefits. Sporting teams often contain people who have similar interests, like drinking, and strippers, while drinking.
Other benefits include; leaving the house occasionally, socialising, cheerleaders, winning, end of season piss-trips, mid season piss-trips, discovering that strippers use your gym (they have to stay in shape too you know), strippers on stair-masters, strippers on fit-balls, and so on.
A friend of mine recently discovered the joys of movement though the medium of volleyball. If you’ve never watched women’s beach volleyball on TV you missed out on one of puberty’s great joys (alongside Victoria’s Secret catalogues and busty student teachers). My friend after some urging felt that his previous athletic endeavours had tapered off a little, much in the same way that sales of laser-disc players have tapered off, and decided to reacquaint himself with his old high-school sport of volleyball. The result was noticeable. His health improved, he regained some of his lost strength and he was more active and seemed to be generally happier. Who knew that the simple act of women jumping up and down in tight shirts could bring so much joy?
If one of your manly friends wants you to join him in a quick bout of bear-boxing or chainsaw-fencing you should wouldn't want to turn him down. You damn sure better not pony up some excuse like "I'm scared" or "i'm busy playing xbox". Life is about getting up and doing something with your day. No-one wants to sit there at the end of a day and think "i did absolutley nothing today, same as yesterday" unless they've earned it and are bone weary from spending the last three weeks running from hostile militia in a war-torn province of Craplakistan when you're not busy seducing the entire population of the local covent. If you've done that you have earned the right to do nothing for a couple of days. Once you're done bragging. And rehydrating.
A man should generally keep himself reasonably fit. If you’re a Man, you should be able to spring into action when required. You should be able to carry heavy objects for attractive women, carry attractive women, or at least have a waist line smaller than the tyres on your car. No-one likes hairy bitch-tits, but you don’t need to have a six-pack to be a Man or have guns that need to be licensed in three states. You just need to know you’re capable of difficult physical tasks, like outrunning the fat chick you were laughing at after she slid off the bench you just spent an hour teflon-coating.
Trust in this, you’re never going to wish you were less fit, especially when you’re vaulting a six-foot fence with your pants in your hand because that cute little blonde’s dad just came home and found you two in the spa. On a school night. The week after you broke up with her sister.
Few things are more upsetting that waking up with a fat, sweating heifer in your bed. One of these things is finding out that the fat, sweating heifer is YOU. So now we take at look at a Man’s Body. Ladies, un-moisten your crotches, there will be no shirtless fire fighters here today. Ok, fine! You can have one! But no more or you’ll spoil your appetite (and possibly start want unrealistic things).
We’re not talking about the chiseled jaw and rock hard abs of an underwear model. We shall consider that the equivalent of a rocket-powered school-bus; It’s be nice to have but it’s not really practical for everyday life.
Take a good look at yourself in the mirror. If you have "poor body image" it may not be a result of the media constantly blasting you with images of muscle-bound movie stars and athletes. There is a chance, just a chance mind you, that you feel like you’re fat, pale and unfit because you look like John Goodman after he discovered the all-you-can-eat buffet. There’s nothing wrong with that if you’re happy living the life that fat, pale unfit people live. You can complete all the video games you’ve been meaning to finish, you can ride a mobility-scooter down to the shops, you can wash yourself with a rag on a stick. Great, huh?
The other alternative is to actually look after yourself and occasionally go for a jog. This may be a foreign concept to some but being part of a sporting team, joining a gym, or just generally being regularly engaged in some physical activity more strenuous than masturbating can have unexpected benefits. Sporting teams often contain people who have similar interests, like drinking, and strippers, while drinking.
Other benefits include; leaving the house occasionally, socialising, cheerleaders, winning, end of season piss-trips, mid season piss-trips, discovering that strippers use your gym (they have to stay in shape too you know), strippers on stair-masters, strippers on fit-balls, and so on.
