I was having such an incredibly wonderful uneventful day until around 3pm. I had two dick customers in a row and apparently we need someone on dick patrol.
Then. The cunting 8-year-old who works for us put some film through the machine on a card that was dented to shit. I've warned him before--if you put a dented card through the machine, it will jam. There is nothing worse in my little work world than trying to fix the film machine when it jams. That films get fucked. Two other roles got only a little fucked. (They, at least, had progressed to the stabilizer). I worked on that bitch from 3 til 5:30, I had to break apart the rack (which is nearly as tall as I am) to extract the film. I had wankfuck call the customer to explain, apologize and offer the free you-just-got-royally-fucked roll of film. Needless to say, these were pics of her daughter and husband--oh, but wait!!--the husband is in Iraq. She cries. I can't say I felt bad for him--I am just so glad I didn't feel the need to make that call myself. Worse yet, she was really nice about it.
I fixed the machine, but the bitch of the processing rack is that the gears turn in a very exact way--the "timing." Jack with it just a little and the timing is off. I called tech support and they ignored me til 5:15pm. We close at 6. I had already called Morris by 5:15 to invite him out for the numerous beers I was planning on consuming anyway at this point. Well, Morris's cat has had his bits nipped off and as such, was getting picked up and pampered at the time of the call.
So cut to me, alone, at the Flying Saucer, reading over my home inspection report (uh, I don't think there's anything disastrous), at what I admit to being a fairly large table. It was the only table, however, and it's not my fucking problem it's the only table left. Twenty minutes later, five people poke me and ask if I'm saving the table. "No," I say, as I sneak my brass knuckles from my bag.
"Can we join you?"
Fuck. Of course. So I'm cornered, hovering over my beer and pretzel and home inspection report and realizing I really should have just gone home to begin with. They were nice enough people, I suppose (someone's father was seated next to me, and when they ordered dessert, he offered me a spoon. I nearly cried and threw my arms around him, it was that kinda day. But luckily for all that know me, I just smiled and said I was fine). These people weren't even good for stealing conversation snippets. Nothing outrageous or moronic...just really boring mediocrity--the chick was going to college in a week (and did not look it...and she was drinking beer...clearly I just don't have all the information. whatever).
So I loathe and detest the wankfuck who ruined that woman's film and my day...but to be fair, he may have felt worthless for at least thirty minutes. Plus he had to help customers without asking my help, as I'm fairly certain he knew I was going to set his scrotum aflame at the slightest provocation. I could feel his goddamn worthlessness and the fact that he probably felt it as well. So I felt a teeny itsy bitsy microscopic bit bad for the guy. He was just getting a tiny dose of what awaits him in REALITY now that he has graduated high school. He is off (not soon enough) to SFA, Stephen F Austin uni, which is very well known as an easyass party school. I give him a year. One semester of probation, then he's out.
I have learned that if and when I ever become so demented as to have actual children (spoiling my beautiful magical nieces really ought to be enough, should I ever see them more than once a year), they are SOOOOOOOOOOOO not attending cunting Dallas public school. Cinematographer Mark's five-year-old can speak more eloquently about Van Gogh's Starry Night than this shitstain can about WHETHER OR NOT WE CAN EVEN PROCESS BLACK AND WHITE FILM. A WHOLE GODDAMN FUCKING YEAR AND HE HONESTLY DOESN'T KNOW.
I have clearly not consumed yet enough beer to will away the evil.