Six Person Date

This gem of a note turned up on the bulletin board in the Hooters dressing room a few days ago and has since provided me with a considerable amount of enjoyment.  How could I not share such a beautiful little note of love?

Yes, that does indeed say, "Call us when you want to go on a five six person date."  But I have a few questions.  First off, there are five names - not six.  Who is this mysterious sixth man?  I hope it's Gerard Butler.  Next, I am disappointed that both Travis and Nate are unavailable.  It seems that six person date is quickly turning into a three person date.  That's only half what was promised.  I don't appreciate false advertising.

Now do I go with Brendan or Brandan?  A or E?  E or A?

Regan it is!

Receipt Art: August 28, 2010

After being sick and watching a far greater quantity of television than I normally would, I decided to invest in one of those Sharpie Pens that I kept seeing commercials for.  Congratulations, Sharpie, you got me.  All that shit I learned in my marketing classes about TV being a dying media vehicle seems to be only mostly true and not totally true.  Whatever, I'm all off topic now.

So I bought this Sharpie Pen and it has added a level of precision to my receipt art that I once only dreamed of.  I love you, Sharpie Pen.  You complete me.  I see this as the start of a long, happy relationship.

Here is a work of art produced with my beloved Sharpie Pen for a cute little couple from Ohio traveling the wild west.

As you can see, the Sharpie Pen allowed me to effortlessly capture the high points of their journey.  Yeah, I fudged the geography a whole bunch and put important things in all sorts of not right paces.  Get over it.  Art knows no bounds and no directions.  Take that deep thought and meditate for a bit.  Continue reading when you feel at one with yourself. 

There is Old Faithful and the Yellowstone River and Flathead lake and the mountains of Glacier National Park and even one of the ski areas down in Jackson, Wyoming (only yuppies and tourists call it Jackson Hole I'll have you know).  You truly amaze me, Sharpie Pen.  I am just so happy.

In addition to this receipt wonder, I got my second receipt art from a customer today.  Only this one was special because it added to the drawing I left for them.  I thought this was most ingenious.

As you can see, I left a nice little fishing scene.  Yeah, I've drawn this before, but give a girl a break.  It would be totally insane for me to draw a different thing for EVERY customer.  So I have my standards.  Fishing is a standard.

Anyhooters, I left the fish and my customers added the "USS YOUR WELCOM" complete with a little sailor waving out a porthole.  The use of space may suck (note the lack of an E) and the grammar may make me gag, but the thought is sweet as can be.  Your welcom!

UFO?

The back parking lot at Hooters.  Exciting?  Yup, there's some cars and some lights and some decorative shrubbery.  Confirmed, this is indeed a parking lot.  But what in the hell is that red thing?!  Dear, Lord, we are having an alien invasion.  The aliens want wings!  The aliens want Hooters Girls!  Save us please!

Oh wait, that's just the moon.  Yes, the moon is red.  This is Montana and this is August.  It's fire season and Montana is burning.  And Idaho.  Thanks for the extra smoke, effing Idaho.  We didn't really need any extra.

So yup, I have in fact confirmed that that is not UFO.

My Hooters Twin

He was intently staring at the picture on the wall.  Very intently.  Then he'd turn, look at me and move his eyes back to the picture in front of him.  This is Hooters, there are lots of pictures on the wall.  It's just one of those restaurants that likes to have a lot of random crap around.  We have old magazine covers, pictures of celebrities, local sports memorabilia and lot of other crap no really takes the time to notice.  But this guy, he noticed.  And he couldn't stop noticing it seemed.

The picture he was staring at ever so absorbedly was taken after our swimsuit contest in April and it featured two bikini clad brunettes, skin glistening with Pam Cooking Spray (that's no joke).  And one of those oily brunettes just so happens to be yours truly.  Most people never notice the picture, but those that do will generally come up to me and give me some type of compliment that I awkwardly accept because really I don't much like the picture.  Yeah, I look pretty good but there is something about having my bikini bod up there that I don't really like.  Weird for a girl that works at Hooters, I know.

After looking at the picture for a minute or so the man finally started towards me.  I was ready for a comment about how nice I looked or a question about how I got such a shine to my skin.  I was prepared for this moment.

