Who calls me eight different names (getting confused with a woman who is fifty pounds heavier hurts my sparrow-boned ego)...
who denies that I've payed him when I HAVE paid me...
who then pouts when I make him count out all his money to reveal that I HAVE paid him...
who then makes no apology, other than by way of demonstrating that he has no brain, and repeats the mistake not 22 hours later...
who yells bloody murder at me to get my fanny on stage, goddamn me, in front of my customer, when I'm not supposed to be on stage for another three girls...
who wears socks and sandals everyday, and always eats poutine in his booth that drips grey icky gravy all over my CD...
who loses every CD...
who calls every girl 'the HOTTEST chick in the OUTAOUAIS!!!', when for reals, outaouais? never needs to be said, dude, ever.
who plays, in the middle of my song, the song of the following girl, and keeps that rap-tastic crap on for two and half minutes, only to suddenly play my song from the beginning again, and refuses to acknowledge my professionalism by continuing to dance to this clap-trap of insanity, and then gets bizarrely offended by my 'What the fuckery was fucking that?', because 'ladies don't speak the blue, little miss'.
who turns down the music in the danceroom to dog-ear-frequency, and calls us all deaf whiny bitches when we complain...
who then jacks up the stage music to earsplitting, air-show volume, so all the customers point to their ears and shrug while I hustle...
...and who then says 'well, it must be nice being you' when I don't tip him.



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