Posts Tagged ‘polka’

I Have Been Having A

September 10, 2016

She’s too fat for me moment.

Fucking polka.

Fucking Essen Haus and the obnoxiousness of the cd player with a six carousel disc changer that had this album on repeat.

All the days and nights of listening to the oompa loompa music and the polka bands and the swing ladies with their ruffled panties and square dance crinolines.

The men, boys really, who hooted and hollered and goosed your ass and knew all the words to the She’s Too Fat For Me Polka.

I’m not shitting you.

It’s a fucking polka.

I don’t want her
You can have her
She’s too fat for me.
She’s too fat for me. She’s too fat for me
Oh
I don’t want her
You can have her
Please do that for me
She’s too fat
She’s too fat. She’s too fat for me.
I get dizzy
I get numbo.
When I’m dancing with my Jum-Jum-Jumbo.
She’s a twosome
She’s a foursomeIf she’d lose some I would like her moresome.

A polka that got stuck in my head today and I just wanted to shoot myself from it.
I have a date tomorrow.
It’s a bit of a blind date.
He hit me up on Tinder months ago and it turns out that he’s in my club, my secret, wink, wink, nudge, nudge club, and well, fuck you’re hot, but I don’t date guys with less than a year’s time.
Well.
Guess who got a year while I was at Burning Man?
Guess who texted me today and guess who has a date for tomorrow?
Um yeah.
And.
Ugh.
He might be at my yoga class in the morning.
I was like.
Noooooooooooooooo.
I mean, sure, that’d be fun, you’ll get to see me for the first time about a half hour after I wake up in the morning and my hairs in a bun on top of my head and no make up and I’m in crazy yoga pants and I’m not that good at yoga, and you’re like a fucking firefighter who surfs and is like cut and ding, ding, ding.
She’s Too Fat For Me Polka.
Bright and loud in my head.
I could slap myself.
THANKS BRAIN.
And the thing is.
Who the fuck cares?
I might not be this guys type.
But.
I am some guy’s type.
And.
I have another date on Sunday, with a guy I know who knows what I look like and so, whatever brain, I’m fine, this guy doesn’t like how I look in yoga pants, who gives a fuck?
Not I said the too fat for me polka.
“Excuse me, sir,” my manager said to my table, a big booth, B-7 I remember it well, at the Essen Haus, “I’m the manager and it appears that you’ve been harassing my employee.”
“AH, we’re just having a good time,” one of the guys laughed and snorted and guzzled some more beer.  I remember it running out the side of his mouth and getting stuck in his beard.
“That’s great, and I encourage a good time and I’m also going to encourage you to leave your waitress a 20% tip or you’ll get cut off and asked to leave my establishment,”  my manager looked the guy in the face who was turning a deep shade of brick red.
“And an apology,” she added.
My manager was a tough cookie, she couldn’t have been more than 23 or 24, fuck I ended up being the god damn GM at the place not soon after at the ripe old age of 22.  I look at 22 year olds today and I just can’t believe I was 22 and running a place that fucking big and busy.
Anyway.
I stood there just about as miserable as the table and wanted to sink into the floor.
I got a mumbled apology from the table and returned to my job.
“Don’t you ever let the fuckers grind you down with that “She’s Too Smart For Me” polka, fucker needs to be taken out who penned that shit,” my manager said fishing the pack of cigarettes out her cleavage.  “I’m gonna take a smoke break, they give you any more shit let me know and I’ll get rid of them.”
She flounced away in her pastel purple dirndl and I went to the bar to refill the boot of beer the table had ordered.
They did leave a good tip, a little over 20% and I kept on keeping on with the job until it was real obvious it was time to go.
It was a hard place to work.
My best friend asked me on the day she trained me, this was before she or I knew we were going to be friends, why I was working there.
“I mean, are you working here because there’s a cute pair of shoes you want to buy at East Towne Mall or are you working here because you need to pay rent?”  She asked me bluntly on the first day I was her service assistant.
“I owe my boyfriend two months back rent,” I said quietly.
“Fantastic!  You’re going to work out just fine,” and she got on with the training.
She was right.
She had a point.
No one works that kind of job for the good times and fun money, they work it because they need the money.
It was a hellish place to work.
Too hot in the summer, freezing in the winter, horrible management, myself included, I mean, come on, who the hell expects a 22 year old to properly be a General Manager of a top 500 company?
People were trashy, red necked, asshats, who tipped for shit and ate a lot of pretzels and wiener schnitzel and prime rib and fuck me, all the good damn Friday night fish fry you could eat, ALL YOU CAN EAT FOR  $8.95.
And boy howdy did they eat.
I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I burnt my arms on the pretzel trays taking them out of a convection oven that was over 500 degrees and walking them through the kitchen, around the expedite line, through the line of fire that was the kitchen door swinging open and shut, “coming through, HOT TRAY,” to finally dump the pan of pretzels in the warmer and then shove the hot tray off into the dish pile.
It was the job where my arches in my feet fell from being so constantly on my feet, running, literally running because it was so busy.
It was also a fantastic place to make friends.
And friends I made.
Friends I still have, twenty years later.
Pretty amazing.
Friends, I’m pretty sure who would say fuck you polka, fuck you too fat for me, she’s just fucking perfect.
And I am.
The date is just another experience and another step toward whomever I’m supposed to be with.
God’s got me.
I ain’t worried.
And I’m certainly not too fat for a mate.
Thanks for sharing head.
Now fuck off or I’ll sick my manager on you.
She’ll be back from her smoke break shortly.
Heh.

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