Marcia Stamer

Song of the Dayshift Manager

Trainees! Trust all transactions only to me. Trace my train of thought as I transfer to you the trivial tricks of the true art of trafficking French fries and tremendous sandwiches that the traitorous tyrant who owns this travesty thinks are made-to-order. Transcend your trashy selves and the tripe of your invented travails. It will not be traumatic with me as your talented trainer. Troglodytes!

These simpletons couldn’t slug their somniferous selves out of a secured paper sack. Simpering sops! They slink around here in their sappy suits, one similar to the next. How can I sustain my sanguine self and advance my sagacious search for my sincere assignment in this insufferable swamp? These swine are supposed to secure skill in their supremely simple situations from a superior intellect such as myself? Absurd! My significance is supreme.

Observe as the broad bunch of brutes broods as they behold the blue broth out the bedecked breach in the opening of the building’s barricade! They have no bull’s eye attention or basic business sense at all. Why do I try to build up their befuddled brains? It’s of no benefit to me. How boorish! Am I to believe that they are only busting their humps because I brandish the brawn? This betrays the brilliance of my edifying briefings! But I have no broker to browbeat these brutes. Buffoons!

We must pull off perfection! We provide the paramount in fine dining picks. No pink petit fours here! Simply the preeminent in expediently produced sandwiches and fried potatoes known to patrons anywhere. Super-size that repast, pronto! I am prominent in my profession here. I am purely the epitome of perfection and prowess. Perhaps the proletarians in this province will one day appreciate my propensity for genius and promote me. Night shift person in power is my purpose. Prodigious prize, as is only prudent.