Just how ruffle-y are your britches?

This is not the kind of call your friends need to receive at their place of business. When a direct work superior is standing above them and scowling it’s not nearly as funny as you think it is.

At least not funny in the same way — then it’s irony or satire or another one of those English devices Alanis Morissette wrote a song about.

Thank you inappropriate phone call. Thank you register. Thank you, thank you pay stub.

Apparently, other customers find it obnoxious when you walk into stores carrying plastic coconuts singing Jimmy Buffett. I find that this kind of behavior from other patrons makes me purchase more, which leads to buyer’s remorse. So yeah, I guess I do see your point.

More importantly, don’t go to visit your friends at work when you have been drinking for four or five hours, and if you do, please try to put on enough clothing.

Pants being a crucial part of the equation. It’s also an added bonus if los pantalons are right side out.

Working real jobs really is the poo, huh?

I wouldn’t know. I write a column. I’m an artist.

Not to take a swipe at the Scholtzsky’s Deli Company, my first employer and the source of my income for the most deplorable three months of my life, but I really despised that job.

As much as I love spiced meats, olives on sandwiches and drive-thru service, that job was really the lifestyle equivalent of having someone wax your entire body, no swipe at extraordinarily hairy people.

The only highlight of that job was listening to the conversations people have in the drive-thru line that the stereo picks up.

“You cannot have barbeque chips, they give you gas.”

In case you were unaware, when you car enters into the magic rectangle of space where you order your food, every word you say siphons through the mechanical box, through sky and into the headphones of the diligent employees of the restaurant of your choice.

I overheard a lot of really disturbing things from my tiny headphones. I learned about sex and the arguments that can arise when one person wants a Sprite and the driver thinks they should have a Diet Sprite.

I once overheard an intricate plot to assassinate the blond-haired Backstreet Boy from the drive-thru line. I was going to say something, but then I remembered it was the blond guy from ‘Nsync that I thought was cute, so I let it slide.

Lance is so hotter than Nick, plus he was going into space. I can’t let anything happen to an astronaut on my shift at the sandwich shop.

At least not an astronaut who likes my ruffle-y britches and lack of pants. Don’t worry Lance, we’ll get you to space someday.