Receipt Art: October 28, 2010

All this talk of Halloween cliches made me realize we all missed two major ones: ghosts and graveyards.  So what did I do?  I got all awesome and combined the two.  I suppose you do need graveyards to have ghosts after all.  Please enjoy.

It has come to my attention that none of my Halloween characters are very scary.  They most certainly are freaking adorable though.  This is easily my favorite Halloween receipt yet and I'd even go so far as to say it might be top five all time.  ALL EFFING TIME.  That's how much I love those little ghosts.  Is it possible to cuddle a spirit?

In addition to my receipt wonder, I am proud to announce that my crazy receipt drawings have finally inspired one of my trainees.  You see I always show my trainees my way of receipt personalization as well as what other girls do.  Most probably think I'm insane and then go ahead and just circle every possible thing with hearts and sign the bottom with a quick thank you like everyone else does.  It's cool, I understand that I'm a freak.

Then, in the trash, I found this (don't worry, it was gently laying on the top).  Yes, a trainee has made her own receipt masterpiece.  It may not be the most amazing thing ever, but that's not the damn point.  The point is she took the time to make it one of kind.  I am such a proud Mama Hoot.  My crazy is wearing off.

To Bad Days

Today was one of those days that just make you feel unappreciated.  You know, the type of days that no matter what you do right it's just not enough.  Let me start by saying that I know I was on top of my game today.  I say that with confidence because I have an amazing way of always delivering great service regardless of my mood.  I come to work to work and I'm not going to let anything get in the way of that.  So long story short, I always try to give amazing service because it's my job to give amazing service and I take that seriously.

For some reason, regardless of my great service, it was a 10% kind of day.  Now this wouldn't bother me if I was being slow or being rude or just generally sucking.  I'd know if I was effing up and I'd understand the shitty tip.  It only bothers me when I know I'm doing a good job.  It bothers me even more when you take the time to compliment my service and then leave two bucks on a fifty-dollar tab.  That's just not cool.  As nice as your compliments are, my landlord won't accept them as a rent payment.

Yes, today was that kind of day.  It was almost as if every customer was a part of some "piss Sauce off" conspiracy.  I just imagine them all gathering outside the door making their plans.  There would be a strategy board with little ships and shit on it and one evil mastermind of a customer is pushing them all around and laughing as the mini armada carried my money away.  It's all very dark and awful.  With a plan like that I could have been shitting golden checks for a million dollars each and people still would have tipped me nothing.  I clearly couldn't win.  Everyone was just being that sucky.

Then I had a gentleman come in who decided to turn my day around.  I gave him the same service I had given every table - great service.  We chatted a bit and I brought his food and he was happy.  I did nothing out of the ordinary or different from any other table in my section.  Naturally, I was expecting the theme of the day to continue as I handed him his bill.  Then he stopped me.

Nice Man:  "You know I was having a really, really shitty day until I came in here.  I mean it seriously had started like total shit.  You really turned it around for me."

I was floored.  Here was this man complimenting me just for being me.  He continued.

Nice Man:  "You just seem to have a really great attitude and a very genuine personality.  It's nice to see that these days.  Too many people are angry and unhappy.  You really made my day.  I can honestly tell you it's going to be a better day just thinking about your attitude.  It's really refreshing."

And just like that my day was made as I made someone else's.  In addition to his compliments, he left me a nice 25% tip, but it wasn't about the money.  His sincerely kind words just made me feel better because he had appreciated the person I am.  He made my day better without even knowing it.

He also reminded me why I love my job.  Thanks, dude.

Receipt Art: October 21, 2010

Since it's getting closer and closer to Halloween my receipt arts have been getting all kind of spookified (yes, I know that's not a real word).  Now I could just draw the same pumpkins and whatnot over and over again but I would get entirely bored with myself.  So I decided to take a few suggestions from my blog readers and ended up drawing a spider theme for J. Franklin Evens.  It was fairly legit.

And then, there in the comments, it was pointed out that I neglected to include the cliche black cat in my over-the-top, super-Halloween receipt.  Mira-Cole pointed out, "You seem to also have forgotten the black cat chiche. Or even better, a black car sticking it's head out of a pumpkin. Double Halloween goodness, fear it."  First off, you're right, Mira-Cole.  Second, your last sentence makes me fell all sorts of happy; it practically reeks of me.


So here it is, Mira-Cole, in all its glory.  I thank you.

Check that shit out while ignoring my not so photogenic carpet.  Yes, that is a rather nonscary cat poking out of that pumpkin.  I think what he lacks in the ability to induce fear he more than makes up for in cuteness.  Just look at those little paws and pumpkin top turned hat.  Clearly adorable.


Please feel free to ignore my horrid attempt at a spooky tree.  It looks a lot more like a deformed witch hand than any tree I've ever seen.  It just looks so very sad.  Scary trees are clearly not my forte. 


And yes, I included that spider again for you, J. Franklin Evens.  Consider it a blog-insider thing.  


I also got a nice little note on one of my napkins from two music teachers in town for a convention.  Naturally I had been all fancy and drawn a pretty sweet music themed receipt with notes and instruments and treble clefs and whatnot. 

Unfortunately for you, they took it with them which happens to so many of my best artworks.  Just imagine all the wonders you'll never get the chance to see.

You "Like" Me, You Really "Like" Me!

You may have noticed that I added a new feature to my sidebar full of shit.  Go ahead, take a little look over there.  Oh hey!  I now have a Facebook page for my blog and you...

Sorry, got interrupted by a Harry Potter preview.  Epic.

Yes, I jumped on the bandwagon and made a fan page for my blog and its sister column in Hooters Magazine.  Feel free to proclaim your love for all things Sauce by hitting "Like."

In case you're lazy you can feel free to just hit LIKE HERE and go straight to the page.  I guess you'll still have to do some work once you get there.  Whatever, it's the thought that counts.

P.S. I guess I technically added two things to the side bar; I also added a section of Hooters links to make my blog even more Hooterific.  You're welcome.

I Am a Halloween Overachiever

In addition to being a Hooters overachiever, I am evidently also a Halloween overachiever.  I mean not only did I spend about fifteen hours making my Buzz Lightyear costume, I am also making Dreamy the most realistic Woody costume ever.  Now before you jump to the conclusion that I'm "one of those" girlfriends, I'll have you know that it was HIS idea to dress up as Woody.  Of course while it was his idea, it's been my idea to execute.  I am probably too nice.

