Sympathy For The Devil
While working for The-Old-Country-Store-That -Shall-Remain-Nameless, I often found myself stuck on the grill during peak hours. It was there that I met Brandon, the boy with The Devil In His Pants.
I was flipping a row of eggs over easy while he was manning the bacon side, when he slid next to me and whispered in my ear, “You know, I have the Devil in my pants.”
“Facinating,” I replied. “Tell the Devil he doesn’t get a smoke break until all those orders are ready.”
These conversations continued for about three weeks. Brandon was about 6′4″, long brown hair, & beautiful blue eyes. He was quite a hit with the ladies of the store, and there was often rumors circulating about which server was his latest conquest. I was amused that he had set me in his sights; the ultimate conquest. His boss. But The-Old-Country-Store-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless had an EXTREMELY strict policy on fraternizing with the employees, and I needed my job, so I just took the flirting as an enormous form of flattery & went about my business.
As weeks passed, he took every opportunity to tell me about the Devil, which I would smile and shrug off. It was entertaining. It was an ego boost. But one particular Sunday, during an especially stressful rush, I was horrified to look down my grill line & see Brandon unzipping his pants. As I rushed down the line, almost knocking a cook into the deep fryers, Brandon gave me a wicked smile & pointed to the area directly above his carefully concealed package.
There was a small tattoo of a comical red devil, giving me the same wicked smile & wink that I saw when I looked up into Brandon’s face.
“I told you I had the Devil in my pants,” he smiled slyly, zipping his pants & returning his attention to the dozen eggs on the grill.
Indeed, he did.
And for all of you who want to know what really goes on with your food, he didn’t wash his hands, either.