A friend of mine recently discovered the joys of movement though the medium of volleyball. If you’ve never watched women’s beach volleyball on TV you missed out on one of puberty’s great joys (alongside Victoria’s Secret catalogues and busty student teachers). My friend after some urging felt that his previous athletic endeavours had tapered off a little, much in the same way that sales of laser-disc players have tapered off, and decided to reacquaint himself with his old high-school sport of volleyball. The result was noticeable. His health improved, he regained some of his lost strength and he was more active and seemed to be generally happier. Who knew that the simple act of women jumping up and down in tight shirts could bring so much joy?
If one of your manly friends wants you to join him in a quick bout of bear-boxing or chainsaw-fencing you should wouldn't want to turn him down. You damn sure better not pony up some excuse like "I'm scared" or "i'm busy playing xbox". Life is about getting up and doing something with your day. No-one wants to sit there at the end of a day and think "i did absolutley nothing today, same as yesterday" unless they've earned it and are bone weary from spending the last three weeks running from hostile militia in a war-torn province of Craplakistan when you're not busy seducing the entire population of the local covent. If you've done that you have earned the right to do nothing for a couple of days. Once you're done bragging. And rehydrating.
A man should generally keep himself reasonably fit. If you’re a Man, you should be able to spring into action when required. You should be able to carry heavy objects for attractive women, carry attractive women, or at least have a waist line smaller than the tyres on your car. No-one likes hairy bitch-tits, but you don’t need to have a six-pack to be a Man or have guns that need to be licensed in three states. You just need to know you’re capable of difficult physical tasks, like outrunning the fat chick you were laughing at after she slid off the bench you just spent an hour teflon-coating.
Trust in this, you’re never going to wish you were less fit, especially when you’re vaulting a six-foot fence with your pants in your hand because that cute little blonde’s dad just came home and found you two in the spa. On a school night. The week after you broke up with her sister.
Monday 18 April 2011
F**K SUBWAY!
How hard is it to get f**king ‘sandwich’ right? It’s not a complicated order. It’s a f**king pizza sub! There’s two kinds of meat that go on it. If you’ve only put one on there, your job’s only half done.
Back the f**k up there princess, don’t go passing that half-dressed bread roll down the line just yet! Oh no, you’re not done yet, I whole-f**king-heartedly congratulate you on managing the difficult ‘pepperoni’ part of this sandwich-making saga, but you still need to take a good hard look at yourself, stare that salami in the eye and lay the bad boy down on my sandwich.
That’s right mother f**ker.
Pepperoni. Salami. Both at the same time. Your mind has officially been blown. It’s a mother f**king pizza sub. Yeah, you did that. You successfully navigated a recipie consisting of;
Bread
Pepperoni
Salami
Cheese
Now on to the FAQ:
Have I f**ked up this sandwich?
Oh yeah. It’s well f**ked now.
Can I still save it and sell it to this poor c**t?
Sure, why not. What’s wrong with it?
I only put one kind of meat in the pizza sub, made the cheese look like it was layed out by some a quadraplegic in the middle of a seizure and I’ve already toasted the poor f**ker within an inch of it’s life.
Should I just check some more meat on top of this crime scene of a sandwich and shove it back into the toaster?
Yeah, why the f**k not? Sure the guy can see you doing it so you better ask him if he actually wants what he ordered first. That’ll insult his intelligence. Then spray that processed meat-imitation all over the place so the sandwich looks like an axe-murder’s flesh-based stress ball. Now cook that f**ked up train-wreck of a sandwich. Blacken the f**k out of it. Make it burn like you want every f**king customer to. You'll know it's done when it looks like a the contents of an orphan's lunchbox after it's been pulled from the ashes of the school fire that killed him and his three-legged dog, lucky.
Got it! It smells a lot like burnt plastic and deisel. What's next?
Last step here champ, take that fire-raped corpse of a lunch out of the oven, turn around and dump it on the salad bench, smile, and ask the poor c**t what salads he’d like on his charred pile of ashes like everything is hunky-f**king-dory.
F**k yeah!
