Dear Frumpy and Disgruntled Supervisor, This is a McDonald’s, Not An Emergency Room
Kindly calm the fuck down
I don’t work at McDonald’s. I’ve never worked at McDonald’s. If you ever see me wearing a McDonald’s uniform, just know that life took a dark turn, and I’m probably nearing my thirteenth reason.
This is not an indictment of service jobs, but it is an indictment of the rude customers who patronize them and the scum of the earth supervisors who act like employees ought to genuflect and mop the floors of the establishment with their tongues to deserve $14/hour.
I’ve never worked at McDonald’s, but I had a real stinker of a job at a local pizzeria a few years ago. My short stint there ended when I declared to my supervisor that I was going home… two hours after my shift had ended.
A former coworker, who always got sick every Friday night, called in to say she wasn’t coming in — shocker. Management knew this six hours before her shift started and instead of, I don’t know, calling around to see if anyone would come in on short notice, they left us short-staffed on the busiest night of the week.
Three workers, three hundred orders in one night. Wonderful.
I spent the night manning the cash register, the phones, clearing tables and cleaning…
