Adventures of Pizza Slut

To keep from being depressed about being the Head Pizza Slut, I have decided to compose a graphic novel based loosely on my adventures. (Minus pictures.)

Pizza Slut was all-powerful and could multitask like nobody’s business. She had the super powers of making unhappy customers satisfied, and of get the most lazy of employees to do the most disgusting of chores like scrubbing toilets and scraping crusted cheese off of pizza pans by using her secret weapons- her gargantuan boobies, which were only kept secret because of the extra safety pins she had to use in between the buttons of her managerial superhero uniform. On occasion, the buttons were unable to hold and would bust open, resulting in extra cleaning tasks being completed by those employees lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the semi-perfect cleavage. P. Slut’s only weakness was French fries. Oh, and attention given to her by anyone even remotely attractive. (Even the unattractive ones would sometimes distract her from her superhero duties.)

Anyhoo, on this particular day, P. Slut was flying around her restaurant putting proper dating labels on product and proofing dough, when she received a call from a completely unsatisfied customer.

“I am IRATE!” The customer screamed into the phone, while P.Slut tried to keep the rolling of her eyes from transmitting across the phone lines. “My pizza was made with less than the proper amount of pepperonis, and even though I ordered it easy on the pepperonis, I INSIST you make me a new one!”

P.Slut took a deep breath before she mustered up her most aquiescent customer service voice.

“I am SO sorry, ma’am, there is no excuse for such ridiculous mistakes, ESPECIALLY when you ordered it light pepperoni. My cooks OF COURSE should be able to read your mind when you order in such a way, and should surely have put the normal amount of pepperoni on your pizza. I will have them re-make it post-haste, and will fly it out to you myself.”

“Well, you had better just do that, and don’t think I’ll be giving you a tip for delivering it either. I have to buy my Pall Malls, after all.” The customer banged the phone down in P.Slut’s ear, and within moments, P.Slut was flying her super-awesome yellow Hover-Ranger to the customer’s house, Full-on pepperoni pizza in hand.

“Here you go ma’am.” P.Slut smiled politely, and bent over just enough for the woman to catch a glimpse of her super-human cleavage. The woman had been going to complain, but when she saw the most awesome boob-butt, she thought to herself that she’d better not, because there’s no telling when a woman with great tits is going to unleash a royal ass-whooping on someone who really needs it. The woman closed the door without a word, and P. Slut wiped her brow. She had once again saved her restaurant from receiving another Customer Incident Report.

The End.

The Concept of Caring

I had a talk with an employee the other day, and it was brought to my attention that the fact that I “don’t care about my job may have a negative affect on my employees.”
Now, to be fair, he was only quoting me about the “not caring” part. Because since I have been in my powerless position of power as Head Pizza Slut, the fact that I get none of the benefits to do all the work has made me somewhat of an underachiever as far as making my store “all it can be”. I believe my exact words were something along the lines of- “If my boss had found somebody better than me, he probably would have replaced me by now.”
It’s true, this is a terrible attitude to have, but after numerous conversations with my Boss With the Gorgeous Blue Eyes, he has confessed that he would rather have my half-assery as a faux general manager with my full amazing personality and specific set of job skills, than a manager giving his complete dedication with half as much personality and less multi-tasking ability than I. (At least until June) In other words, I don’t completely suck. Hence, I have come to the conclusion that I needn’t strain myself, as I will be getting paid the same amount of dollars despite my performance.
While there are those who may balk at such an attitude, I must point out that I have been begging for a demotion for the last six months- ever since I realized that I could have the same amount of pay with a quarter of the responsibility by just being a plain old server. So when my co-worker told me he may have to call my boss about my attitude, I said, “Please do.”
I decided long ago that in order to be the “manager” that I “should” be, I would have to work 80 hours a week for at least six months to ensure that everyone was trained and performing their duties to my satisfaction. While I have the work ethic to support such a commitment, I do not have the desire- at least not for pizza. Put me in a bookstore, or a shoe store, and I will gladly “care” enough to want to be there 700 hours a week. Hell, I wouldn’t even need any other employees in that case.
When I made this confession to my boss back then, and explained that my efforts would best be used elsewhere, he understood. Yet he has failed to replace me with someone more “caring”. And so, I am convinced he is resigned to my position on the matter.
In the end, I have composed a list of things more worthy of my caring efforts than giving away free pizza to unsatisfied customers: (because I have to give them free food, even when I KNOW that shit wasn’t fucked up)
1. Finishing my book(s)- I know it’s getting annoying that you all haven’t had a chance to run out and buy my best-selling novel that hasn’t been finished yet.
2. My family- ‘Twould be lovely to take my Rockstar’s Daughter to the zoo or for he and I to start the band we’ve wanted to for the last THREE YEARS….
3. Bloggery- because, after all, I have fans and shit.
4. Exercising- or baking cupcakes. (I lean toward the latter)
5. Becoming amazingly and ridiculously famous- I’m sure this would come with the publishing of my book(s).

