Floored.

“Put those on the floor,” he says to me in a commanding tone as I carry some things back to the dish room.

Look here, motherfucker.

If you’re not my boss, you don’t get to tell me what to do. Certainly not in that tone. See, I don’t want to send the wrong message, so I make sure not to reward behavior I don’t like. I’m not going to give you what you want, even if its what I was planning on doing to begin with.

Ride my ass on the road, I’ll drive slower. Flick me off, I’ll blow you a kiss.

So he had already pissed me off, and then, as I’m cleaning behind the machines, he comes back from the dish room holding big parts of the fry machine in his hands. The ones I had told him to put on the table — the one that is presently a foot away from him — when he asked me where to put them earlier.

“Where should I put these?”

A man of countless questions, yet incapable of retaining the answers.

“On the table, man.”

“Here?”

“No, not on the floor. You just cleaned them. Just put them anywhere. Anywhere that isn’t the floor.”

He then walks in deranged circles like a tweaking canine looking for the perfect spot to crouch down and pinch out some soft-serve butt-butter on the lawn.

“I’ll put them here,” he finally says under his breath, to himself, in defeat as he places them around the corner.

And on the fucking floor.

As he then proceeds to waddle back to the dish sink, I suddenly have another suggestion as to where he can put them, but it’s undoubtedly far filthier than the floor and will surely worsen his waddling.