Dude:  "Did you know that that girl in the picture over there looks just like you?!"

Wait, what?  That's not the usual response.  I decide to roll with it.

Sauce:  "Oh my gosh, I get that ALL the time.  So funny."

Dude:  "You clearly have a Hooters twin.  It's the only answer."

Sauce:  "Yeah, that's probably it.  Small world isn't it?"

This guy generally did not get that I was the girl in the picture.  Winner.

Dude:  "Well I hope you get the chance to meet her one day.  Then they can put a picture of both of you up!"

It took everything I had to not laugh my ass off.  Everything.  I.  Had.

I'm currently looking for my Hooters twin.  I have a feeling it's a lost cause.

You Gonna Remember All That?

I have been waiting tables for a long time now.  I wouldn't say this makes me an expert, but I would say it makes me very, very good at my job.  Not that serving is a difficult thing, but it is definitely not easy to take service from average to great.  There are a lot of mediocre servers out there and a lot less amazing servers.  Think about it and I'm sure you'll agree.

Anyway, like I said, I consider myself to be of that small, second group of servers that are pretty amazing.  And I'm not just being self-absorbed; I have received numerous compliments both personally and through management and our customer comment line.  Just accept how awesome I am and we'll move on.  Since I like to think I'm pretty marvelous, one of my biggest pet peeves is when people question my ability to do my job.  This can happen a number of ways.  People might question my knowledge of the menu or test just exactly how nice I can be.  I'd like to see you try, buddy, because I can be VERY effing nice.

Probably the biggest way people like to question my abilities though takes place when I'm taking a table's order.  You see, after years of being a waitress I don't really need to write shit down under most circumstances.  Now when I say "most circumstances," I mean if there are less than ten of you I probably won't need a pad of paper to remember your order.  I realize not all servers have this ability, but I do.  And yes, I will remember that you wanted that cheddar bacon burger medium well with potato salad instead of beans.  I'm really that good.

So there I'll be, doing my thing at a table and some yahoo will interrupt me to say, "you really gonna remember all this?"

Yes, I am effing going to remember all this.  It's my job to take your order, remember your order, ring in your order and serve your damn order the way you ordered it in the first place.  I realize you're really concerned about your wings coming to the table breaded, all drums just like you wanted, but don't you think I'd write the shit down if I needed to write it down?   Yes, I would in fact write down your order if I felt like it would be prudent for me to do so.  But guess what, your order at Hooters really isn't that effing difficult and even when it is difficult I have a memory that can handle that shit.  I went to college.  I got a degree.  Let me use my impressive ability to cram and memorize at least once and awhile please.  I mean I have to put all that schooling to use at some point right?

Please for the love of God stop asking me if I'll remember your order.  I can promise you with almost 100% certainty that I will get it right.  And if I don't get it right it probably has something to do with the fact that you totally disrupted my train of thought by asking me such a stupid question in the first place.  Tell you what, let me do my job and I won't show up at yours and ask you how you remember where to file all the accounts payable shit.  Or how to put on a serpentine belt.  Or how to build an effing house.  Does that sound like a good deal?  Good.

Now what did you order again?

Reader Stories: Wingersizing

I present you with the first of hopefully many reader submitted stories.  And this one come all the way from freaking Australia.  Australia, people!  So all you folks in California and Florida and Texas and other places with lots of Hooters better lock it up because you just got owned.  Now submit people!

Some friends and I took a trip to the States last year (from Australia) and of course Hooters was up there on our to-do list.  We went to one close by, in Santa Monica I believe and were seated by the window. While we were waiting for our food, I happened to glance outside and noticed a rather large man performing some very odd stretches.  He would squat, then lift one leg, then squat again and transfer to the other leg.  He did this repeatedly for a good 10 minutes then sat down again like nothing was weird about that at all.

I noticed the girl serving him was heading out with a plate of wings, and stopped her to ask what the hell was up with him. She said he was a regular, and that he always came along for all you can eat wings (or something like that) and in between plates he did his stretches, apparently it helped him make more room so he could eat more wings and get his money's worth. She thought he was hilarious, as did we.


