How to Get Fired

So, it wasn't like I had completely lost all my senses. I still knew right from wrong. And I'm a nice girl...I think.

I was tryin' to learn to control my impulses by redirectin' my attention. You know, like one tries to do with a two-year old. It was easier than stiflin' myself altogether. Sadly, it doesn't always work. Okay it rarely works. Alright, practically never...but I'm workin' on it.

And like a little white lie can snowball, sometimes there are those days when one bad choice seems to steamroll right into another.

The day I lost my job...well, that was one of those days.

I worked at a little restaurant and grill called Shenanigans. By 9 o'clock the kitchen was closed for the night and the place turned into a locals' bar. Most people there knew me and I knew them. And for the most part, once word got around, they didn't say much about some of my new quirks.

Like, for instance, the gentleman at table 9 who so graciously allowed me to pet his newly shaved head. My fingers proved to be more curious about the stubble then my willpower was strong. No apologies were necessary, he assured me, and added that I was welcome to rub his head any time. Yeah, I bet.

The day leading up to that definin' point in my life had been pretty good really. A few teasers, but nothin' to write home about.

I was instructin' one of the hostesses on the next table to be sat when we had one of those capital “A” ASSholes walk through the door. (Right at closing time, no less.) I heard him beside me, “Hey...You. Hey. I'm talkin' to you.”

No “excuse me.” No “ma'am.” No “miss.”

But, I'm a professional. So luckily, I didn't have the impulse to tell him off right then and there.

No no. I thought, it would be best to get him inside the restaurant first; surrounded by patrons before his bumptious, belittlin' demeanor spurred me.

I was unfortunate enough to have to return to his table to run his appetizer – only too glad that the urge to resist the impulse to garnish his salad with dandruff (as I'd heard tell) was not my own.

“Hey you,” he barked again as I turned to flee his table. “I asked for extra cheese on this!”

Before I knew it, I reeled on him. “You sure you need extra cheese?” I asked, starin' intently at the mound of his gut restin' on the table - just shy of mantlin' his protruding belly-button.

My eyes bulged and my hand covered my mouth. (Yeah – like that was gonna stop me right?!)

“What did you just say to me?” he growled.

One of the other servers, hearin' the exchange and barely stifling his own laughter, tried to come to my rescue.

“She didn't mean nothin' by it sir,” he tried. “She's not quite right in the head.”

“Don't look like a retard to me. I want to talk to your manager!” he stormed.

As impulse would have it, I ran to the back of the kitchen, to hide in the freezer.

But, I couldn't resist the urge to sneak back out behind my manager when I heard the “click” of his office door shut, indicatin' his departure onto the floor.

Standin' behind the partition, I listened as my manager tried to assuage the Asshole with everything from a free meal to future gift certificates. Nope, not good enough.

“What would you have me do sir?” he'd asked.

“I'll tell ya! You're gonna fire that little yelluh-gummed retard, before I tell ever'one in this town what kind of id'ots you employ here!” he yelled.

Just as my employer was trying to insist that he would do "no such thing,” I came swoopin' in to save him the trouble.

Unfortunately for me, I had been standing next to the drink fill-station and had blindly grabbed a water pitcher from the shelf.

“Sounds like you need to cool off,” I exclaimed from behind him, surprisin' him with a good dousing of the icy water, right over his bald head. To my delight (I'll admit) his squeals sounded very much like that of a five-year old girl's.

And then, like an avalanche of self-destruction, I was off.

My manager stood in shock, unable to react quick enough to my willful wiles.

“Oh I'm sorry? Cold? Here let me warm you up,” I quickly suggested, grabbin' a steaming plate of food from the neighboring table...and then...shaking it off in his lap. Yup. But I wasn't done!

“Ohhh! Better put some club soda on that! It might stain!” I pushed on. Dear God, why wasn't anyone stopping me?

I leaned back, reachin' behind the bar until I felt the cold metal gun in my hand.


The man was just risin' from his chair, when he was overcome with surprise by the spray from the bar's soda nozzle as I pulled the trigger, aimin' right for his face.

Sputterin' and coughin', he fell backwards over his chair, just as my manager and the bartender grabbed me. “Jeaux! Stop!” They were both yellin' at me.

When the Asshole stood up, I thought his head would blow or at the very least burst into flames. He was wet. And it looked like someone had thrown-up in his lap.

And he was mad!

Luckily the friend he'd come in with was of similar stature and managed to hold him back from doing me serious harm. Which, from the look in his eyes, I was quite certain he wanted to do.

I left my boss no choice.

I was fired. In a business where one has to know how to handle people, my inability to do so was cripplin'.

I tried to hold down a slew of other jobs, only to find it was more of the same pretty much everywhere. If I didn't get fired for tardiness or complete absence, I inevitably did for my new-found forthrightness.

I decided to file for disability when I found myself in the clutches of my very surprised new boss, just when his even more surprised new wife walked in.

Since then, I've had to learn to embrace Impulse Girl. Yes. Sometimes she gets me into trouble. But, for the most part...I'm having the time of my life. You'll see.