Where's The Duct Tape?

This evening a member of the GRRRL-pack worked the drive-thru. Really sweet kid, but a total drama queen.

Her real name is one of those kinds that only hippie parents would give their kid, like Star or Moon-unit. For the sake of this blog, I'll just call her Dancer. She's an athlete in school and gets good grades, but she has a certain physique and exotic look that makes one think of, well... a POLE DANCER.

She's very, very skinny, which is why I chose the nickname, but really too skinny for my taste. (Myself, I like 'em CURVY. If a woman is such a stick that she can stir my drink with her elbow, she's not my type.) Female customers get extremely envious of her whenever she walks by. When the women see her the claws really come out. Oh, the things they say. I never knew such bile could come from ladies.

For all her beauty and her success as a student, Dancer has one problem. Two problems, actually. Everything is a disorganized mess with her, and she can't keep her mouth shut. This evening all she did was talk. By that, I mean motor mouth. It's a miracle she gets anything done.

All she does is complain and whine at the store manager. He found a big roll of duct tape in the office, brought it out to the drive through, and left it on the counter. When she didn't get the hint, he told her if she didn't shut up, he'd use it on her. Dancer just kept on talking all night.

At the end of my shift I sat in the car for a few minutes before I drove home, enjoying the blessed silence.