I have no common sense. It’s been a year since I graduated, and it’s taken me a year, working in a busy kitchen, to learn that I have no common sense. I am beginning to understand what common sense is, however, and I seem to have leased its concept long enough to work in the busy kitchen that reminds me every day that I have no common sense.
Here’s what I’ve figured out so far: common sense means you have to make things happen quickly and efficiently. There always needs to be something cooking. You have to be a machine. You have to produce. If you aren’t producing quickly and efficiently enough, you are scolded, told to work harder, and you work harder, no questions asked.
I have friends, who have killed other human beings in the Middle East, tell me that they would rather get deployed again than work in a kitchen.
You are a piece of shit. Nobody you work with gives a fuck about the Samuel Beckett quote you want to use right now, no matter how applicable it may be, because it’s not producing anything tangible. It’s not slathering 1000 Island dressing on rye bread, nor is it washing the plates stacked up in the heavy bus tub sitting on the floor next to the pot full of soup you burned earlier, you piece of shit.
Common sense, observed afar through a telescope, is nothing more than a bunch of numbers pushing other numbers around, masses of numbers fucking and beheading other masses of numbers. Everything just needs to go up for whoever’s in charge. The battlefield of common sense is populated and drenched in the blood of savage mathematicians.
Common sense has made me understand homophobia. I don’t agree with homophobia, and common sense can go fuck itself if it disagrees with me, but, under its laws, we live to reproduce. Okay, fine. You’re right. We need to get work done. We need to create more. Even though we’ve created far too much. Even though we can find homes for our collective surfeit. Maybe the gay community can provide homes for the children we’ve so irresponsibly produced. That’s common sense, right? Oh sorry – I didn’t mean to spend the last couple of sentences thinking, or exploring solutions. Thinking is for faggots and pussies.
I am a pussy, but I need to stop being such a pussy. You have a problem with sticking a knife into the broken socket of the coffee grinder you use to blast dried peppers into powder, because the powers that be are too thrifty to cough up $14.99 for a new coffee grinder? How about you quit being a fucking pussy and stick a knife in it. If you get shocked, it will build character. If it kills you, then you deserve to die, because you’re nothing but
…a pair of ragged claws/scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
Hey – *snap* *snap* – this is a kitchen, not your frilly-shirted classroom that you look back at with tears in your eyes. And stop crying – you’re wasting water that could otherwise be converted into the energy that would produce a ½ Caesar salad, you little bitch.
It’s really not so bad. I work with some of the closest friends I’ve ever met. I say “I love you” to 85% of my co-workers, and they say “I love you, too,” 98.6% of the time. And we mean it. We all know what we have to do, even if we don’t always do it right. I guess that’s common sense. I just wish I had more time to