So here I am on my Friday night - yes, my Friday is a Monday - dying a shirt yellow in a huge bucket.  It seems they don't sell bright yellow shirts for men.  At least not for 6'8, giant men.  Of course rather than buy a light yellow shirt I had to go all out and bust out the Rit dye.  My fingers are crossed that I don't get it all over my studio apartment.

In addition to the dying, I am going to painstakingly draw red lines all over the shirt with a fabric pen because everything I do has to be accurate.  I am already expecting hand cramps and future arthritis.  I also made him a cow-print vest.  And spurs.  And a working pull-string (yeah that one took awhile to figure out).

Oh and did I mention I made the most legitimate, amazing, nerdy-but-cool Hannah Montana costume ever worn by a 24-year-old once.  Well, I did.  That's how big this problem has become.

Dear Lord, help me in my addiction to costume perfection.  You can start by helping me win lots of costume contests at every bar we end up in.  I figure it's only fair, Lord.

After putting this post up, and looking at that picture of Buzz and Woody,  I realized we have just about the proper height difference for these characters.  And my boyfriend has a big head (size 8 plus here).  This is going to be so awesome.  Just ignore the Brokeback undertones of two generally male characters dating.

Someone Actually Published Me

Yup, it's official, I am a real, live, totally published writer.  I got word that the newest issue of Hooters Magazine had arrived and broke several laws speeding to Hooters to get a look at it.  There I am in all my glory on page 15.  I'd write more, but I'm in need of something especially celebratory - like a Blizzard or the biggest margarita money can buy.  Or do they make margarita Blizzards?  I'd like mine with extra tequila please and thank you.

Get down to Hooters and pick up your copy of Hooters Magazine featuring the premier of "Hooters According to Sauce."  The magazine will also be hitting newsstands the first week of November.  Either way you should totally get your hands on one.  And then frame it.

NOTE:  After reading the article I found two - or three, I can't remember - mistakes in it.  It's funny how when you're writing stuff you are too close it to notice such dumb mistakes.  I must have read that thing a hundred times, yet there they are after I haven't read it for a couple months.  I promise I'm not dumb.  But note to self, Hooters apparently expects me to do ALL my own editing...

The Soccer Team

I had a big table today.  I'm talking twenty-seven top big.  Yup, twenty-seven people, at one time, on a Wednesday afternoon.  I was amazed too.  I was even more amazed by the fact that they had the extreme foresight to call ahead.   You see there is something about Hooters that seems to make people think we're always ready to handle huge groups of people.  There is nothing I love more than thirty people just dropping in and being surprised that we don't just have some huge table in the corn that seats 113.  Unfortunately for you and your very extended family, this is not the case.  Sorry to break it to you.

Back to what I was saying before I interrupted myself, I had a twenty-seven top today and they were nice enough to give me an hour notice.  Now, an hour may not seem like much, but those sixty delicious minutes are plenty of time to move seven or so tables together, put out a whole bunch of silverware, liter the table with wet naps and set out all sorts of water pitchers.  It's amazing how doing those simple things before hand will make your whole life easier.  Of course even an hour notice can't help the fact that you only have two cooks, but more on that later.

So there I was, flying high with my perfectly set up table looking all sorts of good.  Then I saw the bus.  This is generally not a good sign.  As you may recall, the last time I had a big bus pull in it didn't go so well for me.  And by that I actually mean the little high school shits made everything as complicated as effing possible for me.  And then they left me $14 bucks.  I was having flashbacks of this moment as I watched that bus round the corner.  I was very, very afraid.

I only became more afraid as I watched twenty-seven high school boys in matching warm-ups file down the stairs and towards the door.  Dear Lord, it was a freaking soccer team.  I was about ready to nail shit to the floor they looked so hungry.  When was the last time the fed these growing boys with what I can only imagine are monstrous appetites?! 

As they all clamored to get around the table and let me know all but four of them would be having water (bad omen), one of the couches pulled me aside.

Coach:  "So can you do separate tickets?  Each boy has to handle his own funds.  So split tickets?"

Sauce:  Forcing a smile.  "Well, with this many people it's going to take a lot longer for me to do that.  I of course can, I just want to let you know it will make things a little slower.  Is there any chance they would be paying with cash?"

Coach:  "Oh, it's all cash."

He'd spoken the most magical of words.  Cash.  Thank my freaking lucky stars.  I then explained to him that with everyone having cash it might be easier for them to all "throw in" as it was much easier and quicker for me to get change once than it was to get change twenty-seven separate times.  Luckily, he got my logic right away.   Thinks were looking up.  Of course by looking up I mean I still expected $14.  Again.

After completing my first mission of not having to split the ticket a gillion ways, I made it my next mission to steer the table toward wings.  This was not so much because it was easy for me, but because - as I mentioned before - we had two cooks on shift.  I hoped to make their job easier.  I failed most miserably.

I started my way from one end of the table to the other and back again and each and every boy had to order something different.  And modify things.  And then change their minds.  I cringed with every order I wrote down, crossed out and then wrote down again.  The kitchen was going to hate me.

Eventually, I slung the ticket into the food window, all five pages of it.  You see rather than printing one, huge, frightening ticket, I organized everything.  Burgers I sent with burgers.  Wings I sent with wings.  Random shit I sent with random shit.  It was the least I could do for my poor cooks.

Luckily, the cooks appreciated my organizational skills and knocked out that huge ticket like world champs.  Miraculously, all the items came out within five minutes of each other.  I was beyond impressed.  And my table was happy.  The hard part was over.  Now I just had to wait for the part where I would get $14.

Finally, I printed out the ticket and noticed that my manager had been nice enough to add auto gratuity.  Some of you may recall that our owner decided to do away with auto gratuity for pretty much no good reason.  Luckily, my manager understands food service and decided to throw me a bone.  I could be expecting a nearly $40 tip based on the auto gratuity and made sure to point out the tip when I presented the check.

Sauce:  "All right, guys, here's your check.  Now I'm going to give you a chance to use all that math you told your teachers you'd never, ever use.  It'll be easy enough to figure out what you owe, but keep in mind that we add an automatic gratuity for big parties.  It's 18% and if you need help figuring that out on what you owe I'll be happy to lend my fingers for counting purposes!"

I asked who wanted to be in charge, and left the ticket with a boy at the head of the table.  I expected they'd be scrounging for change, in awe of the price at the bottom of the ticket.  After a few minutes they slowly shuffled towards the door and one casually noted that the cash was on the table and that I might find some extra.  Sure thing.  I couldn't wait to find the extra quarter.