Peet (read more of Peet's awesomeness on her blog, www.peetcancook.com)

Dear Lord, I effing love this.  What I love most though is that my new best friend Australian friend, Pete, had the foresight to take a photo of this amazing moment, which I submit to burn your eyes and possibly blind you now.  I apologize for any Lasik treatments you may require after viewing the photo below.

Yes, that is the culprit stretching his way to overeating, wingalicious happiness.  Someone should find him and tell him to make a workout video; he'd probably make millions.  Stretching/wing eating supersets?  Yup, this man is clearly a genius.


Submit your Hooters stories to girlandguitar@live.com and be featured on Girl and Guitar!

The Time Sauce Got Locked Out and Slept in the Rain

In my creepy Ass Dad post I alluded to the fact that I spend the night prior sleeping on my porch in the rain.  That wasn't made up.  That wasn't even a little made up to make my life sound more interesting.  I legitimately spent an extended amount of time laying on my porch in less than gorgeous weather.  Logically, the question is why?  Well here you effing go.

Thursday evening I returned home from work much relieved to spend some needed time on my oh so comfortable sofa.  It was just after five and as I sunk into my couch I clicked on the TV to search for some brainless reality television.  I'll admit it, I like that crap.  I surfed my usual channels and was met by one of those awful TV moments when all of your very favorite channels are on commercial break simultaneously.  It is a most dreaded cable television anomaly.

Seeing as I had a couple minutes to kill I decided to use my time productively and run to my mailbox.  Now it is important for you to understand that I am generally very lazy in checking my mail.  Mostly this is because there is either nothing or bills.  Clearly not things I am interested in.  As such, I was incredibly proud of myself for grabbing my phone and running down to the bank of mailboxes outside my building.  Wait a minute?  Why did I grab my phone?  Well naturally I was in the middle of a very important text conversation.  And by important I mean it was with a hot guy.  So hot guy on phone and I ran down to check the mail.  Of course there was nothing in it.  Depressing.

What was far more depressing than my mail free life, was the realization as I was hiking back up the stairs that I had failed to grab my keys or unlock the door.  Sweet.   I'll blame my forgetfulness on the stirring conversation with hot guy.  So there I am in front of my door realizing I have no way to get in.  Initially I am only a little frustrated.  I have planned for this very moment and I figure I can work it out while only missing a marginal amount of TV vegging.  Seeing as I live alone, way back when I moved in I thought it would be prudent to leave a few sets of spare keys with friends for moments just like this.  Smart right?  Yeah, I thought so to.

So I call friend one.  No answer.  Whatever, he's at work.  I know he'll call me back.  Next, I put in a call to friend two who just so happens to be Ariel.  Unfortunately as the phone rings I know this option probably won't work seeing as Ariel is in Canada pretending to be all Canadian with her Pops.  I still try.  Then I put in a call to her boyfriend to see if she perhaps left my key.  She didn't.  I sit and wait for friend one to call back.

Then the phone rings and I see friend one's handsome little face pop up on the caller ID.  The conversation basically went like this.

Friend:  "So can I buy you a drink or something sometime?"

I note almost immediately that this is not the type of response I'd initially want for the voicemail I left.

Sauce:  "Um sure.  I love drinks, but could we maybe start with you letting me back into my house?"

Friend:  "Yeah, um about that..."

Friend one then went on to say how just last week he lost all his keys - mine included.  Incredibly convenient timing.  In over eight months of living in my little studio apartment I have never needed him to come let me in.  Then this shit happens.  I am obviously a lucky person.

My next logical step is to call my property management company.  Luckily, I have a fancy Internet type phone that I bought to make me look cool.  I look up the number cringing only a little as I notice my battery is on yellow.  If you guessed that this will come back to haunt me later in the evening, you'd be right.  I know it's afterhours but I still give it a shot and sigh in relief as the answering service for the office picks up.

Answering Bitch:  "Professional Property Management."

Sauce:  "Yeah, I got locked out of my apartment and was wondering if there was any way I could be let in?"

Answering Bitch:  "We can't do that for you afterhours.  You'll have to wait and go into the office in the morning.  Or call a locksmith or something.  You'll just have to figure it out."

