I don’t know that I would call this a cafeteria. I used to work in the kitchen at a restaurant in New York run by someone I shall not reveal. Rest assured that he’s very famous, and he may even have a show or two on TV. Now I’m providing “food” to corporate stiffs who are always on their phones and too busy to acknowledge that I’m a person, not just an arm attached to a plate. I consider this to be just one step above shoveling sloppy joes for snotty children. God, I hate kids even more than businessmen. I used to live in Manhattan where people leave you alone. Now everybody wants to stop and have a conversation. Why would I want to do that? Just take your food and walk away. I wonder if it’s this bad in other corporate cafeterias, or if it’s just an Analion thing. Crap, I gotta go. We’ve nearly run out of—I can’t believe I have to say these words…tater tots. Shoot me now.
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Thursday, October 27, 2016
Microstory 439: Floor 3 (Part 1)
Labels:
business
,
children
,
experimental
,
fame
,
food
,
job
,
microfiction
,
microstory
,
plate
,
television
,
work
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