I picket up a huge stack of cash.  It was fives.  And lots of ones.  Not a good sign.  I started counting.  I got to the ticket amount, I kept counting.   I realized I had been left a tip of more than $60.  By a team of high school boys.  I was shocked and amazed and awe inspired.  Shame on my for my stupid stereotyping.

So to that lovely Idaho soccer team, Karma is on your side for calling ahead and taking such good care of me.  You'll probably win state because of your kindness.  The world owes it to you now.  Mark my words.

Oh and I tipped my cooks out really well today.  They thank you too.

Don't forget your daily vote for Sauce as Buzz Lightyear in the Hooters Costume Contest!  CLICK HERE TO VOTE FOR ME ON FACEBOOK!

Receipt Art: October 17, 2010

Today I present you with my first ever receipt art inspired by a reader of "Girl and Guitar."  In response to my receipt featuring a plethora of  Halloween cliches, J. Franklin Evans rightfully said, "Hey!  All this time I thought something was missing from your pic and I just figured it out.  Shouldn't there be a spider somewhere? Hanging from a web or something? Yeah, cliche . . ."


Yes, Mr. Evans had totally called me out and I clearly couldn't let that go unanswered.  So here, Mr. Evans, is your spider inspired theme.

It's a fairly simple design, but I think it's awfully cute.  Mostly this is because the spider is smiling.  Are spiders happy creatures?  I clearly think yes.  Also, note that spiders have eight legs.  When I left this receipt, the recipient was adamant that spiders have six legs.  No, dude, this is Earth and on Earth our spiders do indeed have eight legs.  Wikipedia that shit.


Anyway, I'm liking this whole blog readers inspiring me thing, so please feel free to leave you deepest receipt desires in my comments.  I'll try my darnedest to bring your ideas (well the good ones at least) to a receipt near you!

Sauce takes a Trainee on an Adventure at Table 31

Yesterday I trained a new girl.  It was her third day of training and basically what this means is I get to follow her around, make sure she doesn't forget anything and make her money.  Ok, that sounds wrong.  I actually do a lot a of work, but the trainee is expected to do most of the "server stuff" with the tables.  It's her job to introduce us and take drink orders and take food orders.  It's my job to make sure she's doing all of the above right.  I make sure she remembers all the questions to ask when a guy orders wings or that she lets people know the specials.  Basically I make sure she doesn't forget crap.

The girl I trained yesterday was doing a pretty good job taking tables and remembering all the big things she had to be doing.  While Hooters might seem like an easy job, there really are a lot of little things to remember when people are ordering.  I was doing an awful lot of reminding of these things.  That's normal enough though.  What wasn't so normal were the two guys we had to deal with at table 31.  I should be more specific, the one really nice bodybuilder and the old guy we had to deal with at table 31.

When we approached the table the old man was mad that we didn't have breakfast.  This happens at Hooters more than you might realize.  Maybe it has something to do with us being right behind an IHOP, but people - especially older people - always seem to want pancakes or a scramble or maybe even a frittata.   We open at eleven we, don't have breakfast.  Deal with it.

As I was saying, approaching the table there was some typical breakfast complaining.  The usual "where's the eggs" quickly progressed into a not so typical "I bet the girls aren't so ugly at IHOP either."  I quickly and thankfully decided to take over the table from my trainee.  She was exhibiting all the classic signs of "help me."

Now usually - meaning had I not had a trainee - I would have taken the time to write down all the little gems this old man decided to tell us.  But I didn't write anything down so we'll have to rely on my brain.  Sorry for all the things you're going to miss.

• "You (meaning me) look forty-eight and she (meaning my trainee) looks ten."
• "Why are you all so ugly here?!"
• "Did you just forget to wax your mustache today?"
• "The only thing good here is my sandwich."
• "Give me more beer, I'm trying to make you pretty."
• "Of course you should take my plate, I'm trying to get you to do your job."
• "You seem awful good at standing around."
• "Of course I don't love my wife."
• "I'd put you right to work if you know what I mean."
• "I'd ask for your phone number, but I'd never call you."
• "Well my wife only hit me with the frying pan twice."  (It was confirmed by the nicer, younger guest that this was in fact true)
• "I don't want to know a darn thing about you thinking."

And unfortunately that's all I can remember.  I'm forgetting at least 50-75% of what he said.  The memory loss of a 25-year-old is a real bitch.  Oh and he did snap at me to get my attention which is quite possibly one of my biggest pet peeves ever.  Luckily I work at Hooters.  This means I can throw shit back at people - who don't seem to mind and are generally cool of course.  This means that in response to said snapping I got to say, "I have a name you know and though I'm sure you can't read, I did write it on the napkin in front of you."  This is why I love Hooters. 

Now before you get all defensive and say I should never talk to a customer like that, I let you know that both young, nice guy and old, not-so-nice guy ate that shit right up.  Old guy and I exchanged insults with the greatest of ease.  You see, even with his very serious demeanor it became obvious fairly quickly that, most of the time, old guy was joking.  It also became obvious that old guy appreciated a woman who could dish it right back.  I had read my table like a true pro.  My trainee was in awe.

Finally, after many a cut had been delivered, the gentlemen were ready to leave and young guy decided to pay, leaving exact cash for the ticket.  He then gave us each a twenty-dollar bill.

Young Guy:  "Thanks for being such good sports.  Most waitresses would have ignored us completely with most of his remarks.  It's his first time here and he loved it.  I really appreciate it."

Old Guy:  "Yeah, I like a little frisk to my ladies.  Wanna come home and meet my wife?"

I love my job.

Please remember to vote everyday for me in the Hooters Costume Contest on Facebook!  CLICK HERE TO VOTE!

Hooters Girls Explain Football

This is entertaining.  I have a sneaking suspicion that they may have done some creative editing to make them seem like they know even less than they actually do.  Whatever.  Either way it's pretty hilarious.



Oh and the cute blonde in the sky blue Hooters owl shirt is Raechel Holtgrove.  She helped open our store and is a totally awesome and hilarious and Miss Hooters 2009 and gorgeous.  Ugh, perfect people.

Sauce and Colette (or How Colette Lost his Voice)

After pictorially alluding to owning a teddy bear, I figure it's only fitting that I introduce you to the first love of my life, Colette (no offense, Dreamy).  We've been together for the past twenty-four years, so you could call it a pretty serious long-term relationship.  Oh and for the record, Colette is a boy.  I realize that makes no sense, but I was three when I named him so deal with it.  He's comfortable with his sexuality.