Wait, what?  I pay nearly $600 for a glorified hotel room and you want me to just "figure it out?"  Sure thing, bitch.  So I call the locksmith and I nearly die when I am quoted $300.   Thanks, but no thanks.  Not to mention that I'd have no way to prove I lived there anyway.  My options were dwindling quickly.  And then my phone died. 

Three hours later I was getting more and more antsy.  I hadn't seen one person.  I mean I've only seen like three people TOTAL since I've moved in.  I was disappointed but hardly surprised.  It was about this time that I began looking for ways to scale the building and pull off my window screens.  That hardly seemed like a viable option, but I seriously considered it long enough to swing my leg over the railing and attempt to stand on a quarter inch piece of trim.  I decided I like living and reconsidered.

So I just sucked it up and hunkered down there on my porch.  Sure I could have attempted walking to a friend's house, but none of them live within anything you'd consider walking distance.  Staying on the porch seemed the uncomfortable, but best option.  And it was.  Until the rain began.  And didn't stop.  So I got up and I started walking until a couple hours later I reached a friend's house soaking wet and freezing my ass off.

The next morning (and by morning I mean two hours later) we made our way to my property manager.  My friend dropped me off on her way to work right on the dot at 8:30 just like Answering Bitch told us to.  Of course the office didn't open until 9:00.  So there I was looking like a drowned rat, still wet from the evening before and they wouldn't let me in.  They saw me, looked right at me, probably laughed and didn't open the effing door.  So I sat and waited and become increasingly irate. 

Finally they let me in and I explain the situation.  And you know the first thing they said as they handed me my key?  "Why didn't you call the answering service?  They can send someone to let you in."

No.  Effing.  Way.

And that my friends is why I graciously and most happily bowed out on serving Ass Dad.

Receipt Art: August 12, 2010 (Now in Technicolor!)

Since I sucked and totally missed out on the vast receipt art opportunities that Shark Week afforded me, I decided to have my own belated Shark Week.  Whatever.  I do what I want.  This was my Shark Week and you'll just have to deal with it.

Now, besides this receipt art being totally Jaws-tastic, there are number of other totally sweet things going on that I took the extreme time of two minutes to label for you.  First, note that this receipt art is not just one color, but three.  That's right, I went Wizard of Oz on your ass and blew your mind.  Of course the colors got all washed out when I used the high technology that is a cellphone camera to capture this beauty - hence the labels.

Second, and I'm sure you already basked in how awesome this is, note my parent's AMAZING counter top that is so vintage I might die.  Yeah, I'm being a good daughter and visiting mom and dad.  How could not use this visit home to display such an amazing example of 50s Americana?  I really think the pink and white boomerangy things add a lot to my art.  Thanks for only renovating one bathroom, mom and dad!

And would someone warn that guy with the fishing pole that he's facing imminent  doom?

I Want Your Hooters Stories!

Yes, you!  Right there in front of the computer screen with the hair and the face and the eyes!  I want your Hooters stories.  Have something hilarious?  Have something wonderful?  Have a story about the time you had the best Hooters experience in the history of experiencing things?  I want to know about it and share it with the world!

If you have a Hooters story that you'd like to share, please submit it to:

girlandguitar@live.com

Do it!  Do it now!

P.S.  Pictures get extra credit!!  Go, overachievers, go!

Father Figure?

When you work at Hooters, you can expect a few creepers.  Luckily, our Hooters has been relatively creep free.  While every now and again you may run into a less than couth guest, for the most part people at our restaurant are actually pretty cool.  This makes me more than happy.  I'd go so far as to say that it makes me ecstatic.  I mean way back a gillion (two) years ago when I started working at Hooters I was worried about two things.  First, I was worried about working with a staff of potentially bitchy, gossipy, annoying girls; luckily this has been avoided.   Second, I was worried about creepy dudes.  This I have only mostly avoided.

On Friday, I had one of those mornings that made me a less than happy person.  Actually, I had one of those nights that make a person have a less than stellar morning.  No, I wasn't drunk, rather I was locked out and slept on my front porch in the rain.  Yeah, my Thursday night was grand.  Don't worry; I'll fill you in on that little gem later.  For now, all you need to know is that I was not exactly in my most perfect Hooteriffic form on Friday morning.  But I put on my best little happy, awake act, grabbed a heavily caffeinated beverage and headed to work.

