Sleep is for the Weak

Fuck it, I don't need sleep. Tobacco and booze are a viable substitute. I am fucking delirious. I had to cut some dead wood at work in the last week. Fuck euphemisms, let me rephrase that: I'm on a firing spree. I really, really want to be the 'cool' boss, I really do, but there comes a time when motherfuckers need to be cut loose. I had to shit can a bad ass cook today and it hurt to do it. This fucking guy busts ass. Before I can even think of giving him something to do he's already done it. Why did I fire him? Because he's a fucking flake. He had the idea that he can do a great job and that earns him the right to show up when he feels like it. "Oh man! I feel like shit, man. I can't make it tonight, cough cough." Fired. I can train a fucking monkey to cook. I can't train a monkey to be reliable. If you work in the restaurant business and want job security, show up to work on time. Every fucking time, all the fucking time. Hung over? Sweat it out over the grill. Sick? Buck up. The grill will kill those germs. I don't buy that "I'm sick" shit. Your average kitchen worker is exposed to a vast array of harmful bacteria every minute of every day. Spend a couple hours elbow deep in raw chicken every day and you will develop a top notch immune system. Real cooks don't get sick. It boils down to this: If my cooks don't show up, I have to cover it. I can't call someone in because every kitchen worker on Earth is bombed out of their skull when they're not on the clock. I can't manage a perishable inventory, maintain an acceptable food cost and write a reasonable schedule when I'm covering for people on the fucking line. Holy shit, I'm becoming a fucking tyrant. Oh well, it suits me...

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