tremendous odor

There is a tremendous odor coming from a drain in the back of the store. It smells like a dead skunk in a pile of throw-up. The Buddha Baker cleans the drain every time that she works, but the tremendous odor always comes back within a couple hours.

I hope that there is a sewage problem, then the health inspector shuts the store, then I don't have to work anymore, then I can run away to California and build creepy puppets for B-horror movies like I have always wanted.

fake bum, per maybe

Maybe I was a little harsh, or maybe I was a bit too cold-hearted - especially during the holiday season - but I'm still proud of my words and my actions because I stayed strong. Let me explain, as per usual:

Some time last week, in the wee hours of the morning, I per chanced to notice that some of the customers in the drive-thru line looked a little uncomfortable. The source of annoyance wasn't from my service, either (which is usually the case). This time, the source of their discomfort seemed to be something, or some person directly in front of them in line.

When the drive-thru line died down a bit I decided to investigate - Kolchak-style.

There was a man - a Caucasian male, about six foot, nicely dressed, with a blue coat and a white ball cap - standing just outside the door. He appeared to be asking the customers for money.

I swung open the door. "What's the deal home-skillet?"

My smooth deliver and outrageous diction threw off the Caucasian male for a moment. He collected himself.

"I only have two dollars and my car ran out of gas and I live in Dearborn Heights and..."

"Whoa, whoa, I understand that we all hit low points, buddy, you don't have to remind me of that, I've seen my share, but why don't you use some of that money to call someone, or use a credit card, or debit card for gas."

"Can you just give me some money."

"You're not listening to me. Use your credit card. Use your cell phone. Call someone. I don't have any money. I don't even have any pockets in my uniform."

He didn't tell me that he didn't have a cell phone, or a credit card; instead, he said, again: "Can you just give me some money."

Yes, I was mean, and I told him to leave, but I have been scammed too many times trying to be George Bailey. And maybe, if this Caucasian male, about six foot, would have caught me at the beginning of my shift maybe I would have been George Bailey, but it was the end, and by the end I am almost always morphed into: Kolchak: The Night Stalker.

I am sorry, that's just the way it goes sometimes.

like michael scott, i couldn't help it

We just started selling hash browns over at Timmies. They taste like heaven, but they are kind of small - about three-quarters of the size of what McDonalds has.

Well, around 5:30 a.m. one of our regulars pulls-up and notices the hash brown addition to the old order board.

"Hash browns, huh? Well, by golly, I think I'll have one."

"Sounds like a plan, a good one," I say.

My fingers scramble around the cash register like a cat after a mouse. I find the button, tell the regular to pull up, and type the whole order in.

I hand over the goods, give a fake smile and the regular pulls off toward the icy, snowy roads. But wait. That's not the end of the story.

About 10 minutes later the regular is back in the lobby. He doesn't look happy. His face is all scrunched up like an old catcher's mitt. This particular regular has had problems before. He's kind of a douche-bag.

"I didn't get my hash brown. Where's my hash brown?"

Buddha Baker rushes over to him. She inspects his bag. Low and behold, it's in the bag, at the bottom; but of course, it wasn't the regular's fault for not seeing it. It's our fault.

"Looking there," he says. "I thought it would be thicker."

"That's what she said," I say without missing a beat. Buddha Baker starts cracking up. One of other girls tells me to stop it.

I'm not sure if the regular heard me, but I kind of hope he did because big-baby complainers deserve a bit of lip if you ask me - Doctor Donut.

mundane manager is a moron

A couple weeks back most to the Tim Horton's employees - not me - put up all these Christmas decorations around the store. Wipe-off paint on the windows - Snowmen, Merry Christmas, all that jazz, as they say. We have a plastic tree, too.

Well,the problem is the fake fuckin' snow. You know how hard it is to sweep up fake fuckin' snow? Well, harder than getting the Buddha Baker to do work, which is tough as hell.

Of course, My Mundane Manager thinks that the fake fuckin' snow is "very cute" and "is a nice holiday touch." The kiddies like to throw it around all day in the lobby. The fake fuckin' snow mixes nicely with all the salt, melted snow and smashed Timbits, too. So nice, that I want to throw the broom through Frosty The Snowman on window every time it's time to sweep.

sensible skinhead (not so sensible, lately)

I was working with The Sensible Skinhead when we got really busy around 11 p.m. I turned to The Sensible Skinhead and asked him to make a turkey bacon club for me.

"No fuckin' way. I'm going to walk out of this hellhole," he says to me, then returns to his cell phone with more foul language.

"All right, I'm not going to make that turkey bacon club and somebody is going to have to. And if you walk out, so will I."

Apparently, The Mundane Manager cut down The Sensible Skinhead's hours, so he decided to throw a little fit to me - not The Mundane Manager - but the problem with his little temper tantrum was it had no bite to it.

He can't quit. The Sensible Skinhead is on parole and one of the only ways to get off of parole is to hold a job.

He made the sandwich. He didn't walk out, but he kept talking about walking out all night. If we were in jail together I would of had to of kicked his ass.

the muffin man is in the building (or at least the drive-thru)

After a three week hiatus the Muffin Man has returned and I'm not really sure if it is a good thing, or bad - maybe a bit of both.

"Welcome to Tim Hortons would you like to try an Ice Cap?" I say, right at 4:30 a.m.

"Are you crazy? It's freezing out here," I hear a man's voice say through the intercom. He sounds grumpy, and just perhaps maybe, he has a Marlboro Red 100 hanging out of his mouth. "Geeze! Why can't you offer people something hot? Like a hot chocolate? What's a matter with you?"

"You're back!" For some reason, I couldn't hold it in. I sort of missed that old piece of shit old man - yep, he's old - that always orders 3 blueberry muffins at 4:30 a.m. "Where have you been?"

"I was going to the Springfield store, but they started to muck up just like you guys were, so I decided to come back."

"All right, would you like a not chocolate with your three blueberry muffins?"

"Don't muck this up, already. Just the three blueberry muffins, Geeze!"

$15.49

Here and there somebody gives me a tip. A quarter here. A dollar there. Nothing big, but a dollar is still a dollar - not a loonie, or a euro, but what can you do? - and change adds up.

This off-the-wall, scattered-brain chick pulls up the other night. Her total came to $4.51. I think that she ordered a small French vanilla cappuccino and maybe a turkey sandwich - whatever.

She arrives at the window and hands me a twenty. Before I have time to grab her change she pulls out into the darkness like a vampire bat after a giraffe - that's a lot of neck, you know? - and I'm standing there with $15.49 in my mitts.

I know that I'm good, but $15. 49 good? I'm not so sure.

The Sensible Skinhead tells me that I should hand it over to the police department and if no one claims it in 48 hours then it's rightfully mine.

"Do people do that?" I ask him.

"I think so," he answers.

"I'll split it with you," I say. "And then forget about it."

"Sounds good to me," he says.

I give him a five and keep the rest.

fat moe! fat moe! where are you?

The last couple of times that I have worked with Zen Buddha there has been no sign of Fat Moe - her nincompoop boyfriend that sleeps in her car. Well, last night I figured out the mystery.

"Oh, you know, Fat Moe got arrested," Zen Buddha said to me. "He had like five warrants out for his arrest, but I'm going to pick him up from jail today."

I didn't ask Zen Buddha what the warrants were for because I already knew.

Two for being a douche bag in Ohio.

One for intent to sell dirt weed in New York.

And two more warrants for giving senior citizens wet-willies in Florida.