PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 8: Service & Work Ethic
November 2001

Okay, here's the situation...

SERVICE. It's one word, yet its meaning is so profound. Like other all-important entries of the dictionary, the word "service" has many functions. It may be the act of being served lunch. It could also entail a favour. It even embodies prostitution (where legal). However, no matter how you use it, the word "service" implies power to you, the receiver of the service. Even at your funeral service, at least the priest/minister/who-the-fuck-ever is saying some nice things about you.

But hold the fuck up. I haven't reached my point yet. And rather than bore you with funny quips and analysis, I'll just tell you what happened (don't be surprised if this story is filled with funny quips and analysis... shit just happens that way with me).

Not too long ago, myself and some of my comrades went to a local Tim Horton's franchise. Now, granted, working at Tim's is probably very stressful by times. However... just let me tell you... One of the first things I saw was a nice big banner outside the establishment, singing the praises of Tim's soups and sandwiches. So, I ask, am I a bad person for being influenced to buy a soup and sandwich combo for lunch? I'll answer; hell no. But, when I approached the counter and asked for my roast beef 'wich with chicken noodle, I was met with the Wrath. A roll of the eyes, a desperate sigh, and a stern call to the poor girl who had the misfortune of getting the same shift as this crab followed.

Now, call me crazy (thanks), but I don't think I, as a customer, deserve to be given some kind of ugly karmic guilt trip because I feel like taking advantage of a deal that was boldly advertised on the front wall of the fucking store. Think about it... let's say you're driving by the theatre, and you see that "Iron Monkey" is playing. And Goddammit, you would love to see "Iron Monkey". You get to the counter for your ticket, and the person behind the counter tries instead to talk you into going to "The Princess Bride". Would you say "Hey, Disney!" and fix to get your G-rated groove on? I didn't fucking think so, especially when there's some serious Asian ass-kicking going on next door.

The point is, if you hate your job... even part of it... so much, why the fuck don't you quit? Or, at the very least, pretend it's not breaking every fucking vertebrae you've got to lift that steak knife and shave some fucking cow off for my sandwich! Look, Medusa, I'm not looking for an ass-licking and a big, brown-toothed smile here. Just make my fucking dinner and get on with your fucking life! It's your JOB!

This great nation was founded on a tough-as-nails work ethic... an ethic which exemplifies what every great Canadian is, and what we all strive to become. Maybe if we all worked a little harder at our respective jobs, we'd become better people, shaping a better country, and perhaps contibuting to a better world. That's why I am spending my time at work to its fullest capacity, serving my fellow man with these smartass litanies of literary venom...