Tag Archives: pizza slut

Pizza Whore


I have officially graduated to the level of Pizza Whore, because last night I just frickin’ bent over and took it up the ass.

No, I didn’t have sex on the make-table (though there IS a legend that that has happened in my store in the past). I just went to work and had the joy of getting the ass-pounding of my life.

Just so you know, my co-manager Awesome is responsible for the term “ass pounding” when it comes to being so busy you are completely buried with no hopes of a respite.

I may have mentioned that at this point I’m not exactly thrilled to go to work every day. The whole manager thing makes this so. I honestly cannot imagine anyone saying, “Oh yes! Please let me go to work and not make tips and yet be completely responsible for all the shit that could go down! Moniter screens going out? I got that handled. After all, I’m making less than the drivers. Running out of dough? I don’t mind, because I get to wear this awesome little name tag that says manager on it!”

Fuck my life.

It is true when They say (whoever They is) that you can’t go back. I’ve tried. In fact, I’ve begged to go back to just being a server, but since there is no one who can do my job as awesomely as I, I am stuck. So the only option is to find a new job. Is anyone out there looking for a slightly-neurotic , highly-intelligent,Triple-DDD’d chic to shovel shit or lick your kitchen counters clean? Anything that is less detestable than managing Pizza Sluts?

The night couldn’t have started any better. After all, my cook was at least decent enough to supply a doctor’s note when he decided to call in. Luckily, I had the new cook there who doesn’t completely suck that begrudgingly stayed, because he didn’t want me to get ass-fucked. As if that would have helped.

You may have noticed when watching commercials that we have this obnoxious Box Dinner Deal going on. If there is anything decent left you people, you will refrain from ordering these until I have found a new job. Simply because I do not think I can handle running out of prepped dough one more time without taking that giant pizza cutter and slashing my throat with it.

After running out of dough because the entire population of St. Cloud, (and some of St. Joe) called to order a Dinner Box, I was highly distraught when we had 15 MORE orders for the Box Deal on my screen and no dough. (We had no dough because every pan had been prepped ahead of time and we went though it all in less than 2 hours.) I called my boss Frenchie only to have him tell me he couldn’t come in because he took pain meds. I believe my exact words were, “fuck this.” I will be very in touch with my emotions when I say- “I was very ANGRY with my boss. I was very ANGRY with him.”

My blood pressure is rising, so I must desist writing about this for now. Just know that I get to do it all over again tonight and I’m not exactly thrilled about it. But calls to the boss’s boss were made.

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Purgatory’s Not So Bad When People You Like Are There


The Purgatory I speak of is Work.

While I no longer relish going to work every day as I did when I worked at my bookstore (a lack of thousands of books will do that), I can now say I only dread the days when Little Miss Attitude is at work.

I arrived at work last night not extremely thrilled to provide my managerial skills. (This being because the caveman-aged computer screens at work seem to go out every time I manage) Luckily, my day was brightened when Frenchie informed me of a pleasant email I received from his boss stating my superior handling of said computer situations. Also, I am happy to report that the new server that has been hired seems to like me, and vice versa, though I haven’t a French accent to properly pronounce her South American name.

A little while after clocking in, one of my drivers informed me that our self-proclaimed douche/asshole delivery driver was on the phone for me. Douchey (we shall call him) just called to inform me that instead of being 6 minutes late as he usually is, he was going to be 10. While unneccessary for him to do so, Douchey made said call because he has decided I am likable and actually can perform my job to his standards. I told him, “It’s quite alright that you’ll be late. I’ll just write you up when you get here.” (A little joke we have amongst ourselves to make jabs at Little Miss Attitude.)

After the night started to get underway, I was cutting and boxing our lovely pizza creations, while bossing my boss Frenchie around. He needed said bossing simply because my boobage presence makes him distracted and out of sorts. He thanked me for my direction, stating that a pair of Dominatrix heels would go well with my no-nonsensical attitude. I agreed; however, said heels are not company-appropriated non-slip.

Things went well with no screen blackouts or disastrous mishaps, and after the rush, Douchey, the Narcoleptic waitress, and I began conversing on serious matters such as Apron Incidents and pink dicks. (The pink dick conversation was started by Little Miss several weeks back when she informed all present that she didn’t like them.) Narcolep let me know (after discussions of non-sex happening during the Apron Incident) that I am, in fact, every NORMAL man’s fantasy (what with the nakedness and horniness and all), while Douchey proclaimed that he couldn’t get past the idea of me in an apron sans clothes. (Or in his words, “I didn’t really need to picture that”) What hilarious and non-work-appropriate conversation ensued I will spare the details of, but suffice to say that it was great to actually be at work with people who don’t tell me I’m fat. (Douchey I’m quite certain would be honest if I asked him, because he’s honest like that, so I have no intention of asking.)

