Monte

Yes. I know. I’m a little late updating again. But I have a very good reason. My computer had a little meltdown. Actually, everything in the damn CPU case had a little meltdown with the exception of my Zip drive and CD burner. I had to have my processor, motherboard, CPU fans, and one stick or memory replaced, so yeah, sorry for not being able to update.

But I still felt bad for letting my readers down… actually, I was just pissed that my hit number for the site went down… but I really did care about you readers, honest I did. So I was thinking of a way I could make it up to all of you, and I thought since everybody loves reading the Kodak Moments section and all of my embarrassing moments, why not create another section specifically targeted for those people who love laughing their ass off at me? And that’s how the Dream Journal was born.

I usually go to sleep each night with a little light music playing. A lot of nights I’ll listen to Enya or Sarah Brightman but every now and then on those very special occasions when I’m feeling especially ‘risky,’ I put on a little Bjork. It’s on these nights when my dreams are the strangest. For instance… well, I won’t give you an example just yet. You’ll just have to head over to the Dream Journal and read about it.

So what wonderful, exciting, titillating, joyous, astonishing, fantastic, event happened to me while I was away? I discovered the world’s worst job. Over the weekend during Father’s Day my father needed a little help at the restaurant where he works. One of the busboys who was supposed to work that day was out of town with his family so guess what I got to do. And no, I’m not over dramatizing this in the slightest when I say that being a busboy is the worst job you could ever have. I would compare it to being a garbage man but at least garbage men get to wear those nice thick gloves while handling other people’s waste. But not busboys. No, we don’t use gloves. We just dip our hands into the smelly, half-eaten, garlic mashed potatoes and scoop it out into a rotting hole in the counter. But not the steak bones. NO. Whatever you do, don’t throw the steak bones out. We save them for some reason. We take other people’s mangled meat and throw it into a greasy cardboard box for safe keeping and I have no idea why. Then we take the dishes and place them into a steam bath of yellow colored water that has a thin layer of grease on the surface. When you pull out your hands, little pieces of lettuce from half-eaten salads cling to your hands. Then on to the rack the dishes go, all ready for the dish washer.

Actually, I could have handled the dish washing part, it was the busting tables that I hated. I guess it was either my really dark tan that I had gotten from mowing the lawn or maybe just the fact that I was the busboy, but whatever it was, all the customers assumed I was Hispanic. One guy seated at the table next to the one I was clearing asked me for a straw in Spanish. I looked at him wide-eyed and he repeated himself. At first I thought that maybe the guy didn’t know English and I gave him a polite smile and was ready to go get the waitress. But then he asked me in perfect English if I spoke Spanish and I told him no. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought you spoke Spanish,” he said with a smile.

Overall, the customers treated me like a gum-wad from underneath a table. I would cross the room to go clear a table on the other side and all of their eyes would follow me nervously like I was going to pull out a gun and open fire. Maybe they thought I was Arabian? Maybe a Taliban? Hee hee. “And this is for what you Americans do to my home country!” I’d shout waving my rifle in the air. [bang] [bang]

So was my tan really that dark or are people really that arrogant?

By the end of the day, I was getting very uncomfortable and at one point I even went to the bathroom to check and see if I had something on my face. Maybe I had some garlic mashed potatoes on my chin that the customers were staring at. Nope. Nothing there. Just sweat.

Something happened at the steakhouse which made me feel a little uncomfortable. My dad and I were about to go home and while waiting for some last minute things to be taken care of, the evening chef striked up a conversation with me. He was telling me how hard my dad works and when I’m old enough I should take him to a “Titty Bar” to get some action. Then my dad came over and the whole “male-bonding” experience began.

DAD: “Yeah, did you see that biker woman who came in here earlier? Damn. I was standing at the counter and it was all I could do to stop myself from goin’ wild!”

CHEF: “Yeah, I was just telling your boy here how he needs to take you to a titty bar to get some action one of these days.”

DAD: “Yeah, one of these days we might go get us some action at a titty bar, right son?”

ME: “Actually, Dad. I much rather go see the dick bar instead…”

No, you can bring your jaw back up to join the rest of your mouth because I never actually said that. I should have. I wanted to. But I don’t have the balls to say things like that. Truthfully, I probably wouldn’t have any balls left after saying something like that to my dad. Anyways, I just thought I’d share that with you.

I’m sorry girls, but guy’s are like this all the time. They never change.