I used to work with this crazy guy from New Jersey. But this was before "Jersey Shore". So I didn't know that he wasn't quite the original character I thought he was. Far from it. In fact, he wore the full stereotypical uniform: spikey hair molded into place with copious amounts of gel, orange tanning booth tan, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a huge gold cross.
He used the terms "Bro" and "herb".
(For the uninitiated, here's how you use them in a sentence: "Yo Bro! Nah nah nah Bro, don't be such a fuckin' herb!")
We called him The Hurricane, because that's how it felt when he swept into the room. I have to say, he always livened up the afternoon.
Anyway, to make a little extra cash, he also worked at a gas station on the weekends. He really seemed to dig his job at the gas station. He claimed that "bangin' babes" often came in. Plus, he helped himself to free cigarettes. It was a dream gig, really.
Then one day, tragedy struck.
He stumbled into work in an uncharacteristically glum mood. He slumped into his seat and muttered, "Bro."
(Yes, even though I'm a woman, he still referred to me as "Bro".)
"Bro, I got fired from the fuckin' gas station."
"What happened?" I asked with vague concern.
"So, this fuckin' herb comes in with his dog of a daughter. Guy was such an asshole. Givin' me shit for nothin'. So I said to him, 'Get outta here. Get the fuck outta here. You're an asshole and your daughter looks like she ain't been fucked right in 10 years!'"
"Wow." I said. "That's some customer service."
"Yeah," he sighed. "How was I supposed to know she was only 15?"
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