At precisely 11 PM (closing time), while Douchey was out on a delivery, I received a phone call asking for a pizza to be delivered. I regrettedly (haha) informed the man that we were closed; then he asked, “Isn’t it 10:59?” I fibbed and said, “I’m sorry, no. It is, in fact, 11:02.” Then the man said, “It’s not nice to lie, Twinkie!” The caller was Douchey coming back from his delivery, just fucking with me. (He for some unknown reason has nicknamed me Twinkie, which is better than his first choice of Cheeseburger. We decided he subconciously picked Twinkie because everyone likes Twinkies… There was some talk of cream-filled in there too, but nevermind about that) All together, the night was not half bad.

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Because Tomorrow Is Another Day…


Oops, I mean today is another day. If you want to be technical and all.

My day yesterday didn’t really start out so great.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I lost my pants.

No, I did NOT have my Rockstar around to rip them off of me, if that’s what you thought I meant.

I meant that I couldn’t find my extra pair of work pants, and my main pair was dirty. I didn’t have enough time in the morning to throw a load of laundry in before work, so as I stood there pants-less, I washed the dirty pair by hand that I dug out of the mountain of dirty clothes that has accumulated (because I’m working 11 hour days now)  and proceeded to  dry them with the hair dryer. (Very classy) Then off to work I went.

I am quite certain that my foul mood throughout the day was at least partially due to the fact that my Rockstar has been in South Dakota since Friday. I miss him, and I am becoming increasingly horny at every moment. So when I  was working as a Pizza Slut today, and it was very busy, and the cook we had is evolving from a turtle (I’m quite certain of this) and I found out I got to close with Little Miss Attitude tonight, it is quite understandable that I (to put it mildly) was ready to strap a bomb to my chest and blow the Hut to smithereens.

The very special highlight of my day was when Delightfulness came in to do her orientation, and I got to give her a hug. (Two, in fact.) Her smiling face and fierce glam-rock outfit made me happy. And then she went away. And the day returned to Hell.

Oops, Frenchy forgot to schedule another server. More money for me- or so we thought. We proceeded to (in Awesome’s words) receive the ass-pounding of our lives, complete with short-staffedness. This in itself would not have been such a disaster, (since I don’t mind a nice ass pounding every now and then) but the fact that Little Miss Attitude was “managing” meant that I got to spend the night doing everybody else’s jobs.

(Little Miss Attitude is 18, and attempting to procure her place as a shift-manager. The only reason she is still semi-managing is because I haven’t had time to do all my training yet. She spends her shifts eating Cinnamints, standing around, babbling about God-knows-what to anyone who will listen, and generally bossing people around while maintaining her laziness. When she becomes angry, or upset, her language shifts to Ebonics, and no one can understand her.)

After the harshest part of the ass-pounding, I tried my damndest to get my shit done and get the hell out of there. Sadly, people kept streaming in at various intervals; the dishes were so piled up in back I could not add one more plate to them; and the phone kept ringing.

While I was cleaning the John(s), a couple came in and stood there for several minutes. Little Miss did not acknowledge them in any way, nor did she find it necessary to come and tell me there were customers to wait on. When I came out of the loo, I apologized profusely to said customers and gave them extra superb service. Then I went in back to throw about a billion dishes in the dishawasher.

When this couple came up to pay, the two other people working did not feel like getting the register, and so yelled for me. (Because apparently I’m the only one who can help customers) The couple asked where the manager was, and commented on the fact that I seemed to be the only one actually doing work. (I’m glad someone noticed.) The woman informed me that she would be making a call to Frenchie in the tomorrow to inform him of his misfit employees. Then back to the dishes I went.

I paused for less than thirty seconds at one point, only to have Little Miss berate me and tell me to get going on my shit. Yes. I blew half a gasket. I informed her that I was working my ass off and she told me to quit my attitude. (Insert expletive here)

After I had most of my duties accomplished, Little Miss informed me (for the third time) that many boxes needed to be folded before I departed. I did quite a few, and then thought “You know what? I have to be back here in less than 11 hours. I shall do more boxes in the morning.” Little Miss went on to say that 100 more boxes needed to be folded, and I informed her of my plan to do them in the morning. She said, “I don’t care what you’re going to do in the morning; they need to be done tonight. If you don’t do them, I’m gonna write you up.” Fuckin’ write me up.

In general, I believe that when a manager tells you to do something, you should do it. In fact, I think that you should go above and beyond what is requested of you. That may be the reason I washed 200 dishes when that was not my job to do, and did my best to leave the store as clean as I would leave my house, despite having worked a 13 hour day with no break, (or meal). But I’m sorry. If I say that I will do whatever it is that is requested, (even if I plan on doing it the next day) and I get told I’m going to be written up- FUCK THAT SHIT. I left.