P.S. To be clear, another employee has pointed out that I’m “the worst boss ever. For the company, that is. I’m great for the employees.”

A Regular Whore

It should be well-known by now that money matters not to me one iota.

I know that it cannot buy happiness.

Or love.

It cannot give you a hug, or get you to work, or give you super powers. (Although it can most certainly make you powerful.)

On the other hand:

I believe the lack of money is the root of all evil.

If you lack it, you cannot pay your bills, and then the Demon Bill Collectors start calling.

If you lack it, you cannot buy fabulous shoes that set you apart from all the other bums also trolling the aisles at Walmart.

It was said once in a Book I read one time that “the love of money is the root of all evil.”

I know I shall not be going to Hell for loving the money, because I surely don’t.

So someone PLEASE please PLEASE tell me why when my pretty boss where I’m a Pizza Slut offered me $2 more dollars an hour not to take the fabulous job at Crafts Direct and to stay miserable where I am, I took it. I am certainly a whore now, because I feel as if I just got paid to be fucked in the ass.

 

Quandry

I am proud to announce, my Lovelys, that I have a new job!

I also have one tiny huge problem.

A few weeks ago, I ventured into the happiest place on earth. No, not Disneyland, but a place filled with glitter, and paint, and feathers, and everything beautiful- Crafts Direct. For those of you not from frozen Minnesota, think of Hobby Lobby, or Michaels, or Joann Fabrics on steroids. While I am not the craftiest person in the world, (as I am able only to re-sew buttons onto shirts that have popped because of my magnificent busooms) I have dabbled in oil painting (and pissed off the person I did a portrait of), and jewelry making, and in the buying of peacock feathers for various projects. Of course, upon seeing the many signs posted : Now Hiring!, my imagination went wild at the thought of spending my paid days amongst sparkly and seasonal decorations. (and using my employee discount on these very things.) I filled out an application, feeling a bit disheartened as I observed the many other individuals doing the exact thing as I. I left not fully expecting to be called; for what would make the hiring gods of Crafts Direct pick my app out of the many that were surely piled upon their desks?

Needless to say, my Sparkle somehow managed to catch their eye, and I was hired upon my impressive interview.(where I wore everything crafty and bright.) While I truly detest being a pizza slut, I must stay working as one, and I will explain why.

It seems in my short year (or longest year of my life) as a pizza slut, I have become superior at my job. It also happens that there is no one there that is even semi-ready to take my place. There is also one other thing I may have forgotten to mention.

My boss is very pretty.

Let me point out- I love my Rockstar and he is my Beloved. That being said, I am a sucker for a pretty face. I have failed to mention the little fact that my boss is highly attractive because there is a small chance that I could be fired for saying so so blatantly on my blog. However, given my quandry, being fired would solve my dilemma.

You see, because my boss is pretty, and is not an assface, I feel terrible for leaving him without a sufficient replacement for me. Sadly, he knows that I find him to be easy on the eyes, and has surely used this to his advantage by giving me sad dejected puppy eyes when I told him I got a new job. Fuckin’ A.

