Still too good for my former Euro Trash employers...

I quit my job on Sunday. Yep, no more corporate suits, nose-jobbed trophy wives, under-age dealer groupies (and their dealers, of course), shitty 'house' DJs, Quebecois celebrities, stripey-shirted douche bags, Arabian oil lords, seedy-yet-entertaining strip-club owners, or ignorant and rich little princesses who ask for no dressing (instead, salt and lemons) on their garden salads.

Well, at least for four months. Fear not, loyal readers, I will be a bar star once again and live to tell the many humorous tales.

So I asked my boss why I wasn't awarded the schedule I deserve. Why, oh why, may I not be the one privileged enough to serve vodka-Red-Bulls at a high volume to unworthy yet cash-bearing patrons?

"Well, you're not really enthusiastic enough. Sometimes you don't look like you're happy to be here." (this is code for: "You don't party here on your days off with us, and you don't grab our asses as much as we grab yours, and well, that is what enthusiasm means to us.")

Working for these boys isn't a job; it's a lifestyle.

Fuck that shit. I've got higher aspirations, like being a barmaid at some other shitty, $9 Heineken bar. But in the mean time, allow me to celebrate with the money I will no longer be earning! YAY!!!!!

You can send donations (food stamps, cash, drugs, clothing, non-perishables) to my unemployed ass at my mom's house (leave a comment and I'll send you her address).

Crying in public sucks

Last night I had to withstand a short, creepy man yelling at me in broken English about how he was "The KING" for two hours, and about how he was "a photographer," and towards the end of our chat, informed me that he had taken "over one hundred pictures" of me since he had sat down to drink his four glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
Why?
So I can be even more violated during the day by McGill University.
I smile and play stupid barmaid psychiatry games all through the night so that I can pay to be treated like shit by some faceless institution that takes my dirty money, tells me to pick a number and wait so that I can be enlightened as to why I am not good enough to make the grade or the tuition payment deadline, so that I can be informed that my essays are not following closely enough to the the requirements of the assignment, and that my poor attendance has resulted in a dock of 10% on my final mark.
I'm sorry I wasn't in my conferences last week; I was busy giving blow jobs to your accounting secretary whilst taking it up the ass from the dean of Arts, all so that I can come back for round 2 next Wednesday afternoon.
McGill really is the school that just keeps on giving.

Take my dirty money you fucking fucks; it's the least that you deserve.

I am too stylish and intelligent for my Euro trash employers

Because I have enough taste to choose not to wear gold lamé 'bar shirts,' I am denied the promotion I deserve.

My bosses will marry me, fuck me and serve me drinks until I can drink, fuck and wed no more, but will not let me pour vodka-red bulls at high volume on Fridays.

Sometimes, I just can't help myself

Sometimes I forget that I am not at work.
Sometimes, flirting with older men is deemed 'unacceptable.'

Yesterday, I exchanged words with a friendly, red-scarved and starry-eyed man at the campus snack bar. The climactic portion of the spectacle went something like this:

NEW YORK TIMES READER: So are you a visiting student or a visiting charmer?
JACQ: Both.

New York Times Reader, who reveals himself to be a professor of economics at the university, starts for the nearest exit and goes for a long cigarette.

Mid-day carafes of wine are of what college dreams are made.

Dick Measuring

If the world was about to end and all that was necessary to save it was to have a man run around a restaurant and touch all four walls after last call without stopping to engage in homo-erotic activities, two biceps with a typical man's conscience between them would fail to save us all from catastrophe.
Why?
Fucking arm wrestling.
A man cannot turn down the opportunity to reveal his inebriated sub-human strength to a crowd of grunting and hollering males.
It's like a pre-mating ritual, only there are no potential mates in sight, save for me, the alleged 'feminist' of the staff who has x-ray vision. From this tired, weary, behind-the-bar vantage point, I can still clearly see the penis size of each man who is in the process of trying to defend his Johnson's (and therefore his) so-called honour.
To my un-surprise, their dicks are all small.