Tomorrow (or today) will be better. Because it couldn’t possibly be any fucking worse.

P.S. I cannot be completely disappointed in the day. I DID make $107 in tips.

P.P.S. I would like to state that this post is not a complaint. It is stating  fact. I appreciate having a job when so many others don’t.

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What Would You Do If….(Pizza Slut Edition)


What would you do if:

#1 A white trash loser with a Southern accent literally shooed you away and said,”Go’on now. Get on outta here! I told ’em not to send you back here. Just get on outta here. Go’on now.” after complaing about you for absolutely no reason?

What I would do: Snort and walk away and then mope around saddened while glaring at said man occasionally until he leaves.

#2 You dumped a flaming hot pizza onto your hand and  into your apron?

What I would do: Say “Shit! Fuck! That was hot!” a little too loudly, and then look around and notice the little girl standing nearby waiting for a refill who’s ears have just been assailed by curse words.

#3 The Way You Make Me Feel came on the radio while you were saucing and cheesing?

What I would do: Sing under my breath while continuing to sauce and cheese, until the spirit of Michael Jackson possessed me and I could no longer resist the urge to screech, “HEE-HOO!” while thrusting my hips and grabbing my crotch. (I think I should have set the pepperoni down first…”

#4 You answer the phone and SMILE while issuing the standard greeting- “Thank you for calling Pizza Hut! My name is Sparklebumps, would you like to hear our specials?”- only to have the person on the line say, “No. Do you guys have any specials?” Repeatedly.

What I would do: Roll my eyes and continue to SMILE while taking their order, then when they hang up, bash the phone reciever mercilessly onto the cradle.

#5 The screechy-voiced woman you worked with deems you worthy of talking to now, and (since she only complains when she has something to say) continues to complain to you about other coworkers?

What I would do: Nod and remain mute,(hoping no reaction will make her stop talking to you) hoping her vocal chords with magically disintigrate so as to rid yours and others ears of the horror that is her voice.

#6 Your managar Awesome’s hubby comes in and she says to him, “Show Sparklebumps your tattoes!” which he obliges by pulling up his shirt after having just met you?

What I would do: Think, “Wah! He’s flashing me!” and then shrug and check out his fun tattoes.

#7 Your manager Frenchie gets on his knees in front of everyone and begs for forgiveness after you have jokingly berated him for flirting with coworkers other than yourself?

What I would do: Narrow my eyes at him as if I’m thinking about it, and then NOT forgive him. He needs to think about what he’s done for a bit longer.

#8 There was a puddle of piss in front of the urinal EVERY night when you are mopping up?

What I would do: Drop my mop right then and stalk back to the kitchen, demanding to know which coworker remaining does not know how to aim his urine stream properly.

Who wouldn’t want to be a Pizza Slut?

 

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Hershey Orgasm


Aright, My Lovelys. I will write something useful today. I seemed to get a surplus of comments from my little smut writings; however, I don’t want to entirely alienate my readers who won’t admit they liked it. (I know who you are)

Today I must share with you the amazing discovery that I made while I was at work last night. After working for a little over a month as a Pizza Slut, I have figured out that I shall never hunger. Especially since the cooks we have employed at my store tend to goof quite a bit. Not a day goes by at work when I am not surrounded by extra deliciousness such as cheesey breadsticks (awesome with ranch dressing), stuffed-crust pizza (also awesome with ranch dressing), and garlic bread. (not great without ranch.) Now, I’ve been informed by my Rockstar that excessive feedings of cheese and bread can wreak havoc on your digestional system, or in his words, “You won’t be able to shit for a week.” (What a way with words he has.) and my palate is getting…somewhat bored of pizza anyway. So yesterday, I decided to order a little thing called Hershey Dunkers. (or as I have renamed them, Hershey Orgasm.)

If you have never experienced these, I urge you right at this moment to call up your local Pizza Slut store and order some. Right now. Because you will not be sorry. I was a little bit skeptical at first, especially when the cook making my Orgasm said, “These are so gross, why would you want to order them?” She let me know her opinion was so strong simply because they are so rich and sweet. My mouth was watering as they made their way through the pizza oven, as the odor of melting chocolate permeated the entire store.

I will describe them for you. It is really just breadsticks, but instead of putting seasoning salt on top, they are doused in butter and then covered with crumbly Hershey chocolatey goodness.  They come with dipping sauce, and are amazing.