“Can you not stay until January, so I have time to find a new you?” He pleaded with me. My heart broke.

While I have told him I will stay as full time as I can until he doesn’t need me anymore, (and that he will surely never find another me) I  explained how I have never dreamed of being a Pizza Slut, and am not fulfilling my destiny doing so. Unfortunateley, I suspect he knows of my histrionic personality, and has since assured me of my general awesomeness as a runner of my store. Such excessive attentions have always been my downfall.

I am also concerned that when I do eventually leave, all my employees shall follow me in the quitting.

Ask me why I care so about a job I don’t give a shit about. The only answer I can come up with is, “I have a pretty boss.” Damn me and my attraction to everything beautiful.

 

Tired

I’m too tired to sleep. So while I’m lying in bed trying to makeout with the Sandman, I think to myself, “I should get up.” But I’m too tired to. So I lie in bed until exhaustion overcomes me. In the morning, my damn alarm goes off and I think to myself, “I should get up and eat breakfast before work.” But I’m too tired to. So I doze off and on until the last possible second and then I rush to make myself semi-presentable. While washing my face, I think to myself, “I should do a super fun makeup effect with my newly purchased 100 shades of eyeshadow.” But I’m too tired. So I slap on an uninteresting shade of beige and off to work I go.

When I get to work, I think to myself, “I should call all the applicants and set up interviews.” But I’m too tired. So I struggle through yet another day at work with fewer people than I need because there is no one else to call. When I’m closing up the store, I think to myself, “i should really do as good of a job as I would like to.” But I’m too tired. So instead I do a job that is not up to my standards.

My skin is too tired to make the effort; my feet are too tired to wear heels; and my boobs are too tired to stay perky.

When my friends call me, I don’t answer, because I’m too tired to sit on the phone for extended periods of time, and I have nothing to talk about except work. When an intersting song pops into my head that I think I should write down, I don’t, because I’m too tired to think of a word that rhymes with “winter”. When I get home from work, I think to myself that I should make a beautiful lunch for my Rockstar to take in his ugly lunchbox, but I’m too tired. There was also a point last week when I almost turned down a little Naked Fun Time with my Rockstar because I was too tired. Almost.

Basically, in the end, I will have no friends because I’m too tired to hang with them, no Rockstar because I’m too tired to take care of him, and no job because I’m too tired to do what I’m getting paid to do. Then I will have all the time in the world to sleep…

Spreading the Sparkle

Ok, I realize that considering what you all know about me, this blog title sounds excessively dirty. However, I would just like to state that I’m not spreading what you think I’m spreading, so get your mind outta the gutter!

I have written extensively about the many joys that come with being a Pizza Slut. Not the least of them is the constant pressure to be happy and friendly, even when you are ready to stab someone in the head. A prime example is the following:

There is an old man that comes into my store on a regular basis. He is crotchety and cranky and all the other words used to describe a typical Grumpy Old Man. The first time I had the pleasure of waiting on him, he refused to make eye contact with me, barked his order at me, and dismissed me from his presence by ignoring the fact that I was standing in front of him. I left his table with a smile on my face and one thought in my head-” It shall be my one and greatest accomplishment and goal to make that man smile.”

Now why in the world would I not detest this crank with every fiber of my being because of his rude and unacceptable behavior? Why, when my coworkers see him and groan inwardly at the thought of taking his order, do I instead grin foolishly and skip out to his table to procure his mealtime wishes? I will tell you.

Having an excessively active imagination, I have composed a story about this man, and the reasonings for his depressive behaviors. I have told myself that he was once young, (and probably just as rude and cranky) and was married to a beautiful and lovely-personalitied woman who had enough patience to deal with him. Sadly, (in my head) his wife died at a reasonably-young age, and he has forever since been pining for her and been growing increasingly bitter with the world. And so, in his defense, I understand his demeanor, for I would be very sad also and probably much ruder to people if my beautiful wife had died and left me alone in a world full of fools.

