Las viejas y el maricon enojado
I got on the bus this morning and it smelled of sweat and peas. Nice and crowded, too. I oft wish I had a machine gun when I get on the bus so’s I can just mow the motherfuckers down and have myself a seat.
There’s something very self righteous about Whole Foods employees. They are all like hippies who are holier than thou, asking, as you present large boxes of foods, vast quantities of produce, and several bottles of wine, if you need a bag. Since grocery bags nowadays are the enemy, responsible not only for global warming, but terrorism, the budget deficit, and the war. I bet they just can’t stand the ending of “American Beauty”.
An incident occurred a week or so ago where I was in the kitchen of our office, and one of the woman who works in the other department on our floor was washing dishes with another woman, and referred to me as a “maricon”. “Maricon” is Spanish for fag. I may not have learned that in high school Spanish, but everyone knows the bad words. And how blatantly retarded could she have been to have assumed she could get away with saying it? I didn’t approach her at the time–because if I had, she would either be in the hospital or a morgue–but instead did the mature thing, and notified my manager.
Action is being taken, though it’s nothing severe since I’m working off of what I assume I heard versus what I know I heard. But, ya know, I know I heard it. And I hope the bitch gets it.
