Half-Assed and Super-Sized

Have you ever gone through the drive-up window at a local fast food dump, only to be handed a drink that's dripping soda pop everywhere? Damn!
Have you ever stood at the counter at a fast food restaurant waiting to be served, while a half dozen employees stood around jaw-jacking behind the counter? Hi, uh, customer here!
Have you ever went to Lowe's on a Wednesday night, needed help with something, and swore you were the only person in the place? Hel-looo?!
Have you ever been out to a nice restaurant for dinner and had to wait an eternity for that drink refill - repeatedly? Come ON!
Have you ever been to Monical's Pizza to get carry-out, only to have them burn the pizza - 4 out of 5 times?! Thanks!
Let's see, my answers to these questions would be "Yes, Sure, Yep, HELL YES!, and Don't get me fuckin' started!".
Class, today we are going to learn about three very important things. Please write these down as I write them on the overhead: P-R-I-D-E I-N Y-O-U-R W-O-R-K, R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y, and W-O-R-K E-T-H-I-C. These may seem like foreign concepts to you at this point, but please pay attention. The only quiz on this material will come in about twenty years when a 15-year-old kid dumps a Coke down the drivers-side door when you go through the fucking drive-up window! Nice! Reach through the window and jerk some sense into him, you pass the quiz with an A+. Shrug your shoulders and say to yourself "Oh well,...", you fail the quiz with a huge fucking F! And if you are a parent and fail this quiz, pull the car forward, promptly get out, and slam your dick in the car door.
A few months ago I'm bitching to a co-worker about an incident similar to one of those listed above, when another co-worker overhears and feels the need to interject this classic: "Well Greg, ya know, they're not really getting paid that much...and...it's a pretty crappy job."
HUH?!! Oh shit, here we go! I don't care what they're getting paid or how shitty their job is! Neither is an excuse to do a half-assed job! Let me back up about 20 years and give you an example of a shitty job. Oh, and a shout out to the 15-year-old Eminem wanna-be in the back row, with the cell phone sprouting from his ear and wearing the latest "street wear", PAY ATTENTION Superstar! 'Cause you're gonna be the next one to get yanked out the drive-up window.
I was 13, growing up in rural Indiana, and school was out for the summer. My dad, brother, and myself often helped out a farmer friend of ours take care of about 1300 acres of corn, soybeans, wheat, and a few head of cattle. On this particular late-July morning my brother and I are at the farmers house waiting to hear what the chores will be for the day. It's 7:30 a.m. and the temperature gauge on the side of the house already reads 89 degrees. And this is Indiana - there is no such thing as a fucking "dry heat".
Simply walking from the car to the house is enough to send a torrent of sweat down the Asscrack River. The word from Paul (the farmer) today is, we're heading down to the river bottom (for you city folk, river bottom refers to the fields immediately adjacent to the river) to cut sorghum out of the corn and bean fields. Heck, I'm almost 14, got this "got the world by the balls" attitude, this job doesn't sound too bad. Stupid fucking kid! We get to the field, jump out of the truck, right into a god damn blast furnace! I swear the temperature had climbed 20 degrees in the fifteen minutes it took to drive from the house to the field. This is the kind of heat that is suffocating - takes your breath away. Paul hands my brother and I each a machete, points to the bean field and asks, "See those tall weeds that look sorta like corn stalks?" I reply, "Uh, yeah." Paul says, "Take your machete and chop all that shit down." HUH?! No fucking way! I thought he was joking, but the punch line never came. I thought that if I 'accidently' hacked off a couple of fingers, maybe he would at least haul me back to the air-conditioned house to mend my bloody stumps. Right.
Three hours and about 20-degrees-hotter later, my brother and I have carved a narrow path toward the center of this 90-acre field. We've hardly made a dent in the sorghum. Our arms and hands are cut, scratched, and stinging from the leaves and sweat, our t-shirts have become transparent from the sweat, our necks and faces are burnt from the sun, and our backs and feet are throbbing. Oh, and did I mention that my brother at this time was 7 years old? All for $3.00 an hour. And we'll be back tomorrow, and the next day, until it's finished. I couldn't fucking WAIT for school to start!
That was the shitty job example, now here is the "Responsibility 101" example. I was still 13, and it was late summer/early fall. I'm helping Paul (the farmer) again today in a different river bottom field. At least at this late point in the season, the Indiana blast furnace has steadily loosened it's death grip. My project for today: ride around on a tractor while Paul drives and discs this 150-acre field. Ahhh, nice!
