So, in the little title section of this blog I mention that I work at Taco Bell. The sad truth of the matter is....... I really do work at Taco Bell. In my defense, it's the Taco Bell on campus and we don't make fricken chalupas or cheesy beef melts or whatever other riduculous things regular Taco Bells make. My favorite part of working at Taco Bell is making things "Supreme". You can actually make anything in the world "Supreme". All you have to do is add sour cream. I could make the fricken Trevi Fountain supreme if I just could procure one of the spiffy sour cream guns we use at work.
Anywho, the point of this post is that I am currently fighting tooth and nail to keep my minimum wage job at Taco Bell. The problems began about 2 weeks ago. Two coworkers and I were inbetween customers and in the back of the little Taco Bell area. There is this lady that buses tables in West Commons (the food court in which my Taco Bell is located). She is this funny Serbian lady named Buba who wants me to marry both her sons, as they are apparently of marrying-age (I'm supposed to decide which one I prefer by next Monday...). In brief, Buba is my buddy, I help her with her English during my 15 minute breaks and when she gets a break meal, I always hook it up, hella cheese and chicken on her quesadilla. On Valentines Day I even cut a heart out of one of the tortillas and attached it to her steak burrito supreme (it looked like I had artfully embossed the burrito).
So my coworkers and I were in the back chatting, waiting for customers when Buba came over. She was asking what the different meats were, she pointed at the steak, I told her it's steak, she pointed at the chicken, I told her it's chicken. Then she pointed at the ground beef and I told her it was dog meat. In a thick Serbian accent she expresses her disbelief that this country allows ground up dog meat to be sold. (Try, "Vat ees thees? They allow thees een thees country???!") Then I tell her it's just ground up beef, cow meat kinda like a hamburger. We all laugh a little, end of story.
No, it wasn't the end of the story. Some random lady (age 35 or 40) is walking through the storage area behind the food places and comes up to us. The following script is roughly how the conversation between her and I went:
Random lady: You better not say that in front of customers.
Ashley (me): There are no customers.
Random lady: I'm serious, you really can't say that in front of customers.
Ashley (me): There's no customers.
Random lady: You better watch what you say in front of me.
Ashley (me): Okay, but there are still no customers.
Random lady: You obviously don't know who I am. (Then she stalks off)
Aaaaappppparently she manages the Starbucks in West Commons and her name is Gina or something. And apparently she told my boss on me and I got written up and now they're threatening to cut my hours. Ridiculous. Given, I could probably have handled the situation differently, but seriously, the "You obviously don't know who I am" line? No "Gina", I am not familar with who you are, I suppose I missed the special feature in the Aztec Shops bimonthly employee newsletter about you and the true dedicated pizazz you bring to the San Diego State University's West Commons food court. Ridiculous.
1 comment:
What a strange tale you’ve told! Do you think it possible your joke regarding dog meat struck some hitherto unexposed raw nerve on the part of the managerial woman who reprimanded you? I mean, a person of her importance and stature in the hierarchy of the campus “food chain” must be privy to all sorts of trade secrets and it is my suspicion your comment exposed one of them, to wit, whatever happened to all those adorable chihuahuas used in taco bell advertisements until just recently? I think you get my drift, here. Perhaps you don’t realize the gravity of the clandestine fast food supply tactic you’ve unintentionally uncovered with your seemingly innocuous prank remark, but I’d urge you check into a federal witness protection program asap.
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