Back the f**k up there princess, don’t go passing that half-dressed bread roll down the line just yet! Oh no, you’re not done yet, I whole-f**king-heartedly congratulate you on managing the difficult ‘pepperoni’ part of this sandwich-making saga, but you still need to take a good hard look at yourself, stare that salami in the eye and lay the bad boy down on my sandwich.
That’s right mother f**ker.
Pepperoni. Salami. Both at the same time. Your mind has officially been blown. It’s a mother f**king pizza sub. Yeah, you did that. You successfully navigated a recipie consisting of;
Pepperoni
Salami
Cheese
Now on to the FAQ:
Have I f**ked up this sandwich?
Oh yeah. It’s well f**ked now.
Can I still save it and sell it to this poor c**t?
Sure, why not. What’s wrong with it?
I only put one kind of meat in the pizza sub, made the cheese look like it was layed out by some a quadraplegic in the middle of a seizure and I’ve already toasted the poor f**ker within an inch of it’s life.
Should I just check some more meat on top of this crime scene of a sandwich and shove it back into the toaster?
Yeah, why the f**k not? Sure the guy can see you doing it so you better ask him if he actually wants what he ordered first. That’ll insult his intelligence. Then spray that processed meat-imitation all over the place so the sandwich looks like an axe-murder’s flesh-based stress ball. Now cook that f**ked up train-wreck of a sandwich. Blacken the f**k out of it. Make it burn like you want every f**king customer to. You'll know it's done when it looks like a the contents of an orphan's lunchbox after it's been pulled from the ashes of the school fire that killed him and his three-legged dog, lucky.
Got it! It smells a lot like burnt plastic and deisel. What's next?
Last step here champ, take that fire-raped corpse of a lunch out of the oven, turn around and dump it on the salad bench, smile, and ask the poor c**t what salads he’d like on his charred pile of ashes like everything is hunky-f**king-dory.
F**k yeah!
Tuesday 12 April 2011
How to be a Man
Ok, so this whole premise may be set up to fail. I may be basing my assumptions on a set of criteria that has never and will never exist beyond a small group that have assumed some imagined authority without any real right. That said, I’m going to spell it out anyway. Like some Primordial Pope I’m about to stride out of the prehistoric ocean and start throwing rules around that must be obeyed for fear of an intangible punishment sometime in the future, maybe.
So this is it: How to be a Man.
Step One: Possess Testicles.
Seriously, I shouldn’t have to say it, but there it is. The most basic requirement of being a man: man junk. I’m sure someone will get upset by this requirement’s obvious gender bias but those people should probably find a better use for their time, like playing in traffic or responding to talk back radio. Which brings me to step two...
Step Two: Pity Idiots
Idiots will pop up from time to time in life. That might be a bit generous, "idiots are everywhere and everyday of your life will be a constant battle for sanity" is probably more accurate. A man shouldn’t directly make fun of idiots. It’s not their fault they’re stupid. You wouldn’t laugh at someone in a wheelchair, would you? No, you’d to the right thing and wait until they’re out of ear shot and then refer to them as "the world’s most half-assed transformer".
The same goes with idiots, you nod and smile while they explain how their cat is so interesting, or their tax reform plan is actually quite fair, or their election campaign is off to a great start, then you politely turn away and smile to your friends (you’ll need friends for this part) while waiting for the cheerful tool to move out of earshot. Once safely outside the idiot’s bubble of aural agony you can begin recounting how halfway through their latest plan for applying a carbon-tax to flatulence you discovered you no-longer feared death.
What’s important is that you don’t hate them. It’s not their fault they’re idiots. Just accept their differences and make a donation once a year to an idiot-related charity. Their names usually end in the words "football club".
Bad news Champ. This isn't the whole list, stay tuned for more helpful hints on how not to be a burden on society and a new bench-mark for douche-baggery.
So this is it: How to be a Man.
Step One: Possess Testicles.