After setting up the restaurant, I was ready for my first customer of the day as a family made their way toward the door.  It is important to note at this point that it was a family with teenage kids - two girls and a boy.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  No toddlers.  No college kids.  No creepy construction workers.  I was prepared for it to be breeze as I smiled and held open the door.  Of course I was wrong. 

Dad:  "See, son," addressed to his twelve year old.  "That's the kind of rack you need to look for on a girl.  She's got a darn good set."

My smile fell from my face almost as quickly as Dad's eyes focused on my breasts and son's face turned 128 shades of red.  As all this was happening I had already decided to pull the seniority card and dump Dad and his family on the other girl on the floor.  It's not so much that I didn't want to take them, but given my two hours of sleep, on edge body I probably would be less likely to put up with his shit and more likely to scream at him.  I figured pawning the family off would not only be in my best interest, but theirs as well.  That's just good service on part for not taking them.  That's how good I am.

I promised to make it up to her and my coworker most graciously took the table.  I owe you.  Seriously.  The poor girl dealt with more lewd comments than I have perhaps heard in ALL my time at Hooters.  Yes, he was that bad.  And he was with his kids.  Two of which were teenage girls.  Classy.

Prepare to be amazed by a selection of Dad's most eloquent quotes!

Dad:  "Look at the size of the knockers on that one!"

Dad:  "Why aren't you smiling?  Shouldn't you be happy to be around me?"

Dad:  "Get that butt in gear so I can watch it walk away from me."

And perhaps my personal favorite:  "Can you step back a little and do some jumping jacks for me?  I wanna see how things go."

This was followed most effortlessly by:  "Oh I'm sorry, it's a little too early for me to be doing strenuous exercise."

That of course was followed by a swift turn and ample eye rolling.  I'd like to take this time to commend my fellow Hooters Girl for not only putting up with Ass Dad, but also delivering the most perfect comeback.  Kudos.

But as much as he said, what I couldn't understand is why he would let his mouth run not only in front of his wife but also in front of his two young daughters.  So is that how you expect men to talk to your girls?  Is that how you courted your wife?  Did it all start with a casually dropped, innuendo filled pick-up line?  I can only guess that it did since ladies love nothing more than a pig in men's clothing.  Sexy.

Dad capped off his Hooters adventure buy leaving his Hooters Girl a hefty $5.00 tip on a $120-something bill.  Clearly his ample compliments were meant to be payment enough.  Our self-esteem, self-worth and self-loathing can't thank you enough!

Oh and I can't wait for your oldest daughter to come in and apply when she's eighteen next year!  Yay!!

Receipt Art: August 9, 2010

I find this receipt art to mildly disappointing.  Whatever, I like the IDEA of the cloud thank you.  It's fairly innovative yet insanely simple.  Why have I not thought of this crap before?!  Now I just need to make it not look like shit.

Oh and that's an effing rattler so watch your damn feet if you appreciate having them.  Or your life for that matter.

Just Drove Six Hours to Say Hi!

There are a few things in the world that are quintessentially American.  These include, but are not limited to, football, copious light beer ingestion, cheeseburgers, cowboys, reality television, New Jersey and Easy Cheese.  Also quintessentially American are State Fairs.  Rides, every fried food imaginable, freaky carnies.  Yup, that's America in a nutshell.  I love every bit of it.

This weekend, I had the amazing luck of performing at our State Fair.  This was most epic as much for the opportunity to perform as it meant that I would be able to enjoy a good footlong corndog.  And as a very healthy eater I look forward to my annual footlong corndog.  Let me just go ahead and say now that it was a culinary dream.  Of course by culinary dream I mean it made a delicious mockery of everything decent in the world of cooking.  But it tasted good so who effing cares.

In addition to clogging my arteries, I also saw Leann Rimes perform.  For free.  That's right, Leann Rimes performed a free concert in Great Falls, Montana.  Think what you will.  Anyway, while I am not a fan of Leann Rimes her voice blew me out of the water.  And she looked really sexy.  And she was wearing a pair of my favorite Guess by Marciano shoes.  And she was cute as a muffin.  It was totally worth free-99.