In past visits this man has made to my store, I have ignored his surly demeanor and smiled happily whenever he has come to eat. When he looks firmly in my non-direction, I thank him for his business and ask him to come back and see me sometime. When he refuses to acknowledge my service, (or my presence) I smile and tell him to have a wondrous day. My efforts have not been in vain, because although his face has not once twisted in such a way that may be mistaken for a smile, he now looks into my eyes when ordering, thanks me for my service, and actually formed a complete sentence this week instead of grunting to ask for a cookie. Perhaps it was my perserverance as a Customer Maniac that did it, or the fact that I have excessively large chest fruit to admire, but he’s been back three times this week to see me. I may be so bold to hoarde his almost attentions, because yesterday someone else sat him and he was his grumpy old self. He only became less so when I hurried out to express my happiness at his visit. I’m telling you, one of these days, he’s gonna smile….

I Thought Summer Was Hot, But I Guess It’s Just Me

When I got terminated from my bookstore, one of my first thoughts actually was, “Hmm. I guess I will no longer be receiving excessive attentions from strange men that I don’t know.” When this occurred to me, I must admit that I was slightly distraught- not only does the attentions of weirdos make for interesting blog fodder, but despite the general creepiness of most advances I’ve received, they somehow still manage to satisfy my histrionic need for adoration.

It seems that my worries concerning this subject were pleonastic (Yes, I’ve been reading my thesaurus again.)

What I failed to realize at the time of my firing is that I had newly been hired as a Pizza Slut. That means- out of 17 employees, I work with exactly two other women. What do you think the reactions are of men (and boys) who get to work with my amazing self every flippin’ day?

Admit it. You’d be thrilled too.

Shall we go over just a few of the wanton and unbelievable comments I’ve received in the last 9 months? Here we go:

“You don’t understand. I’m completely falling in love with you. I don’t know what to do about my girlfriend.”

You may be surprised at this one, since I have not before this mentioned anything about an overly-amorous being at work.  Let us just say his job title rhymed with “moss”, and he no longer works with me. (I promise, I had nothing to do with that.)

“You’re gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. And your personality is awesome. I only have one question. Will you be my secret lover?”

Incidentally, this was the fourth sentence out of a new employees mouth after having met me. It left me wondering what it is about me that makes people think they can say these blatant things to a fellow employee….

“You are and amazing and powerful woman, Sparklebumps. That scares me.”

Oh yes. I am sooooo scary. BOO! MWAHAHAHHAA

“You’re totally awesome. I love working with you.”

I must admit, every employee I have has said this to me at some point, even the ones who don’t lust after me. It’s because, well… I’m awesome. I don’t mean to sound cocky, but it seems to be true.

“I find you to be very pretty. ”

Seems very sweet right? That comment was followed with- “And you have a really hot ass.”

“You’re gorgeous. I want to squeeze your butt, but I didn’t want to get fired. But I think you’re really beautiful.”

No, I didn’t let him squeeze my butt, just in case any of you wondered about my boundaries…

While I find it incredible that these comments are truthfully flung my way so frequently, I must admit that it’s quite good for my ego. It’s also a bit humorous that my allure seems to have no age limits. You would think a 20 year old would have a slightly different inclination than a 52 year old. But who am I to judge?

Angels Unawares

I’m sorry, but I took a break from life yesterday and slept almost the entire day. This is what happens when you work as a Pizza Slut for 17 hours on a Saturday.

One of the distinct “joys” that come from being able to do your job well is that you end up doing everyone else’s jobs. This is how I ended up being the open to close manager on Saturday at work. Let me just say, I wish the muscle relaxant my driver had given me at 11 at night would have been offered a little bit closer to 2 AM; do you know how hard it is to finish up a seventeen hour day when your body is whispering loudly “Just sleep. Fuck all this and just go lie down. None of it matters. SLEEP.”

