Cutting fingers and cutting humour...

For once I've got a valid excuse for any typos...I've cut the shite out of one of my fingers (it's a prime tampering finger, but as none of that stuff's happening at the minute it doesn't really matter...post on the 'tides of lust' soon) at work. Still shaking off this cold and forgot there was a broken shard of glass in a plughole I was cleaning out. Being the double-hard bastard that I am, I screamed like a wee girl and shook my finger all over the place. The resultant blood went all over my 'station' as they say in the catering trade...ie my manky fucking sink. The head chef's there, 'ahhh! your station's looking very messy', I'm there like, 'fuck yeah it's my fucking blood and I'll clean it up as soon as my finger has stopped acting like a fucked-up oil rig'. So I had to clean up my own blood with the head chef saying..."hurry up, you've still got another hand". What a 'cunty bollix' He recently sacked one of our top waitresses for having having a pierced tongue! Honestly, I'd hire waitresses if they had a pierced anything (and tattoos) and open a Suicide Girls-style resturant...god being 'reading' this book far too much.

In kitchen work, if it doesn't burn you, it cuts the crap out of you, and if it doesn't do that, it'll chemically burn you somehow. It's great training for a life in academia, I think I'll be able to handle paper cuts after regularly patching my hands together with shitty blue plasters. Our forefathers used have great work stories about getting their arms cut off by iron ore or getting a leg staved off by a fucking printing press. What will we have?..."ohh did you hear about the time your grandad Jimmny momentarily snagged his finger on a rusty staple, ohh it was a terror! we didn't know if he'd live, it was touch and go for a while..."

Anyway, what is more cutting is the kitchen humour (wow top link Jimmny! way to go to try and cram together disparate posts because it's 3am and you want to save all the depraved lust stuff for tomorrow's post). The head chef has mastered the art of giving you just enough grief so you're always on the verge of walking out but makes it darkly funny enough so that you don't-ie making up songs about me in an awful Irish accent about me being a gay glorified tea boy at 29 while trying to do an Irish jig. The other day he was taunting 'you love me really, you want my babies, you want my babies'...I fumed round the corner to the comis-chef and all-around top dude 'CS' and muttered 'yeah I want your babies so I can take 'em out and shoot the fuckers...' The head chef was there, 'what was that?' and 'CS' goes, 'you don't want to know, it was funny though'. Some of the people are too easy as humour targets. I work with one guy, he's 44, wants to be an embalmer, he broke up with his wife (she's Irish, he always makes a point of telling me, like it's my fucking fault) moved back to Norfolk, moved back in with his parents and is going out with an 18 year-old goth...I know it's Norfolk but, dude! Now as much as I lust after the wee microgoths, in reality I could not handle going out with an 18 year old one, I mean, my 29 years of fucking crap tv trivia would be lost on her for a start. I'd be like 'man, this is just like that bit in Automan when his car could turn at a 90 degree angle', and she'd be like 'what the fuck are you on about! buy me a Nightmare Before Christmas bag and some snake-bite and black, grandad'. But I digress, anyway, he's going on about how she's bed-ridden and has sciatica and has shooting pains in her butt-ocks and then he says 'it's rare in an 18-year-old'. I have to return to CS and piss myself laughing and say, 'rare in an 18 year old? so's recieving a 44-year-old cock on a regular basis!'.