Dollar for the Bastard

I could not hear the dude over the DJ's bass happy tune. He was Australian and had been here for hours and he was having a great Friday night. I had not seen him before but he had been laughing and joking all night.

He wanted to tell me something, though. He was grinning and motioning me to lean in over the bar. What choice does one have?

"I'm John! Wha's ya name, mate? Eric? Good t'meetcha! Do you know what we call your job in Australia?"

What did they call the dude fetching new bottles of liquor, stocking the beer freezers, cooking food when the fancy struck a patron? I had no idea.

"Piss pig!"

I laughed. He laughed. He handed me a dollar and told me I was alright.

When I got home and was musing over the busy Friday night I got curious and did some light internet searching. A piss pig around here is also a fan of pee. To what extent, I'm not sure, I clicked none of the provided links. If you're more curious than I, though, you know what to google.

Busy as a Bastard

"What have you been doing all this time, Bastard?" asks no one, ever.

For employment I've been working at a boarding school for almost six years. Sometime in early June it'll be six years even. I joke about tracking down my exact hire date and then quitting the day after word. I'd call the ensuing book Six Years and a Day: My Life with Their Kids.

Catchy, no?

I've also recently gotten a second job at a bar. I am a bar-back. I have the pleasure of cooking food (using the term loosely), fetching new liquor bottles, slicing limes on the fly and of course--I wash the dishes. "Bar-back" is often "synonymous with "bar-bitch."

I stroll in around 7p. If it's busy enough--and it usually is, I walk out with the bartender and the closing bouncer. This means every Thursday night I go home knowing I have to be to work at 7a. Well, 7ish--I run the shift and my staff know what I signed up for and though it was quite willingly they cut me slack and don't say anything if they don't see me until fifteen after the hour. I've never let the shift suffer because I'm tired.

It's more than safe to say I've been collecting stories I hope to share and I have to say bouncing from one social institution to the next is quite the contrast. I don't mind going from "Don't ever say fuck!" to "Could you say 'fuck' more? You're making us fucking uncomfortable."

I'm Feeling Mouthy

I'd say buckle up but if you're reading this in a situation that allows for buckling up, well, I hope you've already mentioned me to your friends.

Soon. Soooon.

Ho ho ho!

Does anyone have a Santa suit I  could borrow?

Just so we're upfront--I'm going to walk around scowling at children, shaking my head at them and then jotting something down in a notebook before I storm off.

GENIUS!

My son got a whistle in a party bag. It's two-cents worth of loud, shrill and piercing plastic.
   On an eighty-mile drive I only made it a couple of miles before I told him to stop with the whistle.
   Today after about fifteen minutes of hooting I asked him if he thought he was tough. He is eight. Of course he is a tough guy.
   "Oh yeah? I bet you a dollar you can't even break that whistle in half."
   "Really? A dollar?"
   "Yup."

Smartest dollar I ever spent.