But this ain't no scratch-built garden tractor here, Jim Bob! This is an IH 5488, pulling a 16-row IH disc behind. This baby had the enclosed cab, heat, A/C, AM/FM/cassette/six speakers, air ride seat, power and lights fucking galore, etc., etc. Fucker would almost drive itself! At the time, this was one of the largest and well-featured tractors on the market. And the disc!? While many of the area farmers were still touting their 12-row implements, Paul had to one-up everybody and go for the 16-row mo-fo. This som'bitch was HUGE! Just the footprint of this thing was the size of a small fuckin' house! It would cut swaths through the biggest fields and say "Fuck you - is that all ya got?!". The tractor and disc were each less than two years old, and Paul had dropped upwards of 200 thousand bucks for the pair. So here I was, riding shotgun with Paul, A/C cranked, stereo tuned, staring out the side window, probably picking my nose and eating it, when the tractor slows and comes to a stop. Huh...what? I thought there was a problem - Paul had stopped in the middle of the field.
Here comes the responsibility part. Paul slides out from behind the wheel and says "Move over, you're drivin'." WHAT?!! I went from feeling like I had gotten a 'promotion' after cutting weeds out of fields by hand most of the summer to a 13-year-old on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the span of about ten seconds!! Holy crap! Most other kids my age would shit themselves if their Mom gave them permission to ride their Huffy the 3 miles into town! I felt sick to my stomach all of a sudden...let's see...an excuse, uh...ummm. Too late - Paul had begun the driving instruction, "Adjust the seat. The big lever to the left of the steering wheel is the engine RPM control - push it up about three-quarters. The small lever on the console next to your right hand, closest to the seat raises and lowers the disc - nudge it forward, away from you. The big lever to the right of the wheel is the throttle - steadily, push it all the way up. Oh, and hold onto the wheel. Don't mess with anything else." Shit, we're moving! Paul again, "...and you're gonna wanna look out the back window once in awhile to make sure you're keepin' her straight...make sure there aren't any problems back there...overlapping each swath by about one row..." Oh, is that all? How 'bout I wash the fuckin' windows while I'm at it?! Ok, can I be done now? Mommy?! Paul again, "...see, it's easy." The east side of the field butted right up against the Wabash river, with gravel roads on the north and west sides, and woods on the south side. We're tilling the field west to east at the moment. From my vantage point it goes field, strip of grass, row of trees, WATER! Oh, shi... Paul again, "Now, when we get down to the end rows down here, you're gonna want to do everything I just told you - but in reverse order. Throttle down, disc up, rpm down. Oh, and turn the wheel to spin it around and head back the opposite direction. Look out your back window - make sure you're lined up where you need to be. Then again, rpm up, disc down, throttle up. Then sit back and relax until you get to the other end of the field." Oh, okay!! I've got it...I think! As the river draws ever closer, Paul offers up some unforgettable wisdom, "You get flustered at the other end, don't get her turned around in time, run up on the gravel road - no big fuckin' deal. Fuckin' road needs some work anyway. You get flustered down at this end and miss the goddamned turn - drive this som'bitch into the river - that IS a BIG fuckin' deal! You won't be seeing your 14th birthday..." Wow. Okay then. Thanks Paul! Needless to say, I got her turned around despite the sweaty palms and piss in my pants. After about three rounds, I was starting to feel like a pro. About round number six, Paul is propped up in the corner of the cab, nearly asleep. So I gradually kept turning up the radio volume until he wakes with "What the hell ya doin'?! Let me out." I asked anxiously if we were gonna park it. His reply, "Hell no, you're gonna keep workin'. What're you chargin' these days - how's 5 bucks an hour sound? I'm headin' back to the house to get us some lunch and to feed Tiny (his three-legged dog). Keep the fuckin' tires dry..." The door slammed shut.
So the next time the kid at the drive-up window hands you that dripping fountain drink, do him a favor and make him do it right. The next time the underside of your take-out pizza looks like charred firewood, insist that the bastards make another one. The next time you're at McDonalds eating their slop, and the timer on the deep fryer has been beeping for an eternity, get up from your seat, shut off the timer, and beat the nearest teenager in a uniform with the french fry basket. The next time you're at a fast food joint and there are several 'Associates' huddled together carrying on about where the party is after work while customers stand waiting in line, dial information on your cell phone, get the phone number for the restaurant you're at, and call it. When someone picks up, ask to speak with Brian (one of the 'Associates'). When Brian get's on the phone, say "Hi Julie, sorry to interrupt your planning of this evenings festivities on the Promenade Deck, but take my fucking ORDER NOW!!"
Yes, they're getting paid shit and the job is probably shittier, but that's the way it is. We've all been there and done it. Deal with it. It's not an excuse to do it half-assed. Take some pride in your work and do it RIGHT - the FIRST time! And parents: It's OK to be an asshole occasionally so as not to raise a bunch of idiots.
Ok. Lesson's over. Now bring me a Fosters......and super-size it.
-Greg