My Summer Job at Baskin Robbins

Every summer of my life, since I was about 8, my parents have been sending me to summer schools, tutor centers, and SAT prep schools. That shit sucked my balls. For once in my life, the summer right before going to college, I was not charged with the duty of relegating my vacation to some academic bullshit, and I had the chance to do whatever the fuck I wanted. I could just sit there on the couch and watch tv and scratch my ass like I've wanted to do all my life. At the time, I had attended high school in Korea, and was about to attend Northwestern University in America. For the most part I've lived the part of a child from a well off family, and had never worked a single job in my life. I had assumed at the time that I would look like a spoiled little shit in front of everybody at Northwestern (I could not be more wrong once I had arrived). Instead of living out my dream, I decided I needed to go out a get a summer job.

It ended up that my job was to work the morning shift at Baskin Robbins. I quickly learned that this is by far the best time to work at an ice cream shop, because nobody buys ice cream before 2 PM except for menstrating women and fatasses. Basically, I really actually only worked for about 2 hours out of the day (like I do now), and I spent most of my day sabatoging or stealing ice cream.

On the first day of the job, my boss told me that I was NOT allowed to eat any of the ice cream. Can you believe that? You work at an ice cream shop and you can't eat any of the ice cream. If she allowed me to have some, then I probably would have eaten moderate amounts from time to time with the sample spoons. Now that she had set up that rule, I did what any decent man in my position would do. I ate as much fucking ice cream as often as possible. To give you a rough estimate, I'll say this: I am mildly lactose intolerant, and I can drink about a quart of milk before I get diahrrea. While working there, I had gushing cases of mud butt everyday.

You do have to remember that working at a shit place like Baskin Robbins results in having to wear the uniform, which is a pink apron and hat, which in turn is fucking embarassing. My high school math and english teachers walked into the store once and they all started laughing at me and taking pictures of me. I heard they even posted that shit on the wall at my old high school, hopefully as part of a campaign to discourage young kids from drugs and alcohol.

More interesting than my work ethic and what an awesomely bad ass job I had, are the quotes I picked up and wrote down while working there.

Retarded Customer #1: Are there cherries in that cherry jubilee?

Annoying Customer #1: Can you mix two flavors in one scoop of ice cream?

Annoying Customer #2: I don't want a pint, and I don't want a scoop of ice cream. Is there anything in between those?
Me: No.
Annoying Customer #2: But I really don't want a pint...nor just one scoop of ice cream.
Me: We have double scoops of ice cream.
Annoying Customer #2: Can you package that for me?
Me: No.
Annoying Customer #2: Why not?
Me: Because the cups of ice cream that we use don't come with lids.
Annoying Customer #2: Please?
Me: I could try to put the lid of a pint on it.
Annoying Customer #2: I don't want a pint though.

Retarded Customer #2: Can I have a scoop of ice cream to go?

Annoying Customer #3: Can you reccomend me a flavor?
Me: Shooting Star is really good.
Annoying Customer #3: I hate Shooting Star.

Retarded Customer #3: Give me a scoop of ice cream.
Me: Which flavor?
Retarded Customer #3: I want it in a cone.
Me: Which flavor?
Retarded Customer #3: I want the Regular scoop.
Me: Which flavor?
Retarded Customer #3: Huh?

Annoying Customer #4: Scoop faster!

Asshole Customer #1: [upon inspection of ice cream] Wow, you must be a new worker here.

Annoying Customer #5: Can you mix two flavors in one scoop of ice cream?
Me: No, I can't.
Annoying Customer #5: Are you sure?
Me: Yes
Annoying Customer #5: The other places do it for me.
Me: No, they don't.

Retarded Customer #4: I want the big cake on the bottom row.
Me: ok.
Retarded Customer #4: Wait, how long has that cake been in the freezer?
Me: I'm not sure. Why?
Retarded Customer #4: I heard refrigeration is bad for ice cream.

Retarted Customer #5: Give me some ice cream
Me: Which flavor?
Retarded Customer #5: Oh! I have to choose?

Retarded Customer #6: Can I have $3 worth of ice cream?
Me: We don't sell ice cream by weight.

Fucking with peoples' ice cream, and leaving the job

It wasn't until I worked a shit job that I finally understood why some people with menial jobs are such dick heads, or why anybody would fuck would somebody else's food. One day...

Customer: I want that flavor. [points aimlessly]
Me: Which one?
Customer: [rolls eyes while again pointing vaguely] This one.
Me: Um, can you just tell me the name.
Customer glares at me, gives exasperated sigh, and walks over to a poster with a picture of a pink smoothie. She jams her finger on the picture, looks at me, looks at the smoothie, and looks at me again. I politely thank her for the hint.
Me: I'll be right back.

I never thought this day would come, but I went into the back room and hocked the biggest fucking shot of phlegm I could possibly muster. This was not a hard task for me because in Korea cigarettes are only $2 a pack, and I smoked copiously in response. I blendered that son of a bitch and gave her that mixture of ice cream and spit, and had never felt so satisfied in my life for being an asshole. After that first incident, it became easier and easier to find reasons to fuck with people's ice cream. Eventually I started fucking with things for no particular reason. I would cup my balls with the sample spoons, spit into the bottom of cones, and never, ever wash my hands after using the bathroom. During my tenure at Baskin Robbins, the store came under health inspection and failed miserably in all aspects, and was given a warning. I quit soon after, thoroughly satisfied at having had a job. And I even hooked up with one of the other ice cream chicks there. No, we did not wear our Baskin Robbins uniforms during said encounter, although in hindsight, I should've.


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