Seriously, I shouldn’t have to say it, but there it is. The most basic requirement of being a man: man junk. I’m sure someone will get upset by this requirement’s obvious gender bias but those people should probably find a better use for their time, like playing in traffic or responding to talk back radio. Which brings me to step two...
Step Two: Pity Idiots
Idiots will pop up from time to time in life. That might be a bit generous, "idiots are everywhere and everyday of your life will be a constant battle for sanity" is probably more accurate. A man shouldn’t directly make fun of idiots. It’s not their fault they’re stupid. You wouldn’t laugh at someone in a wheelchair, would you? No, you’d to the right thing and wait until they’re out of ear shot and then refer to them as "the world’s most half-assed transformer".
The same goes with idiots, you nod and smile while they explain how their cat is so interesting, or their tax reform plan is actually quite fair, or their election campaign is off to a great start, then you politely turn away and smile to your friends (you’ll need friends for this part) while waiting for the cheerful tool to move out of earshot. Once safely outside the idiot’s bubble of aural agony you can begin recounting how halfway through their latest plan for applying a carbon-tax to flatulence you discovered you no-longer feared death.
What’s important is that you don’t hate them. It’s not their fault they’re idiots. Just accept their differences and make a donation once a year to an idiot-related charity. Their names usually end in the words "football club".
Bad news Champ. This isn't the whole list, stay tuned for more helpful hints on how not to be a burden on society and a new bench-mark for douche-baggery.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Self Esteem vs. Pride
Here’s a common question for you: "What’s wrong with kids these days?"
Short answer: some happy bastard gave them self esteem.
That’s right; a bunch of whiney brats being told they’re the greatest thing the world has ever produced (apologies to alcohol for this outright lie) has resulted in the degradation of modern society and will probably result in your own death during the zombie apocalypse. Maybe not, but still....
The problem is that everyone has been so concerned with reinforcing children’s belief that they are special, unique and can do whatever they put their minds to! Yay! This, of course, is an outright lie. Not everyone can grow up to be a rock star or astronaut, some people are destined for the glamorous life of a telemarketer, garbage truck driver, or security guard at a late night fast food outlet. We need these people, society needs everyone no matter how socially inept, ignorant or ginger (notable exceptions include the hot chick from Mad Men and both of her exceptional exceptions).
As a result of retarded offspring having the lie that they have something of value to offer the world drilled into them so successfully we have young adults walking around bars and nightclubs with the mistaken belief they can do no wrong. Despite the abundance of evidence to the contrary provided by their clothes, choice of drink/music/language, and their insistence that everything should be solved with quick brawl with odds of 10:1 in their favour. Some teacher or guidance councillor or self-esteem reinforcing cheerleader somewhere told these kids they were just super, and should never let anyone tell them otherwise. The problem is that they were stupid enough to believe it.
When your friends tell you "You can do it" before you try to jump fifty busses in a golf cart, that’s them offering encouragement (there’s also a good chance they want to see you dead if they suggested you try and jump fifty busses in a golf cart). That doesn’t mean you should believe them with absolute certainty. Remember, people said the Titanic was unsinkable. Shortly after that they remarked on the amount of water in their stateroom, this may have been followed by remarks such as "mmrbll" and "blup blup bloop". This was a case of people being very, very wrong.
Don’t get me wrong, self esteem is a good thing. It does however require something else that all these child-rearing experts seem to have forgotten: SOMETHING TO BASE IT ON! You know why sports stars have such great self esteem? Because they’re stupidly good at something that they obviously value. Possibly also because they tend to sleep with beautiful women too. That probably doesn’t hurt.
Kids need something to base their self esteem on. There’s a word for when you’re good at something and you feel good about yourself because of it. That feeling is called "Pride". Not everyone is good at everything. Albert Einstein was a terrible break-dancer, he made up for this by having awesome hair and the odd theory about the workings of the universe. If his parents had encouraged him to keep popping and locking instead of sitting down with his maths and science homework we might have ended up in a very different world. Or not, whatever.