Here is Colette in all his handsome glory.  I'd say he has a very distinguished look to him.  Clearly I've loved him quite literally to pieces.

All this talk and thought about my first leading man reminded me of a Little Sauce story about Colette.  You see once upon a time Colette had a beautiful voice.  He could sing "It's a Small World" oh so sweetly.  But of course Little Sauce had to go ahead and ruin that.  Here is the story of how Colette lost his voice.

Colette and I were pretty much inseparable; where I went Colette was sure to be drug behind.  Or tied to the back of my banana-seat bike.  Or tucked in my backpack.  Or even once, put on a leash.  Colette and I were practically one and the same.  Only he was furry.  And not real.

One of my favorite pastimes was to dress Colette in any number of outfits.  Mom wouldn't let me have Barbies, so Colette became my doll.  He wore lots of dresses.  But my favorite outfit for Colette was one of my many matching nightgown sets.  That way we could match.  Clearly he was a very tolerant man bear.

Then one day Mom brought home a bear sized bathing suit.  It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen and wasted no time yanking and pulling the little one-piece onto Colette.  I was in love with the newest addition to Colette's wardrobe.

Soon it began to get hotter and Mom got out the kiddy pool in the backyard and my days were spent pretending to me a mermaid in the foot deep water.  I was living the good life.  One day it was especially hot and though the pool had been in the backyard for weeks, it suddenly dawned on me that Colette must be especially warm with all that fur.  And he hadn't yet had a chance to use his new swimsuit.  It seemed awfully neglectful of me.

So I grabbed Colette off my bed and ran out to the pool, Mom yelling for me to wait for her from the kitchen.  Naturally, I didn't wait and jumped in my froggy pool Colette in hand.  I was pretty sure he loved the cool water on his fur because as everyone knows bears love water.  Colette had to be no exception.

When Mom came outside Colette and I were both soaking wet in the middle of the pool.  I held up my Colette proudly to show her how well I'd cooled off my dear bear friend.  I can only imagine Mom was not impressed as she nicely told me Colette might want to sunbathe for a bit.  Of course I thought that was a grand idea.

After a good day of "sunbathing," I decided to give Colette a wind and listen to some "It's a Small World."  I turned the winder in his back.  Nothing.  I turned it again.  Still nothing.  I turned and turned and turned and still Colette wouldn't sing.  I was devastated.  Colette had lost his voice.

Mom was very sympathetic and explained that maybe Colette just didn't like swimming like most bears do.  After all Colette liked to wear clothes and most bears didn't like to do that.  Her logic made perfect sense.  

Then she dropped the bomb.  Colette would need surgery.  Major surgery.  I cried as Mom cut open Colette's back on the dinning room table turned operating bench.  Slowly she removed the music box that had made Colette sing and carefully sewed Colette's back up.  He was left with a massive scar running the length of his little back - a reminder that teddy bears don't like to swim.

I joke now that Colette is a silent, meditative bear.  He's there to quietly make me feel better without being loud about it.  That probably makes me lame.  I think it makes me awesome.

Another Reason for Sauce to Hate Her Property Management Company

Today I got a sweet letter from my property management company.  Of course by sweet letter I mean it's the type I would usually just ignore.  Ripping it open I figured it would saying something really pressing about people parking wrong or getting the sprinklers blown out or how they realized my rent was too expensive and they decided to refund me.  Basically I was prepared to throw it away like a good tenant.

I unfold the letter and casually glance at it as I'm heading to toward the dumpster to get rid of it and notice that it says something about me breeching my lease.  First, I think about when I paid my rent.  Yup, definitely paid all $541 painful dollars of it on the first.  I keep reading and suddenly it becomes all too clearly that someone has complained about me.  And that they are charging me $50 for this complaint and coming to make sure I haven't "damaged the apartment."  Wait, what? 

Initially, I am raging pissed about the fifty bucks.  Then I think about anything I possibly could have done to warrant complaint.  I live alone in a studio - excuse me "junior one bedroom" - apartment I lovingly call a glorified hotel room.  I clearly do not have raggers.  I hardly even invite people over.  Where in the hell would I put them?  I don't jazzercise or mousercize or any-type-of-cize here.  I have a gym membership for that.  I don't stomp around.  I don't effing do anything besides enjoy my comfy couch and even comfier bed.

So I decide to hall my ass down to the property management company and figure out what the hell is going on and why the hell I'm being charged for it.  You may recall that after being locked out I don't think very highly of my property management company.  As such I was ready to throw down, letter in hand, as I marched into the office.

Sauce:  "I got this letter and I'm very curious what this complaint is and why I'm being charged $50 for it.  It's very vague and I'm not paying money for something I'm unsure of."

Property Management Lackey:  "Well to be honest we've had some complaints about you having guests over to your apartment at all hours of the night.  The accusations were actually quite explicit."

Sauce:  "Um ok, so my boyfriend is over a few nights a week maybe.  But if you're talking about us "doing it" (yes, I actually air quoted) that's really not a big part of our relationship."

That was clearly a lie, but I figured it sounded better than me saying something like, I know how to effing be quiet.

Property Management Lackey:  "Oh, not it's not that at all.  A woman sent a very graphic email claiming there are people partying on your landing at all hours and mooning her window."

I am surprised.  Very surprised.

Sauce:  "Ok, first off I work six days a week.  I don't have time to be partying.  Secondly, if I did have the time to party I wouldn't bring my friends to my studio apartment to do it.  I can assure you that not only was that not me, but I'm pretty sure that given I am trying to sleep at night I would have noticed people partying on my landing and told them to shut up.  But for the record do I not share my landing?"

Property Management Lackey:  "Well, yes."

Sauce:  "So could it not be someone I share my landing with?"

Property Management Lackey:  "A good point."

Sauce:  "Or, could it not have happened at all given that I didn't hear anything on the landing ten feet from my bed?  I'm not sure what this lady saw, but the fact that you send me this letter and feel the need to charge me on completely unfounded accusations is ridiculous.  Did you not think to ask me first?  Or even ask another neighbor?  If there were some mooning crazies don't you think you'd get a few more complaints?"

She just stared at me and mumbled something about me needing to write a statement and that they would "look into the situation."  Yes, I certainly hope you do look into it.  Lord knows I don't want some drunken freaks running around my landing sans pants even if they're imaginary.