But I'm done blah-blah-blahing about nothing in particular.  My real story has to do with my performance.  Or rather after my performance.  After finishing my set - which I rocked the crap right out of - I proceeded to sit with my friends and family and contemplate which fried delicacy I would enjoy first.  That's right about when I got that creepy sort of feeling that someone, somewhere is staring at you.  Now as a side note, when I told one of my fellow Hooters Girls about this she said, "working here has totally made me immune to that feeling."  Exactly.  That's just how intently I was being stared at.  I was uber uncomfortable.

Naturally, almost immediately as I felt I was being stared at I turned around to locate the culprit.  And then I spotted him at the top corner of the stands.  If he'd been any further away he'd be falling off and breaking his neck.  There he was, my ex, smiling awkwardly as I met his gaze.  It was one of those moments where you're not sure what to do.  Do you talk to him?  Do you avoid him?  Do you beckon him?  Do you pretend you've mysteriously gone blind and you're not actually noticing him but rather simply accepting being blind?  I settled on talking to him.

The first thing I notice was that he was shaking uncontrollably.  Second, I noticed that he had absolutely no idea what say.  As such the whole thing was incredibly awkward.  So awkward in fact that I couldn't even tell you what we talked about now.  I'm sure it had something to do with music and how awesome I am.  Other than that, I have no effing clue.

After a period of awkward conversation followed by even more awkward silence, I decided to rejoin my friends and family and offered he come with me.  He declined and stared longingly as I sat down and began to explain the situation to my incredibly curious "fans."  The first to look up at him was Ariel and though she tried to not be obvious he was so honed in that he immediately saw her.  And the look of bewildered surprise on her face.  Which he of course mistook for Ariel hating him because drama and assumptions just are so much more fun than real life. 

So off he stormed texting me all sorts of less than flattering things all while I was kindly attempting to invite him to enjoy the fair with my parents - who he'd never met.  It became clear almost immediately why we broke up as the texts rolled into my phone nonstop claiming love and hate and love and hate and a little more love.  I was not impressed.

Now all of this may seem relatively normal until you take into account that my ex drove over six hours to see me play a ten minute set just to turn around and drive right home again.  That is just plain weird.  Especially when you consider that we dated for a whole three months.  Yup, it all sounds way more than weird now.  So thanks for stopping by.  I guess.

And Sometimes Customers Even Make You Smile

Sometimes a nice little friendly note is almost better than a big tip.  Yes, I clearly like money and you can go ahead and give me as much as you want of it.  My bank account certainly won't complain about being filled to the brim with dollar signs.  But a big tip can't tell you thank you as literally as a note.  Money talks, but not that loudly it seems.  That's why it's nice to see a note of thanks.  This means that not only was the service good, but it was good enough for you to take the time to let me know just how good it was.

The other day, I had a server I enjoyed so much at Chili's that I left her a receipt art right there on the credit card receipt.  I never got to see her reaction, but I know I'd appreciate that crap.  Sometimes the simplest shit can brighten someone's day.  And I like brightening days.

Recently, this little nugget really made me smile.  It was from the cutest little girl ever and she apparently thought I was totally wonderful.  This could have something to do with the fact that I drew her a princess on her receipt (yeah, I wish I had a picture of that gem as much as you probably do right now), but whatever, I'll still take the credit.  It's official, I'm "the best waitress ever."  You read it here first.

Sauce Goes on Mountainous Adventure

I hiked a mountain on Tuesday.  No, seriously.  I hiked an effing mountain.  Two of my best guy friends and I decided to tackle Lolo Peak which tacks in at just over 9,100 feet.  You can go ahead and discuss how awesome I am now.  A thirteen mile roundtrip trek, I felt like Lewis and Clark exploring the wilds of Montana.  Of course being that I was with two dudes I guess I'd technically be Sacagawea.  Whatever.  I'm tired of Lewis and Clark anyway.  They beat that shit into your brain from a very young age in the state of Montana.  I am Lewis and Clarked the eff out.

The North Summit of Lolo Peak.  At the time I thought this was where we were going.  I was entirely mistaken.  We were going somewhere taller and more awesome.

