My name is Miles, and this is my gallery of words.

If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.
— Kendrick Lamar
Industry Studies: No Chill Mondays

Industry Studies: No Chill Mondays

The fries?  The fries.  You'll do, the fries.  You bitch-boy.  What, no pinky up while uttering the most emasculating phrase known to man, aside from any shit tweeted by Will Smith's test-tube son?  You're ordering a fucking series of fried starchy root spears.  How dare you.  It's not as if we're amidst the fucking Irish famine where the humble potato was worth such pleasantries.  You're looking for something free to go along with your chicken sandwich, bitch-boy.  Suppose you'll have the ketchup as well?  Well shit, let me fluff your fucking napkin while I'm here.  Bitch-boy.

Mondays and Fridays.  Both carry strong connotations.  Subjective societal traffic cones cutting off and diverting traffic from the fast paced left lane to the groaning, bottlenecked grind that is the right lane.  Gotta' keep shit clearly defined, less you end up with a world of restaurant staff.

It's cliché to say, but I fucking hate Mondays - for a different reason than most though.  See, Mondays are my Fridays, my Saturdays and Sundays fall on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and Thursdays are my chance to hate the world something fierce with the rest of ya'll all over again.  Factor in that Sundays typically bring out the worst of restaurant ventures' as well.  You're probably wondering what I mean by that.  Let me sip upon this libation, and inform you.

Alright, so think of the weekend as a system of segregated classes.  Fridays bring out the quick-triggered amateurs.  They're looking to blow enough cash to look like they're having fun, while shrewdly skimping on the tip-fund.  They need everything at once, while having no fucking clue what they want.  Essentially, it's the night of knee-jerk reactions and a whole lot of posturing.  Saturdays bring the calm, cool, collected & cunty.  These fuckers know how to get down.  They're also aggravating in their own ways - usually by being condescending and slightly informed more than need be.  They'll do their research on the restaurant, and will have a plethora of comparisons, comments and presumptions.  You're no longer in local Kansas from weekdays past.  Meet the sexy royals that sold Oz that fucking curtain.  Sundays?  Freaks.  Sorry to anyone that reads this and often goes out on Sundays with their family.  I'm sure you're wonderful, and this isn't at all about you.  But the table next to you?  Freaks.  You have after-church fucks, cheetoh-stained awkwards, families, and fucking old people.  There's a whole lot of implosive shame and pent up anger & confusion in these groups.  It's evident both through interaction, and the comical lack of restaurant etiquette.

Now that I've explained the gauntlet that is the industry weekend...come 4pm Monday; I'm already emotionally and probably physically depleted.  And in need of libations.  Problem is -

Look like a man, but I’m animal raw
— El-P

-I still got seven hours of dick tickling to go before it's over.  So naturally, I have zero fucks to donate to these needy freaks.  I try to boost my energy by using my coworkers as a captured audience.  Get some jokes rolling.  Raise some feathers.  Restaurant cyphers at the side station lamenting on all things rude, ridiculous and raunchy.  Hilarious shit.

This Monday in particular, I'm in rare form.  I'm verbally slinging haymakers of gritty, dry, sandpaper-esque disses.  No one is safe, and anyone's mother, kid, pet, or dead version of any of the above can fucking get it.  I'm rocking a perpetual smirk in my little shop of horrors.  Coworkers are bent over laughing and shaking their heads.  It's fucking dead in my restaurant and I've already came to terms that I'm not making shit tonight.  Oh well.  I got my free entertainment right here.  Pockets weak, but the podium's loaded with scripture. 

And that was when I was gifted a table of five that could only be best described as lizard people doused in kerosene.  This roasters wet dream.  Hand me my match.  It was show time...wait, you aren't familiar with lizard people?  Oh, since you're reading, allow me to indulge before I berate this fucking host over these reptiles and pretentious french-fries fucks...

Self determined fugitives feeling grandiose off the understood pilfering of "tips."  Something sad about this reality.  Alluring & satisfying, but sad.

The Proposed Legend of the Lizard Person

Somewhere around the vague as fuck time span of 2001, comedian Louis C.K. was on the popular SiriusXM radio show Opie and Anthony.  Louis and Donald Rumsfeld, a prominent at the time politician, businessman, rock-bathing reptile and republican figure heard, had a fucking amazing debate on whether or not Rumsfeld was a lizard person.  Yeah.  The guy never gave a straight answer either so the debate still rages on, by the way.  Couldn't even give a yes or no when it came to having ever consumed Mexican baby flesh!  Reasons for Louis asking?  Oh, just despicable human greed, deviousness, and decades of shady political crimes perpetraded by Rumsfeld alongside similar ilk.  But also, David Icke.

David Icke is on the Mount Rushmore of conspiracy theorists.  He is the bridge between skeptical observer and full-blown "the world is a lie."  Essentially, he is what the chemistry classes are in the universities to people like myself who thought the medical industry was something desirable.  Get past his books and YouTube videos, and consider yourself a full-blown believer of the anything and everything.  Don't buy it?  Well, I didn't care for those fucking chemical equations either.  Long story short; there is a school of thought that is centered around devilish and otherworldly lizard people taking over all seats of power in our society - governmental & church-like - in an effort to...fuck, I don't know.  I lose track of this shit. 