So I hate my property management company even more now.  When is this lease up again?  Oh, that's right, May.  Lame.

Receipt Art: October 13, 2010

It's that time of year when people start to get all cliche and celebrate the harvest and Fall and paganism.  Of course most of us don't know a think about the harvest and most certainly are not pagans.  I'll give us all Fall though, except for people in Hawaii.  And those south of the Equator.  You get Spring instead (and no, I'm not saying Hawaii gets Spring).

Naturally, I jumped on this Fallalicious bandwagon and let the season inspire one of my receipts.  Of course by inspire I actually mean that I tried to put just about every cliche thing I could think of on this receipt in the 45 seconds I had to draw it.  I clearly went to town.

Note the pumpkin, jack-o-lanterns, bat, witch, and feeble attempt at cornstalks.  Also observe the moon with spooky clouds rolling in.  Maybe you noticed the scientifically inaccurate cloud floating behind the moon.  I drew the moon first.  So I bent scientific law to increase my stereotypical spook factor.  I'm an artist and I do what I want.

And of course I self-promoted my costume contest.  I have a BS in Marketing.  Forgive me if I try to use now and again - even if I'm doing it half-assed.  On that note, CLICK HERE AND VOTE FOR ME ON THE DAILY!

Happy Fall, lovies!

Hooters FAQs

Day in and day out, there are a few questions that I get asked over and over and over again at Hooters.  Countless times a day I find myself at yet another table answering the same question with the same tired answer; it seems people just aren't very original.  I now present you with a collection of Hooters FAQs both I and my fellow Hooters Girls receive.  I also present you with the answers to these questions as I answer them.  Or more probably how I wish I could answer them if I wasn't at work and didn't have to be nice to people.

1.  How tall are you?
I probably get this once a shift.  Generally it is paired with the obvious, "wow, you're really tall."  For the record I am 5'10.5.  Does that half an inch matter?  Probably not to you, but that's what they always measure me at during my annual lady appointments.  Plus I'm not sure I want to be 5'11.  Yes, that half a freaking inch clearly matters.

2.  Is that your real eye color/are you wearing colored contacts?
No, I do not wear any contacts, colored or otherwise.  I guess I was just genetically blessed.  Thanks Mom and Dad.  I owe you one.  My eyes are dark, dark blue.  Sometimes they're gray.  Sometimes they're cobalt.  Sometimes they're a color that I'm not sure has a name.  We'll just call it sauce.  But whatever color they appear they are most definitely all mine.

3.  How do you get your legs so tan?
Yes, some people really think that those are my real, ultra-tan legs - no nylons involved.  For those of you who don't know they invented these sweet things called pantyhose in 1959.  Yup, I actually looked that up.  And at Hooters I actually wear them.

4.  Are you in school?
This is a questions every girl answers a million times a shift.  Most get to say yes.  They explain their major and then the conversation is over.  I get to say I've graduated and then I get the pleasure of dealing with people wondering what I'm dong at Hooters.  Guess what, I like Hooters.  And I make more than I did sitting at a desk forty hours a week after I graduated.  But for the record I do plan on going back to school, getting a Masters and not being judged as a failure.

5.  Is the outfit comfortable?
Surprisingly, the outfit really is comfortable.  Now, this didn't used to be the case in the old-style shorts days.  Those were awful, dark times.  I choose not to relive them.  Even now wedgies, twisted nylons and digging underwire happen, but mostly the uniform isn't that bad.

6.  Does Hooters pay for boob jobs?

A boob job is not a guaranteed benefit of working at Hooters.  But if you're a great Hooters Girl who is good as saving money, then yes I suppose Hooters does indeed pay for boob jobs.  But it's certainly not like health insurance or a Roth IRA.

7.  Are you closing?
Pretty much since we opened people have been spreading rumors that Hooters is closing.  I'm not sure why this, but it probably has something to do with the fact that people just love talking about Hooters.  Even Dreamy asked me a few weeks ago if I would be losing my job because someone told him we were shutting down after he wore a Hooters shirt.  Don't worry, baby, your lady still has a job.

8.  Do you have a boyfriend/fiancé/husband?

Yup, I sure do.  And for the record even the single girls here will probably tell you they have one.

9.  Is that your real name?
Yes, we use our real names at Hooters and yes my real name really is a freaking weird Dutch name that you've never heard of.  Believe it or not some parents are actually creative and skip using names like Sara, Jennifer and Brittney.  Oh and why would I pick a "Hooters name" that I needed a nickname to make easier for you?  That's too complicated and intelligent for even me.

10.  What do your parents think of you working at Hooters?
Well, what do your parents think of you coming into Hooters?  Get over it, Hooters isn't that bad.  Actually it's not bad at all.  And guess what my parents like it.  Or maybe they just don't mind.  My Mom correctly asserted that I wear more than most high school students and a lot more than I wore running college track and my Dad is a fan of anything that involves big beer and raw oysters.  He's Dutch.  Nothing surprises him.

11.  Where are you on this menu?
I haven't heard that ever before.  Barf.  Contrary to popular belief, Hooters Girl is not available on the menu.  But me throwing up in your lap is if you ask me that again.

12.  How old are you?
Too young for you, dude.  Which is 25.

13.  What's good here?
I probably hate this more than any question in the world.  I don't know what you like.  Maybe I like chicken and you hate chicken.  Maybe I suggest spicy and spice makes you cry.  At least give me a freaking direction before asking this.  It's all good to different people.  Let me answer your question with another question.  What's good to you?

I'm sure there are many, many more.  And I'm sure they're just as awful.  Hopefully these can now be off the table.  But probably not, that'd make my job too easy.

And please remember to vote for my costume in the Hooters Halloween Costume Contest once a day on Facebook!  You could help me win one for the no-fake-boobs, no-professional-photographers, no-store-bought-costumes team.  And you could win free wings for yourself.  For a year.  That's a lot of good eating.

Receipt Art: October 10, 2010

For the record, I don't think Hooters wings are that hot.  This is not because they aren't hot, it's because I have the amazing ability to handle spice like a champ.  I think this is my superpower; it's clearly a gift.  Of course not everyone is like me.  Most people probably can't handle the level of spiciness I tend to enjoy.   These people think Hooters has hot wings.  It's all good, I don't think less of you.

