See these shoes?



These are Alice in Wonderland shoes.

See this girl?



This is Alice.

See her wonderland?



Let me tell you about Bob.

Bob lives on a farm in (Rye-OH) Grande, Ohio. Excuse me. He did. He died last Thursday. His legend lives on. And that's what I'm here for. To help Bob's legend live on. Some important things I need to share about Bob:

Bob started off making sausages for his frequent farm visitors. He hogged around for a while to find the right formula for serving succulent sausage smogasbords to ladies, gents and offspring all around America eventually opening the first red and white facaded restaurant in 1968. His wife, Jewell survives Bob. She is a happy host at the annual sausagesuckerfest held in Rio Grande every pig pleasin' year in the summer time. I will never go there.

I WILL go to work tomorrow at 4PM to work with Michael. Michael will train me to circularly support Coke glasses on a tray, which soup spoon to go on the bean stew and what quantity of wet naps to bring with the Bob B Q.

I sat and e-learned a bunch of stuff like how to abbreviate green bean side orders (G), add french fries to a burger order (F) and neglected to explain why broccoli chunks are abbreviated with an I. Why not Z? ZZZZ for broccoli. Duh.

I had a neat outfit on. If you ever come visit me I will only serve you pancakes. No matter what you order. And I will put chives on them.

I met exactly four people. I know very little about them. I anticipate that Bob would want us to be best of friends, so I shall review them instead of my order-taking codebook.

Barbara: general manager. She calls everyone kiddo. Even 40 year old men.

Micheal: my trainer. He asked me if I was going to take his job. I said yes.

Ken: fellow night shift server who demanded I taste his lemonade. He proceeded to hide it in his locker because he don't want Bob to know he snags all the lemons. Food proportioning is key to a successful profit. I should tell on Ken. But I won't. Bob doesn't like snitches or rats. Bob likes pancakes. Errmm...liked.

Louise: platinum haired dickie clad lass who hails from Boston. She's lived in South Florida before she moved to the Villages. She said: "Ain't it a lot different here!?" It sure is, Louise.

I get the fourth of July off and the day prior. Fourth of July eve, I think that's called. I think I might blow some shit up with my brother and chase around a dog or two. Don't be jealous.

Because of my faithful readership of 10,000 billion million, I'm going to write about my days at Bob Evans and secure a portrait or two so you know the pretty faces I stare at all day.

I hope those of you in New York stay where you are.

I hope those of you who live in the Villages go to Golden Corral.

I hope you guys are enjoying summerstorms and sunshowers and dime bags. Here we get 'em from the hoodratz in the woods. In a can.

More later. Always more. It was only my first day, after all.