I think it's tied to the ancient Sumerian text loosely stating that we were genetically experimented on as chimps and instilled with intelligence to mine gold for a supposed planet called Nibiru; where the said lizard denizens really needed the gold they had ran out of to protect it's atmosphere with a device that runs off...well, gold...hence why we're attracted to shiny rocks.  See, if you shoot gold up into the atmosphere, it'll...well, it's well known that certain scientific devices...shit, Look!  Bush just flicked his fucking tongue!  Told you!  Look, it makes sense.  Trust me.  Point is, there are supreme individuals amongst us that are really lizard people impersonating humans with body suits and holograms n' shit.  And sometimes, these supreme individuals are really just patrons of my restaurant.

The Industry Standard of the Lizard Person

So I don't generally get the high profile lizards like Donald Rumsfeld.  I get the scaly and decrepit bottom dwelling geckos seeking specials, happy hour and new synthetic human skin suits to replace their drooping reality.  The kind of reptile that exhibits a certain crookedness to its slither.  The kind you gotta' throw the rat in a blender for.  The kind a thermostat will break over trying to regulate the body temperature of said cold blooded fucks.  The kind that look like has-been Slytherin extras.  Look, my booths don't account for your brood's tail space, so what the fuck do you wan...

Alright, so lizard people are really just old aggravating white people.  That's it.  Yeah, I know.  Cats out of the bag.  Snakes out of the sock?  My angers are oddly trivial.  I don't know if David Icke has left me feeling that these near-translucent saggy skins are simply costume-dawned lizards that I should be ready for, but I'll be god damned if I don't look at every white haired, walker-propelled, wrinkly skin-bag of past bigotry & clichés as an undercover iguana...there's just something to be said about every stereotype.  Old white people come off as lizards.  Just some true shit that I've observed.

This particular brood of lizard people were five deep.  Going by my definitions above, only one of them really qualified as a lizard, but the rest of them had lizard-like qualities.  Completely disinterested in me due to my mammal genes.  Cold and calculated in their menu demands.  Unfuckable.  Oh yeah - and impossibly cold.

Mind you, it's 82 fucking degrees of perfection outside at the time.  Suns out.  With a slight breeze.  Shit, I broke a sweat just by mimicking these fucking freaks at the server station.  HLIC (Head Lizard in Charge) got this group to switch tables three times in search of a more tropical climate.  Eventually settled on the patio.  Cool, whatever.  Glad you're happy weirdo.  Oh, but you aren't are you...

Heaters.  You want the heaters turned on.  In the month of May, in Arizona.  Oh cut it the fuck out fat ass elderly lizard, next to brood mother lizard - I know that shivering isn't for real.  Oh, ok.  You're just going to take napkins and drape them around you like some Romanian peasant shawl.  Makes sense.  Message received loud and clear!  I get it, thanks for the performance.  Like those ham hocks you call arms aren't capable of enduring cryogenics.  Please lady.  Who the fuck you think you're fooling.  AND, ironically as fuck, you have an actual alligator-skin jacket on, Jesus Fucki-

Look.  You can get angry out of principle, or you can just take it left foot, right foot at a time and collect money.  Is it really worth it for you to get mad, Miles?  Is this a fight to pick.  Is this really a bi-

Alright.  The red is clearing out of my eyes.  I won't beat these reptiles over their heads with this tray in an attempt to uncover their truth.  Plus, I have to get back to his supreme fucking heinous, Lord of the French Fries to make sure he has enough ketchup.  So.  I'll digress with an olive branch.  I agree that it is a little chilly, and that they may even be experiencing the residue of coming in through the To-Go door where the A.C. vents blast the hardest!  I'll tell you what, I'll turn off the fans, let's see if that helps?  Talk about a polite way of letting them know I'm not turning on the fucking heaters and wasting restaurant money, while deep-frying other patrons...including Monsieur the process. This placated them for now, as evident at the time by the retraction of those split tongues.  Eww...I think she just blinked, sideways...

So after making my normal rounds telling the same story and punchline to every coworker, I head back to the patio.  A father and daughter, who frequent this place often, had sat outside next to the den of lizards.  The daughter is around the age of five, give or take a year.  So, fairly young.  They're low maintenance, tip decent, and the father doesn't hesitate to tell his daughter to stop being so fucking coy and to just order her damned lemonade.  I like that.