One man in particular comes in every Sunday with his wife to have a plate of 10, naked, 911 wings.  He sweats and guzzles beer and spends the whole time he's there looking like he is in the most intense, wing-induced pain of his life.  Yet, there he is every Sunday, sitting at the same table, eating the same hot wings.

When he orders his wings however, he doesn't ask for them in the usual way.  That would make sense.  Instead, he asks for ten "stupid hot" wings.  Maybe he's from Boston, I don't know.  But that's beside the point.  I of course had to reflect his love for stupid hot wings in a receipt art.  It only seemed right.

Note the pepper.  He is "stupid hot."  This is made obvious by his self-declaration of heat and red coloring; everyone knows red is directly proportional to hotness.  Luckily, that Big Daddy beer is here to keep us "stupid cool."  And of course they're all freaking ecstatic about their stupid states of being.

I'm clearly stupid awesome.

Sauce and Dreamy the Diner Boy

Dreamy and I live on opposite sides of the clock.  We go to work exactly twelve hours apart.  This can be quite frustrating for a relationship, especially one that is relatively new.  We should be in the honeymoon phase, but here we are trying to make two very different schedules align for a few precious hours a day.  It's a pretty lame deal, but it's worth it to call a sweet, 6'8, hottie my man.

So why in the hell am I telling you all this?  You want to hear about Hooters.  Not my silly little relationship problems.  There are enough of those crappy blogs on the Internet.  I'm brining all this up because Dreamy is a graveyard waiter at Denny's.  And in that, my friends, I find humor.  There is just something mildly entertaining about the Hooters Girl dating the Denny's waiter.  It sounds like a movie that they should totally make.  Oh wait, they did make that and called it Waiting 2.  It was fairly lame.  Whatever.

Anyhooters, I generally go to work at 10:00 a.m. and Dreamy starts his shifts at 10:00 p.m.  Basically we live exactly the same life at totally different times of day.  It is not a "Grand Slam."  We'll meet up for a bit before he goes to work and I'll have dinner while he enjoys his breakfast.  It's all very humorously annoying.

What I find even more amusing is when I work the night shift and I roll into Denny's to give Dreamy a quick hello before bed.  There I am sitting at the counter bitching about my night, nylons and Hooters top barely visible under my cover up, while my boyfriend makes me an Oreo shake - extra Oreo of course.  The Hooters Girl visits the all night diner boy and they fall in love over talk of shitty tippers, drunken jerks and cranky cooks.  This, my friends, is a match made in food service heaven.

As long as we can figure out the scheduling this thing might just keep working.  It's already worked for a few months, so I suppose it'll just have to keep working.  I lo you, baby (my way of saying I more than like you, but less than love you).  I'm corny, deal with it.

Hear it Here First: Hooters According to Sauce

As promised, it's October 9th and today I present you the first of two major announcements.  I've been keeping this under wraps for a few months now and I'm very excited about it.  I'm even more excited that I can finally share it with all of you.  Here goes nothing.

One month from today, what is hopefully the first of many articles written by me will be appearing in Hooters Magazine.  Yes, a real, live, published magazine will feature a whole story written by yours truly.  The magazine will be on newsstands November 9th.  Feel free to subscribe now so you're ready.

The story will be part of a new feature called "Hooters According to Sauce."  That's right, according to me.  Way to make me feel all sorts of special!  I promise not to let my head get too big.  That would look really weird after all.

And I even designed that pretty little header myself.  I'm super proud of it - and even more proud of my article.  I hope you'll check it out and let me know what you think! 

Count on Fox to Make Hooters Look Skanky

Once again we've reached that amazing time of year when the new Hooters Calendar is available in stores around the country.  As always it's filled with hot chicks, months all out of order, more hot chicks, dates that go unnoticed and a few hot chicks.  Customers drool over the glossy, bikini-filled pages.  Hooters Girls critique.  You get the idea.

Feel free to enjoy the special double-sided cover of the 2011 Hooters Calendar.  I'm sure we can all approve.

Right after the calendar arrived in store, a man looking at the calendar had a look of confusion as he flipped through the pages.  I approached him ready to answer whatever question he could throw at me.

"I thought there were naked girls in the calendar!"

Awe yes, once again someone expects nudity.  This is an all too common question that always has the same answer.  A Hooters Calendar would NEVER feature nude girls.  It may imply nudity now and again, but you never see any actual nudity.  No nipple here, my friend.  Hooters may have an air of sexuality, but that's it.

"But the news blanked out the tops of the girls."

Wha?!  He then went on to explain to me how he saw the calendar girls on the news and that they had put privacy bars over some of the photos.  Naturally, this made him assume the calendar would be full of hot naked chicks.  I understood how he could be confused and of course as a good Hooters Girl blogger I did a little research when I got home.  I now present you the video in question.







Now seeing that would you expect a little nipple too?  Probably.  Miss March.  Not naked.  Cover girl.  Not naked.  Yup, that picture of the cover with a girl very obviously in a freaking bikini top got a red ribbon of shame.  Really, Fox News?  I mean it's even a patriotic themed bikini.  Shouldn't Fox be into that shit?  I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  It just seems silly to make something out of nothing.  Or to make nudity out of not-so-nudity.

Thanks for the press I guess?

This Inspires Me

Technology is killing art forms.  I think this is beautiful.

It's more than worth the twelve minutes.  If you can't spare that, well then technology really is killing art.

UP THERE from Jon on Vimeo.

People Who Make Me Hooters Happy

After showing that the world can be home to sucky people, I thought it might be nice to talk about some awesome people who I actually like to spend my time waiting on.  Really I'd say 98% of the people I encounter at work are a joy to serve.  Unfortunately, it's so much easier to write about the negative.  Maybe this is because it feels better to vent about horrible things.  Maybe it's because it's just that they are exceptions - making them more noteworthy in some fashion.  Maybe I just like to bitch.

Either way, this post is dedicated to some of my most favorite customers because not everyone sucks.  I now introduce you to some of the people who brighten my day.  And if any of you are reading this feel free to drop a comment and say hi!

Mak
Mak is a pretty cool dude who stops in at least once a week.  What makes him cool is that he is generally interested in my life.  This has really made him more of a friend than just a customer.  He is also a collector of my finest receipt arts and forces me to expand my repertoire by always requesting an original (he reads this blog so he knows if I am recycling).  Also, he doesn't mind if I occasionally steal a fry.  And the sharing of fried food really is the way to my heart.

