Piles of wool? Check.

My Lendrum wheel is the shit. As I grow to understand the physics and science behind what I'm doing, I'm blown away. Fiber lenghth, crimp, twist. s-twist, z-twist, niddy noddy. Mother of all, maidenhead, orifice hook, footman. It all sounds like phrases you'd hear at a local S&M night.

By the way, Shane, I was absolutely fucking serious about that whole sheep offer. I'll buy the sheep, you can have the milk, and breeder's fees, and all you have to do is feed that fucker. I'll pay for sheering. I keep the wool.

I'm surfing Local Harvest for fleeces to buy. Everyone knows that it's fleece season, right? Right. Oh, and if you google Local Harvest, you'll see tons and tons of cool stuff that local farms have for sale. Support your local farms. They need you. You need them.

Okay, so on to other shit.

If you work for unreasonable assholes (see Dion Antic Post), and you don't like it, quit.
And even if you just feel like you are working for unreasonable assholes, quit. Don't stay, and bring everybody down with your complaints. It's the service industry.
Nobody makes you stay. Hate it? Leave. You'll find another job within the week. If you don't, well, maybe the problem isn't your employer.

Maybe it's you.

That said, don't shit on me at work.
Don't 'dare' me to do something. Don't get shitty with me when I ask for an explaination about why your entire station was a cluster fuck all Saturday night.
Oh, and I didn't ask it like that. What I actually said was,
"The kitchen said that there were some problems with your tickets. What was going on last night? Could you show me how you are ordering things?"

Don't think that I'll feel sorry for you 'cause you don't like to work Sundays. Nobody does. It's your turn. Be a fucking man. Stop whining like a little sissy bitch. You have a penis. You own the fucking patriarchy. Shut up.

Don't play "Fuck you, I'll talk to you like your dirt, and try and avoid the real question, and if you don't like it, send me home." Fine.

I'll do it.

Not only that, I'll sleep fine, 'cause I know that you got what you wanted. I know that you'll go home, grab a drink, and feel okay about what you did.

Honestly, you've been a horror show lately. And even though I think that you are smart, and funny, being late every fucking day is shitty.
I know customers love you. I also know that you can't turn a two top in under 3 hours, and that you almost got into a physical confrontation with a guest about a shitty tip. A shitty tip that you really deserved, imho.

Don't ask the question, "What am I supposed to do when the train stops in a tunnel and makes me fifteen minutes late?"

Uh, dude. This has happened four days out of five. May I suggest the novel idea of leaving fifteen minutes earlier?

So that's my week in shorthand.