The moment I took my first bite, I knew my world would never be the same. The melt-in-your-mouth scrumptiousness made me wonder how I could ever eat anything else ever again. I ordered a double order, intent on bringing some home for my Rockstar. There weren’t many left after I got done…

I see much chocolate and many pounds in my future.

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Hilarious Anger


So apparently I’m VERY funny when I’m angry.

This became apparent the other night while I was at work. All I have to say is, I’m so happy that my irritation is entertainment for my co-worker(s).

As you all know, I  now get to make my living working as a Pizza Slut. While I am almost the newest employee, there are several others that work at my place of employment that were hired just days or weeks before I was. Though serving is perhaps not as difficult as some of the other jobs, I would say that I am slightly ahead of some of my fellow newer employees in the area of executing what needs to be done without creating a clusterfuck.

The other night, it was exceptionally busy, as one would expect a pizza joint to be on a Friday night. Since the cooks that were working are both in the process of being trained in as shift managers, (and still learning how to cook without creating many delicious mistakes that we benefit from) things were not going quite as smoothly as everyone would hope. During the chaos, I realized that one of my tables had not yet received their yum-yum chessy breadsticks. When I asked the trainee manager about them, her flustered self stated, “Well, they’ve been done for 20 minutes and you never said anything about them.”

A little pizza kitchen info: there is a little computer screen conveniently placed directly at the finishing end of the pizza oven. Said screen is a beneficial tool that lists (in order) what goes out and where it goes, etc. While this screen is a bit confusing at first, there is really no reason why anyone who has passed 4th grade reading cannot comprehend what is posted on this lovely computer.

That being said, it is the responsiblity of the person cutting and sending out the pizzas to let the servers know when something is up. As I had not received any notice that my cheesy breadsticks were up, I did not find myself at fault that they had not been sent out- especially since they were still sitting in the pan they had been cooked in, and NOT put in a basket appropriate for customers. So when my little 18-yr-old trainee manager snottily mentioned my breadsticks, I simply said, “Well, it doesn’t really make any sense to bitch about it now. I couldn’t exactly dish them up when you were standing in my way, could I? Just give me my damn breadsticks.”

I admit, this is probably not the correct response to give someone who will one day be in charge of me, but I take offense when someone bitches at me when she can’t do her job. Anyhoo, my boss Frenchy was standing there and witnessed the entire exchange, to which he responded later with, “Wow, I’ve never seen that side of you before! That was, wow.”

Here is a little fact that you may not know- I am truly one of the nicest people you will ever meet, and I come complete with smiles which I dish out at an alarmingly accelerated rate. However, I can turn psycho bitch in under 3 seconds when I am hassled unnecessarily. And just to point out, I was just stating a fact.

When I pointed this out to Frenchy, he said, “Yes, well she needed to be put in her place, and you did that. It was just funny.”

In fact, my ire was so amusing, the episode was mentioned by Frenchy to the next shift manager who came in, who replied, “Good for her. I woulda fuckin’ blew a gasket.” I love the people I work with.

P.S. Little 18-yr-old got a talking to about her attitude.

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Lament Of An Aged Waitress


It was a dark and dreary morning. Beneath a bundle of white fluffiness that was down comfort, frizzy curls the color of a New York fire engine poked out here and there. The person connected to the flaming tresses was deep in slumber, dead to the world. She was exhausted from a hectic night of working as a pizza slut; when she had arrived home the night before, she hadn’t even attempted to awaken the one-eyed snake known as the Rockstar’s dick. This was highly unusual for a sex-crazed woman such as she.

Before she had gone to bed, she had stripped in the bathroom, intent on washing the grime and odor of pepperoni and cheese bread from her pale skin. While she suds up in the shower, her eyelids became heavy with sleep from the warmth of the water pounding down on her in erratic bursts. She lacked the energy even to muster a sigh at the ridiculousness of the her situation.

After blow-drying her ass, (which had become a custom after her investigation of the Rockstar had suggested that this was the thing to do), she dragged her weary body into bed, wishing as she did so that she could sleep for all eternity.

BEEP BEEBEEBEEEP! BEEP BEEBEEBEEP! The sound she most abhorred reached her sleep-muddled brain. As she reached to stop her alarm from uttering it’s morning wake up call, her body creaked in protest. After many months of wearing her rockin’ high heels to work, her legs were unaccustomed to wearing the unfashionable faux-leather flats that she was now forced to wear to work, which made her blend in with the NORMAL people. After rolling out of bed (barely catching herself before hitting the floor), she crept to the bathroom to pee, her walk resembling the swagger of a cowboy to long in the saddle. As she plopped unceremoniously down on the great white throne in the water closet, her joints cracked and Sparklebumps thought to herself, “I’m too old for this shit.”

True story.

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