Bill, Art and the Rest Home Gang
About a year ago, one of those handicap busses pulled up to Hooters and out rolled six very hip elderly people and their most amazing caregiver.  They had wanted to try Hooters and had finally been given the green light by the powers that be at their assisted living facility.  Once they came in that first day, they couldn't be kept away and made it a bi-weekly ritual to hit up Hooters for lunch.

Bill always ordered the same thing, "I'll have a mushroom burger and a Cotton-Eyed Joe."  And Bill always got both.  He'd have his burger and then we'd gather around and dance the Cotton-Eyed Joe to the delight of the table, especially Bill.  He'd would never let me get his order wrong, not that I ever would.

Art is quieter than Bill was.  Art opens his mouth to order his usual Buffalo Shrimp and not to say much else.  But Art is a thinker.  One day I opened to his to-go box to add a few more of his favorite pickles and noticed four sets of silverware atop his curly fries.  Art just smiled.  I let him keep one fork and knife.  I'm nice like that.  He's been trying to get his hands on a whole table caddy ever since.

Bill passed away in January and visits have been less frequent since then.  I hear it makes them miss him too much to stop in.  I certainly miss them.

Fast, Real Fast
Team Fast, Real Fast is made up of two motocross riders who play trivia on Wednesday nights.  They are just generally awesome guys who like to have a good time.  They also work for the local Coca-Cola bottler driving trucks full of bubbly goodness.  What is better than bringing sugar and caffeine to the good people of the world?

Bos
Bos actually lives in Kansas.  He makes his way up to Montana twice a year to go hunting.  It's a very Montana thing to do.  Bos will only sit with me because I "made him feel like a regular" after being rather ignored the day before.  This is cool with me because he is just a generally awesome person to talk to and I appreciate generally awesome people.  He'll be back in town in early November. 

The Ladies
I love the Ladies, because they are not afraid to come to Hooters and have a good time; too many women avoid Hooters for silly, unfounded reasons.  The Ladies have discovered the joy of Hooters as well as the joy of $1.50 margaritas.  And there is probably nothing more joyful than cheap tequila.  I love to laugh with this group of secure, fun, outgoing women.  I hope I grow up to be them one day.

Now hasn't this post just made you feel better about the state of the world after Bitchy Bitcherson came alone and ruined my weekend?  Yeah, I feel better too.  Thanks for making my day, you little bundles of wonderful.

The Craft Girl

I have a reputation around Hooters as the "craft girl."  Basically, if a project of any sort needs to be done that requires even the smallest bit of artistic ability it's my job.  There are rarely exceptions and often it's so expected that they don't even ask me anymore.  It's just how it is these days.

This all started about two years ago when we decided to have a pumpkin contest at Hooters.  Since there was a worry about the possibility of carved pumpkins becoming disgusting all too quickly, it was decided that we would have a pumpkin painting contest rather than a carving contest.  Being that I enjoy artistic pursuits, I quickly got started on my pumpkin and brought it to work.  I was the first one finished.  And after the other girls saw my pumpkin I was the only one to even bring one in.  I won by default.  Call me talented I guess.  The pumpkin became a Hooters Halloween fixture.  Luckily, I had foresight to paint a fake pumpkin.  It will provide years of enjoyment.

There she is in all her glory; the pumpkin I painted two years ago.  Personally, I think her legs are funny, but her face and boobs are stinking hot.  But isn't that what matters at Hooters anyway?  She's a naughty little Hooters devil.

And so began my reign as Hooters Craft Girl.  I've created the "Wall of Shame" for pictures to be hung.  I do the specials sign every morning.  I decorate the Hooters Girl room in the back.  I do the beer signs once a month.

I am the go to girl for anything and everything.  It's just one of the many facets of my life at Hooters.  I'm so awesome.

Receipt Art: October 2, 2010

After that little happy thought upon happy thought of a post I think I need a little receipt art to brighten my day.  Yup, that and some delicious ice cream seems to be just what this Hooters Girl needs!

I'm not sure there's much to say about this little masterpiece.  It's very Hooterlicious.  And for some reason I think those shorts are really cute.  Even the camel toe.

The Worst Customers Ever

Today marked a first in my over two years of being a Hooters Girl.  Today was the first time I actually had a moment where I wanted to walk off the job and just say fuck it.  Now, this is a very big deal for me.  I have dealt with all sorts of shit at work.  I've dealt with creeps and assholes and total idiots.  I've dealt with things many servers would never deal with and I've put up with it and not let it get to me.  Today was different.  Today I had my worst customers ever; they embarrassed and disrespected me and treated me in a way I never even imagined one human being treating another.  It was awesome.

It's Sunday, Sunday means NFL and being that we have Sunday Ticket we get VERY busy.  Naturally this means people had to be just a little extra needy.  Because isn't the thing to do when it's glaringly obvious your Hooters Girl has at least eight tables?  Yup, it seems it is.  Luckily people were really chill and understanding and proceeded to make that known by leaving me nice little tips.  All was busy, but all was good.

Then at about 1:00 a family of five sat at one of my high tables.  Right off the bat they seemed like the type of people that wanted me to just serve them and not say anything else.  Like I was a slave or a lamp with the ability to put food on a table.  Generally, when people are like this I try to bring my signature cheer and loosen up the table.  I'm good at this.  I'm known for this.  It's what I do.  So I bring them some drinks and ring in some fried pickles and things seems to be going pretty well.  They order their meal and twenty wings.  Actually, they had pointed to ten bone-in wings and when they asked for two orders I nicely suggested a twenty piece ordered half and half, allowing them two types of wings for a little less money.  I helped them pick out their sauces.  Things still seemed to be going really well.  I'm feeling good.  Then the food comes out.

Girl 1:  "Oh, I wanted boneless wings."

Mom:  "Well we never asked for boneless wings.  She wouldn't have known that."

I then delivered a fairly standard line that I've used countless times since I've worked at Hooters with my usual "I'm clearly joking" smile.

Sauce:  "Yeah, sorry about that.  I'm not a mind reader yet, but I'm working on it!"

It became apparently immediately that this was the wrong thing to say and I was quickly scolded and scolded again for being "rude" by multiple people.  I was taken aback, I had clearly not meant it be rude by any stretch of the imagination.  I proceed to apologize profusely.

Sauce:  "I'm so sorry if you thought I was rude.  I didn't mean it to seem like that.  I was joking.  I think you might have taken what I said the wrong way."

Mom:  "Don't you dare tell me what to think, fucking bitch."

Hold the effing phone.  Did this lady just call me a fucking bitch?

