A STREETCAR NAMED GO F$CK YOURSELF

   I am the fuckin' Blanche Duboise of angry, aging, prima donna chefs.The people I work with have to tell me I'm pretty every five minutes just so I'll keep  showing  up every day, and I'm a guy.I am riding out my career on a streetcar named "Go Fuck Yourself "all the way to the hell where chefs are skinned alive and boiled in their own shitty hospital food.I, too , am dependent on the"kindness of strangers".Lucky for me I am the chef at an insane asylum and nobody is stranger than my current customer base.Except maybe the hospital staff.Sometimes I get stuck behind their bedraggledassedness slow-walkin' themselves down to the room where they go to not cure somebody for ten years. No sense of urgency there,"Hey bitch hurry up or my shitty food is not gonna be really over-cooked in time for lunch".These people used to have souls.I can see it in their eyes.The pernicious nature of their chosen profession has damaged them down to the bone structure.They were young once, but now they're thirty, maybe thirty two .It's fuckin' over. Trying too hard to cure the uncurable,console the inconsolable.Too bad for them.I got my own issues.
MY THING IS THIS:
This place ,this corporate food service contractor has a mustache net rule.The only guy with a mustache is a pedophile being treated down the hall.I suggested we wear pubic hairnets on the outside of our uniforms as a joke.They wrote it into the handbook after what was thought to be one of my grey pubic hairs was discovered in the fruit cocktail.Since when isn't there grey pubic hair in fruit cocktail!

Maybe I exaggerate a bit but I swear ta god I will quit my job as a fake writer if the thirty or so people who read this shit don't get off their asses and make me some money.I will ride the rails down into the shit can of culinary anonymity until my color resembles canned green beans and my cooking packs all the gustatory wallop of a bad tuna casserole.See if I don't. I mean it ....Hello..........