From 2005.
Here's another story from the barbecue joint trenches, and it sure as fuck ain't pretty.
On Friday night, "Cotton Ear," one of the joint's rotating cast of
worthless douchebags, came back in and asked to use the bathroom. The
woman in question is the wife of "The Troll," some idiot who tried
during the early days of the joint to become our live entertainment as a
guitarist while trying to pass his wife off as a singer (who
purportedly had a brief career crooning at various rest stops along the
New Jersey Turnpike; no, seriously). My boss gave the guy the nay-no but
he persistently tried to weasel his way in, ultimately to no avail.
This couple is hard to get across to the casual reader because they are a
true horror that must be personally witnessed in order to be
understood. They are obviously junkies, never sober, are redolent of
who-knows-what, and worst of all they have a beautiful infant daughter
whom I am convinced was kidnapped. The vaginally-equipped portion of the
pair even came in one night and asked me if we threw out food each day
and if we'd give it to her and her verminous mate.
Anyway, on Friday night Bride of Troll came in and asked our bartender
if she could once again use our bathroom. After her lavatorial visit,
she promptly left and vanished into the night. Then our waitress
attempted to use the facilities and recoiled as if avoiding the strike
of King Cobra. "FUCK!" she cried, "It smells like the homeless!!!" Being
the only staffer on duty at that time who was able to deal with the
situation since the kitchen was closed and the bartender was otherwise
engaged, your humble narrator girded his loins and opened the Ladies'
Room door.
There are those who say that people who witness Cthulhu and other
Lovecraftian horrors that man was not meant to experience go mad at the
first exposure to such sheer, otherworldly evil, and I am here to say
that I nearly gave up the last vestiges of my sanity upon crossing that
threshold. I reeled as though physically assaulted by the horrific
stench and, staggered though I was, I somehow managed to wobble into the
kitchen and dig out the appropriate tools for handling such an
olfactory Chernobyl, namely several rough bar rags and a surfeit of
bleach in a spray bottle. With the theme from GHOSTBUSTERS playing in my
head, I disconnected all emotion and got down to business. After
pulling my shirt up over my nose and mouth to form a makeshift air
filter, I entered the now-violated privy and sprayed bleach willy-nilly
into the air, all while casting a critical eye over the entire room. The
fetid miasma that cursed the atmosphere was without question the most
powerful yeast infection waft in the history of pussy, and compounding
that was the horror of that vile woman having somehow left her steaming,
drippy feces on both sides of the toilet seat.
I had to clean that, folks.
After handling that douche-chill-inducing spectacle, I hit every surface
in the restroom with bleach and called in a friend of the bar who
happens to be a seriously experienced nurse to verify that it was safe
for women to use. Once I was given the all-clear I retired to the bar
and sucked down shot after shot of tequila in an attempt to soothe my
shattered nerves. The next day I explained all of this to my boss —
minus the screaming and cursing that occurred once I was out of that
vortex of pestilence — and stated flatly that the musical goon and his
plague-disseminating spouse be permanently banned from ever setting foot
in the joint ever again, a decision made by all of the staff in
attendance that night, especially since they only ever come in to drop
their toxic waste and never spend a fucking cent on anything.
My boss — who is already rather pallid, being the spawn of
Russian-American coal miners from Pennsylvania — visibly turned chalk
white upon hearing of my ordeal and flatly approved the 86ing of the two
offenders. I can't wait to tell them that they are no longer welcome...
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