“I am not really a Freemason.”
“You were probably looking at the tattoo on my wrist. Of the Masonic symbol.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t notice.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m not a Mason, free or otherwise. Not that I believe in conspiracies. Hell, I’ll be the first guy in line to believe we landed on the moon.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’m not a Freemason in case you want to hire me.”
“What do you do?”
“I keep Freemasons away.”
“How do you do that?”
“I get them to believe that I am a Freemason. Then they treat me with the code of honor and respect required between Masons per the unspoken, sacred bond that must be upheld. If one Freemason asks a fellow Freemason a favor, he must oblige. And so when I get a Freemason to believe I am also a Freemason, I politely ask him to leave. So he does. And that is how I keep them away.”
“Well, I am a Freemason.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
- somebody once told me
- the world was gonna roll me
- i ain’t the sharpest tool
- in the shed
- she was looking kinda dumb
- with her finger and her thumb
- in the shape of an L
- on her forehead
On the first day I rang people up and carried dead pigs out to their car and I thought, “This is not as gross as I expected, I can do this.” On the third day I worked in the ‘cutting room’ which I called the kitchen, only to be corrected every time I said kitchen.
The guy training me, the guy I would ostensibly replace because he was leaving for the Marine Reserves, taught me how to use the patty machine. I was not very good at it. In my hands, it shot raw meat across the room at rapid rates. At some point I did a Gilbert Gottfried impression and Jesus, one of the managers, sshhed me.
That was the best thing about this place. The two guys in the kitchen were named Jesus and Angel. #blessed
On the 5th day I got in an argument with the delivery guy about gun control. He told me more people get killed every year by hammers than guns. I said that wasn’t true, and he started talking about Hobby Lobby.
On the sixth day I was tired of working at a butcher shop. I hated it, to be honest. And I was worried I would become a vegetarian if I was there any longer. I told one of the owners I couldn’t work in the kitchen because I “have a cognitive disorder that prevents me from working machinery.” This is semi-true. About 5 minutes later she let me go.
So anyway. I still eat meat.