I cannot really complain about my long day, (too much.) I worked with all awesome people who adore working for me, (or so they say, I’m sure there’s at least one ass kisser in there somewhere) and everyone was great about helping everyone else out. The only hiccup in the day is when my day driver got rear-ended; having never dealt with an accident yet while managing, let me assure you- many calls were made to ensure proper steps were followed. I guess if I am the active boss for now, things should be done correctly, eh?

A little before 11 at night, I was silently pitying myself because of the endless amount of work I still had yet to do before going home. A woman and her three boys came in to order carryout, and I’m sure that I didn’t quite keep my look of irritation from my face. However, upon taking the woman’s order, I realized what a friendly and wonderful individual she was, and so my bad attitude quickly dispersed. After slipping her order in the oven, I went back to wiping all the dining room tables down. The woman stood near the door and tried to keep her younglings from running rampant.

Being the friendly customer-friendly person that I usually am not, I asked the woman where she was from and what she was doing. She stated that she was from South Dakote, and since my Rockstar is, too, a native of that state, our conversation flowed freely. I found out she had worked as a Pizza Slut for 9 years, (poor woman), and we discussed the ups and downs of having to do more than our fair share of work.

As I went from table to table, the woman was trying to keep her rambunctious childern occupied, so she told them to pick up all the large garbage that was littering the floor so that I didn’t have to do it before I vacuumed. My heart was warmed when a chubby little boy of 8 came over by the table I was wiping and boasted, “I’m 8, and I’m better at this than my brothers!” I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond without offending the mentioned siblings, so I just grinned at him and winked, and was rewarded with a dazzling cherubic smile.

As I boxed up the woman’s order, I was amazed and astounded to see her pick up a cloth from my sanitizer bucket and proceed to wiped down the remaining tables and chairs that needed it. Because I was so over-worked and exhausted, there was nothing right then that I would have appreciated more at that point. It was then I realized who this family truly was.

There is a story in the Bible of Abraham. In it, three travellers appear and Abraham and his wife Sarah are kind enough to offer them food and drink. Because of their kindness, one of the men tells the couple that they will become parents, and the up-to-that-point barren Sarah laughs with joy. It is then revealed that the three men are ,in fact, angels The story is later mentioned again in Hebrews, and we are reminded not to forget to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. While they were no doubt real people, I believe that woman and her three little cherubs were sent to remind me that not everyone who orders pizza is a complete asshole, and that there is still some good in the world.

So the next time you aren’t feeling customer-friendly, be so anyway, because you may come to find out you’re talking to one of those angels unawares. XOXO

Mutant Beetles Attack Pizza Slut

Saturday night at precisely 11:59 P.M.,  an unsuspecting Pizza Slut was hauling out the kitchen trash after an extremely slow night when she was startled by a disgusting mammoth bug she almost squashed. An interviewed passerby going about his business at the time had the following to say about the reported incident:

I was standing across the street renting Breaking Dawn out of a Red Box when I heard a girl shrieking, “EEEEEEEEIIIIIIII!!!!!!” I turned around and saw a rather fortunate-looking young woman with large buzooms drop the bag of trash she was carrying and jump up and down in terror. She then ran inside and I heard her cry, “Come out! Come out and see the super creepy bug that’s out here!!!” I saw the cute chic return to the parking lot with a fellow employee who was much less attractive. The two women crouched down to click pictures of the said creeper with their cell phones before I heard the large-breasted woman squeal, “Squish it! Squish it with your foot! I wanna see what happens!” The other woman protested- “NO! I’m not going to step on that with my new shoe!”

After a few minutes of squealing and trying to decide whether to squash the beetle, the more attractive of the two decided to finish taking out the trash. I became frightened (and slightly turned on) when she jumped about 4 feet in the air and let out another squeal. “Another one!” she cried. “There’s another one over here! What the hell?!!??!” The other woman ran over to investigate, and then had the balls to kick the mutant 2nd beetle closer to the first, shrieking as she did so.

“I kicked it! I kicked it over to the other one, Sparklebumps!”