After taking their order and proceeding to head back inside, I'm again beckoned over by my Rumsfeldian captors.  She's still cold.  Clearly I fucked up by not supplying her with a rock to sunbathe on.  I've come to terms with this.  My bad.  Next time I'll just keep one strapped to my back like I good monkey-slave.  Brood mother looks up at the heat lamps and continues to rub her arms in between weirdly constructed sentences and grunts.  Ugh.  Don't make me pull this card.  I look over at the child.  Directly under the heat lamps.  I look back at the lizard.  A shrug of the shoulders, a raising of the eyebrows and half an uncomfortable grin later, and even this fucking self-centered serpent acknowledged that there was a child and that she would just deal with it.  Sweet!  Thanks for understanding that if this little bitch can handle the frigid 82+ weather, then your blubbery ass can.

The restaurant is getting a pop at this time.  Nothing serious.  It's Monday.  I just don't need to be preoccupied by unnecessary shit at this point.  I'm busy shaking babies and kissing hands.  Shout out Paulsen.  Making my rounds and accruing dollars.  At one point, the father and daughter outside pay out and leave.  The brood mother twitches in anticipation, her every action having already positioned herself to being able to coil around her prey; demanding warmth while being accustomed to the addict desire of getting her way.  I'd kick you right in the fucking egg sack if you looked at all fertile, have you know.

Fucking Christ.  Again with the heaters!  Alright.  I'll turn them on.  But, if anyone else sits in this area I'll have to turn them off, under the condition that they are normal, warm-blooded individuals.  Fair?  Fair.  Spit your venom on the highlighted lines so that I know you're of accordance...yeesh.

I'm fucking sweating.  Like, uncomfortably blinking one eye in hopes of the sweat draining off to the side lines.  Nope, it went in my eye still.  It burns.  I don't know what hurts worse at this point.  The physical pain of being partially blinded by my own sweat and the swirling, engulfing inferno you freaks have created by having heaters on during a summer breeze, or me having to take your fucking order.  Oh.  Oh, now you want to acknowledge that you're high maintenance?  Because you've gotten your way and think we should all laugh it off as just some weird tic you have?  I can't even said I looked at her with disdain.  Na.  Didn't have it in me at that point.  She turned around to the deadest of expressions.  No comments, no facial expressions, just a waiting stare.  You've lost me bitch.  I had by then thrown the game board, the illusion, the actual meat and bones of my craft to the fucking side.  I'm now your order taker.  Spit it the fuck out lady.  The product in my hair is melting.

Copping of uppers and downers get done,
I’m in a rush to be numb,
— El-P

At that moment, I'm like one of those jungle frogs that cause you to hallucinate if you lick them.  I'm sweating out enough booze that should you lick me, you'll catch a for sure buzz.  Reeking of Jager & Rum like a fucking German pirate derelict.  I'm Dutch mind you, don't get it twisted.  Just have fun tastes in spirits, and don't take kindly to the detoxing of my skin that I've appropriately embalmed with said painstakingly consumed elements.  The botox-like side effects of the emulsification of Jager & Rum into my bloodstream need not be diminished by your scaly ass making me sweat and express emotion.  Your tip won't make up for the lines across my forehead.

Look.  I know this is all ridiculous.  Hi, welcome.  But fuck me, words have meaning.  And I might have been able to spare us all of this rant had bitch-boy not asked for fries that way.  Might have never gotten this bent out of shape over this had it not been the predictable nature of the beast.  Maybe, I wouldn't have reacted today this way had I not just been seeking self fulfilling reflections from a mirror I already know I like the reflection from.

I paid out bitch-boy the same way I paid out the lizards.  Eventually did my checkout.  Put the chairs up.  Collected my money.  Locked the door.  I guess it's just a series of short lived frustrations, much like other facets of life.  I'm absolutely in favor of that bigger picture that helps to distract us from trivial moments.  The conscious driven moments when we look to ground our emotions with outside instances; things far worst and humbling.  That's important.  But, I'm a firm believer that all things remain relative.  Me being upset by someone that says they're ready to order, but continue to take up minute upon minute of my time, is important and relevant to me at that moment.  Won't mean shit to you.  Rightfully so.  Think of the worse possible scenario, and those feelings of angst apply.  We're flexible and dynamic in not only what we're capable of experiencing, but how we experience it. 

The only factors that really bring balance to this philosophical conundrum is relativity and measurable happiness.  A life sorted; Mise en place.  I don't think we'll conquer either of these before closing time.  With that being said...the notes falling from your mind, strummed along in accordance, speak volumes for the you and the I.  That same stem of inspiration is nurtured by well wishes, just as much as it's pruned by wishes laid to a wishful waste.

Meditating upon a Monday.  Enacting the same left foot, right foot concoctions.  There's something about life cycles that push you to mod them to the best of your ability.  You won't ever change the current.  The current is ridiculously strong.  But I can't help but think that when engaging in The Running of the Bulls for the thousandth time, at one point you want to duck off into some side streets.  Bypass the fly-eaters on the alley walls.  Experience something, different.  Even if it's just knowing that it's Monday, and you're across the street from where you'd normally be.  Watching someone else go through the motions.  A muscle-twitch of an emotion transpired.  Yeah. 



Chonky Fire

Chonky Fire

Industry Studies: Misery Loves Comradery

Industry Studies: Misery Loves Comradery