Carlton Lake, located below Lolo Peak's South Summit.  About five miles into our hike.

After bushwhacking our way around Carlton Lake we got a pretty sweet view.  I say bushwhacking because there was no trail around the lake.  There were however LOTS of mosquitoes that were immune to even the densest clouds of bug spray.  And I found out I can still do the splits when my legs are forced to do so by two opposing, sliding rocks.  That was a painful realization.

Also painful were my Keens.  While they were initially awesome - and designed for hiking might I add - they ended up producing a plethora of blisters in areas my feet do not appreciate.  I count six blisters.  On one foot.  It was brutal.  Almost as brutal as hobbling around on all those blisters the next day at Hooters.  At least my guests thought I was a badass.  Oh and for the record I really am a badass.

Receipt Art: Shark Week

I am a nerd.  I watch the Discovery Channel.  Feel free to judge me.  Do not however judge Shark Week because a great white shark will jump out of your computer screen and bite your face off after fin-slapping (similar to pistol-whipping) the shit out of you.  If you don't know what Shark Week is I advise you to get out from under your rock and turn on your television and experience a weeklong extravaganza of oceanic power.  It is truly epic.

Naturally with that sort of passion I had all sorts of plans to include sharks in my receipt art.  But as is often the case, sometimes the best of intentions remain only that and my sharks have failed to grace a simple receipt.  It seems that INCREDIBLY busy shifts don't allow room for much creativity - even when it includes one of the seas' fiercest predators.  I was left to repeat my staples.  Sad face.

Since I failed most epically, I decided to show you what Shark Week should have looked like.  I might even like this better.

Clearly a shark would eat a deer.  Not a surprise.  Check out that death grip.

Oh, you think the shark would ruin that cow's day.  Eff the cow.  This shark is shooting for the moon.

Everyone knows that sharks hate the letter L.  They however have no beef with the letter M.

Sharks think umbrellas are for pussies.

That beer has a VERY hoppy bite or there is a shark in it.  Either way.

Oh, you think the shark should be in the water?  He knows you'd be expecting that so he decided to fly up and blot out the sun with his massive jaws.  You've been eclipsed.

So that's how Shark Week SHOULD have gone.  What?  You say the week isn't over?  For me it is.  I know, I'm a disappointment.

You Can Mount Anything But Short Shorts Better Stay Out of It

One of the many "responsibilities" of a Hooters Girl is to sign things.  This can mean anything; I've signed everything from pictures to menus to arms.  Mainly though, I sign T-shirts because for some reason being a Hooters Girl makes me relatively famous.  Thanks, I'll take the marginal impersonation of fame and practice my signature for when I'm actually famous for simply being fabulous.  Of course if I ever am actually famous I'll leave all those hearts and xoxo's and crap out of my name.

So with all the name signing and whatnot a girl likes to get a little creative and write cute little sayings.  These, much like the signatures, involve hearts, but they also involve creative uses of words like wings and hoots and sauce and the like.  My personal favorite is, "hoot, hoot, you're cute."  It's super lame, but people eat that shit up.  So I feed it to them.  It's my job.

Before the whole hoot, hoot thing, I used to always write:

"Roses are red, Violets are blue, The shorter the shorts, The better the view!"  

Now I can't claim this stunning bit of poetry as my own, but I can say that it suited my amazing handwriting quite beautifully.  Many a back is now dawning a shirt with this little poem scrawled across it.  Many a back pre-February of course.  That's right, the poem is now totally vintage.  Which is cool because vintage shit is totally in.  What's not so cool is that corporate put my favorite verse into washed-out T-shirt reruns because it was too risky for Hooters.  Actually, what's really not so cool is that corporate totally contradicted themselves.

This is just one example of said contradiction that showed up in our store lately:

Or perhaps fishing is more your thing:

Now isn't it a shame I couldn't find a picture of the one that says, "Camel Towing"?  Yeah, I'm disappointed too.

Ok, I can sell someone a shirt that says they'd "mount that" but I can't write a far more innocent poem about short shorts on it?  A poem about shorts that are a major part of what Hooters is?  I'm confused.

I love inconsistency.