“EEEEEEIIIIIII!” The girl called Sparklebumps ran over and hunkered down by the two frightening bugs.

“Look!” I heard her cry. “The two creepies are racing! Go! Go! Go! Go!”

“Go! Go! Go! Go!” The brave woman who had footed the second beetle joined in egging the massive insects on.

“WOOOOOOO! My beetle won! My beetle won!” The red-haired chicky jumped up and down delightfully.

“NO!!!!!!! That was MY beetle!” I was about to go over and intervene on any arguement that was beginning, but then I heard the Sparklebumps girl speak again.

“OK, I’m creeped out now. I must go inside now, because these buggys are frickin’ creepy, dude.”

It has been confirmed that Sparklebumps and her coworker survived the mentioned attack with no serious injuries.

Click Next To Continue…

Why did I agree to take a 7-10 hour online course for a job that I no longer want to do? I’ll tell you why. Because I suffered a small bout of temporary insanity. When my boss Frenchie asked, “Sparklebumps, you want to take this course and this test, right? It will look very good on your resume.” I should have said, “I will not bow to your trickery, no. And I am not doltish enough to agree to waste 7 hours of my precious time that could be spent reading to listen to an automated voice drone on about the threat of Hepatitis A in the foody workplace.” Instead, I just smiled like an idiot and said, “Ok.”

Luckily, I can access the course from my own personal computer, and can watch all the fucktarded videos at my own pace, so as to have the ability to stop and rant on my blog about my utter foolishness. So here you go…

The beginning of the course started by informing me that food-bourne illnesses can be caused if my employees speak a different language and have different cultural habits than I. I believe they just gave me permission to only hire English-speaking people who read alot and eat French fries. I will use this video in court if ever I am accused of not practicing equal-oppurtunity employment.

After this, the increasingly-obnoxious automated voice told me to click next to continue.

They also informed me that employees with different levels of education may have a tough time following simple hand-washing rules and such. Here I would like to point out that I have at least 2 years less formal education than any of my co-workers, yet I am surprisingly much more intelligent than most of them. (I realize the fact that I’m wasting my time working as a Pizza Slut may not seem all that intelligent, but nevermind about that.) And I believe that anyone not able to follow the hand-washing video properly is instantly disqualified as a repeat employee.

There’s that “Click next to continue” again.

I must mention here the stellar Brawny man animation they have going on throughout this video. I didn’t realize the Brawny guy had other gigs. Hoorah.

The next portion of videos mentioned the problems involved when an employee comes to work sick, sneezing, vomiting, etc. In their words, I shouldn’t go to work if any of the above mentioned are happening. I KNEW there was a way I could get a day off…As I have just gotten done sneezing a moment ago, I am apparently disqualified from work tonight.

It was also mentioned that feces on hands causes viruses that can be spread. I don’t know about you, but my translation of this is- don’t poop on your hands. Or if you feel the absolute need to, follow the proper hand-washing procedures afterward. Singing “Happy Birthday” twice to ensure proper hand-washing time doesn’t seem all that politically-correct. What if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness?

Click next to continue.

Moving on to biological hazards.

Apparently mold is unacceptable in a restaurant environment. This seems odd to me since there are many gourmet cheeses that actually COME with mold attatched. They mentioned that mold will not necessarily cause sickness, and so I must ask- what’s a little mold?

Click next to continue.

They decided next to teach us about a bunch of diseases with unpronouncable Latin names. The problem is, if I wanted to be a doctor, I would have gone to school to be one. There was one that was mentioned that sounded expecially deadly, however. Hemmorrodhia colitis. When I first heard this term, I imagined myself as a superhero threatening my nemesis with hemmorrodhia colitis. I suppose if I would have been paying attention more closely, I would have learned what this actually was, and how to prevent getting it. However, I was busily anticipating that phrase I have grown so fond of hearing.

“Click next to continue.”

I feel by the time I finally wallow through the rest of these videos, I will be greatly relieved when the speaking stops and I actually don’t hear that automated bitch’s voice saying, “Click next to continue.”