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Recently found out that our upstairs night manager, Mr. Lazy, expects cigars from the bussboys/barbacks to receive scheduling. Get it? No? If you want to work here, for minimum wage (because you don't speak English and may not even be a citizen because your i.d. looks like it was purchased on the boardwalk at Daytona Beach), then bring Mr. Lazy a cigar or too, and he'll let you work.

Mr. Lazy is a very interesting man indeed. The fellow gets paid practically more than anyone else here at the club, yet seems to do the least amount of work. And he's cheap. And he's a loud mouth and a kiss-ass to Mr. Toy. (heh, heh, aren't we all? never bite the hand that feeds you!).

Mr. Lazy doesn't EVER come into the office, but when he does, he's in a deep and quiet conversation on the phone with mystery personal calls (wife, friend, mistress) and working diligently at checking his AOL accounts. He barks out orders to everyone else on staff (even people he doesn't know that well) to do his work for him. I have YET to see him get off his fat ass to do anything. You know what? He isn't worth the html on my blog. This post is done.