Sauce:  "I'm sorry ma'am.  I wasn't trying to tell you how to feel.  I was simply trying to establish that I meant it a different way than you apparently understood it.  It's not important though, just a misunderstanding.  I am really, really sorry."

At this point I'm not really sure what to do.  Did my remark not make complete sense in the context of the situation?  Was I not just trying to make light of things?  I figured out rather quickly that I clearly couldn't win.  So I decided to walk away and continue doing my job.  Of course this now entailed being extra nice to this table.  It is important to note that most girls in this situation would have avoid the table like the plague.  Most girls would let cups go unfilled and plates go uncleared.  I didn't do that.  I kept doing my job and made every attempt to do my job even better than usual.  But of course they continued to be bitches and I found myself anxiously waiting for them to leave.

Finally, they were ready for the check and I nicely dropped it off once again apologizing for the misunderstanding and letting them know I would be their cashier whenever it was convenient for them.  Walking by the table on my way to help another customer, I noticed two bucks sitting on the table.  Sweet.  Their tab was $74.97.  But honestly I was just happy to see them leave, tip or no tip.  There I was selling a few t-shirts to another guest when Mom came up to the counter.  She waited rather impatiently the whole three seconds I spent counting change to the man in front of her.

As the man stepped away, I smiled and said I'd grab her change.  Giving that they had left money on the table, I proceed to give her three pennies, a five and a twenty for the hundred-dollar bill she threw on the counter.  As I started to give her a thank you and a smile I was interrupted.

Mom:  "Let me do you a favor and tell you all the things you did wrong."

I stared blankly in total and utter shock.

Mom:  "First off, ALWAYS give ones with change."

Sauce:  "I'll surely get you ones.  I just gave you the five given the tip already on the table.  I wanted to make it easier for you.  I'm sorry."

I gave her five ones.  She begins to talk again.  Loudly

Mom:  "You are the most offensive, rude waitress I seen."

I cringed at the grammar after cringing at the dig at me.  She gets even louder.

Mom:  "When you told me "I took it the wrong way" I wanted to throw my wings in your fucking face and tell you to shut up you stupid bitch.  Oh wait.  I did call you a stupid bitch.  I'm the customer here."

Actually, you called me a "fucking bitch" but whatever.

Sauce:  "Again I am sorry.  And you're misunderstanding what I meant when I said you took it the wrong way.  I was only meaning that the remark was made as a joke."

Did this lady just take me saying she took was I was saying the wrong way the wrong way?  Even thought I was upset I noted the irony of that confusing statement.  

She is now yelling loud enough to make people look.  I try to walk away and she traps me behind the counter.  She clearly had a point to make.

Mom:  "Well you're a fucking idiot and your sense of humor sucks, bitch.

Sauce:  "Have you been to Hooters before?"

Mom:  "No, I don't like Hooters."

Sauce:  "Well we have a little more of a conversational nature here than most restaurants and honestly I've said that many, many times in my two years of working here and I've never had anyone take it the way you did.  Again, I am sorry.  I'll be more careful next time."

Finally she started to leave and attempts to hand me another dollar.

Sauce:  "Please don't feel obligated to tip me anymore.  I offended you and I'm sorry.  Hope you have a better day."

Mom:  "Fuck you, bitch!"

I am in shock.  And as I backed into the restaurant I noticed all the people staring.  They all noticed what happened and I noted more than one look of curiosity.  There I was in front of full restaurant being called a bitch over and over and over again.  I had never been so embarrassed.  First I was red hot with shame.  Then I felt my eyes begin to well up.  I am not a crier, but the tears came and couldn't be stopped. 

After running to the back and composing myself, I went back to my tables.  I was immediately greeted by the most kind, understanding, offended guests.  I had three separate tables complement my service and say I did nothing wrong.  I had people I didn't even know stand up for me.  It meant a lot.  And then I found this receipt left on a table.  I mean if my other customers think they were awful it clearly must be true.

So today was awful.  I met some of the worst people I've ever met, but now I also realize I met some of the kindest.  Oh and for the record I am not a "fucking bitch."

Ketchup Dilemmas

I don't have many major decisions to make at Hooters.  Really, serving in general is rather like that; it a job of repetition involving little deviation from a set standard of practice.  Simply put, I do the same thing over and over again and once you get it down it becomes so second nature that thinking really isn't the involved after awhile.  I shouldn't say that thinking isn't involved, but serving - and the thinking that goes along with it - seems to become more habit than actual thought after awhile.

All that said, the biggest decision I make everyday involves ketchup - or catsup if you so prefer.  Yes, a condiment.  This post is not a joke.  Every morning, when setting up the restaurant, one of the things I'll do is check every single bottle of ketchup in the restaurant.  You see at a certain point ketchup obviously needs to be replaced.  Not a big deal.  But sometimes a ketchup bottle is at that point where it could be replaced or could not be replaced.  There I am attempting to weigh this ketchup bottle in my hand while weighing the options of replacement in my mind.  There is clearly ketchup in the bottle still.  But it is it enough ketchup?  What if some ketchup loving freak sits down and doesn't have enough ketchup?  What if the next person only uses a little and this bottle has enough?  Is this enough ketchup to wait?  Is this too much ketchup to waste?

So on and on my thoughts go until finally I have either set the ketchup back down in the caddy or tossed it into the trash and brought a fresh bottle to the table.  You see, there is nothing more annoying than sitting down for a nice meal of fried goodness with a side of extra fried goodness and finding the ketchup to be gone, or low, or farting it's way to a slow death.  This is one of those simple things that can ruin a meal, piss off a customer and bring that sweet twenty percent tip crashing right on down to fifteen.  Yes, a ketchup bottle really can do all that.

I suppose at this point you're wondering why I don't "marry" the ketchups.  This is restaurant speak for adding the remnants of one thing to the remnants of another.  We do this with our hot sauces for example.  But we have the sort of devil ketchup bottles that the lids refuse to part with.  I mean the lids clearly come off, but I don't have the time nor the energy to wrestle with several dozen ketchup bottles every morning.  Feel free to call me lazy; I prefer efficient.

So here I am weighing that bottle still and wondering what I should do with it.  Four times out of five I just decide to throw the bottle away and start over.  I get paid jack after all.  And have to pay for my meals.  And have to pay for all my uniforms.  Now watch me waste a few ounces of ketchup.  Guess its my way of sticking to the man.  I sure showed you!

And it all started with a ketchup bottle.