If Rebecca Black’s parents hadn’t encouraged their obviously tone-deaf daughter to have a crack at show-biz millions of people might have avoided chronic ear-bleeding. The problem was that they built up her self esteem, not her pride. Those hapless brat-breeders no doubt cheered on their little f**k-trophy every time she tried to burst into song as a child, no matter how many family pets ran away or attempted suicide. We could have all been saved if only Mr. Black ahd sat his little angel down, looked her in her eyes and said "Sweetheart, your Mother and I love you, but you can’t sing. You can’t carry a tune in a bucket and every time your little mouth opens I come that little bit closer the beating you to death with a scotch bottle."
Pride: It’s like self esteem but some snot-nosed little shit might have to actually put in some hard work and get good at something first.
Short answer: some happy bastard gave them self esteem.
That’s right; a bunch of whiney brats being told they’re the greatest thing the world has ever produced (apologies to alcohol for this outright lie) has resulted in the degradation of modern society and will probably result in your own death during the zombie apocalypse. Maybe not, but still....
The problem is that everyone has been so concerned with reinforcing children’s belief that they are special, unique and can do whatever they put their minds to! Yay! This, of course, is an outright lie. Not everyone can grow up to be a rock star or astronaut, some people are destined for the glamorous life of a telemarketer, garbage truck driver, or security guard at a late night fast food outlet. We need these people, society needs everyone no matter how socially inept, ignorant or ginger (notable exceptions include the hot chick from Mad Men and both of her exceptional exceptions).
As a result of retarded offspring having the lie that they have something of value to offer the world drilled into them so successfully we have young adults walking around bars and nightclubs with the mistaken belief they can do no wrong. Despite the abundance of evidence to the contrary provided by their clothes, choice of drink/music/language, and their insistence that everything should be solved with quick brawl with odds of 10:1 in their favour. Some teacher or guidance councillor or self-esteem reinforcing cheerleader somewhere told these kids they were just super, and should never let anyone tell them otherwise. The problem is that they were stupid enough to believe it.
When your friends tell you "You can do it" before you try to jump fifty busses in a golf cart, that’s them offering encouragement (there’s also a good chance they want to see you dead if they suggested you try and jump fifty busses in a golf cart). That doesn’t mean you should believe them with absolute certainty. Remember, people said the Titanic was unsinkable. Shortly after that they remarked on the amount of water in their stateroom, this may have been followed by remarks such as "mmrbll" and "blup blup bloop". This was a case of people being very, very wrong.
Don’t get me wrong, self esteem is a good thing. It does however require something else that all these child-rearing experts seem to have forgotten: SOMETHING TO BASE IT ON! You know why sports stars have such great self esteem? Because they’re stupidly good at something that they obviously value. Possibly also because they tend to sleep with beautiful women too. That probably doesn’t hurt.
Kids need something to base their self esteem on. There’s a word for when you’re good at something and you feel good about yourself because of it. That feeling is called "Pride". Not everyone is good at everything. Albert Einstein was a terrible break-dancer, he made up for this by having awesome hair and the odd theory about the workings of the universe. If his parents had encouraged him to keep popping and locking instead of sitting down with his maths and science homework we might have ended up in a very different world. Or not, whatever.
If Rebecca Black’s parents hadn’t encouraged their obviously tone-deaf daughter to have a crack at show-biz millions of people might have avoided chronic ear-bleeding. The problem was that they built up her self esteem, not her pride. Those hapless brat-breeders no doubt cheered on their little f**k-trophy every time she tried to burst into song as a child, no matter how many family pets ran away or attempted suicide. We could have all been saved if only Mr. Black ahd sat his little angel down, looked her in her eyes and said "Sweetheart, your Mother and I love you, but you can’t sing. You can’t carry a tune in a bucket and every time your little mouth opens I come that little bit closer the beating you to death with a scotch bottle."
Pride: It’s like self esteem but some snot-nosed little shit might have to actually put in some hard work and get good at something first.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)