September 6, 2005
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I swear to God that Charles Dickens couldn’t have come closer to describing the ass Pumblechook. I swear.
So I’m at work and I have a glass in either hand. The glass in my right hand starts to slip, so I try to grasp it with the glass in my left hand. But what happens? The glass in my right hand breaks, slicing a right angle into the outside of my left hand.
Ok, so I’m standing there holding my hand above my head in the apron I had worn all day trying to make a decision about whether or not to go to the ER and get stitches. The setup: if I go to the ER, the doc’s gonna put me out of commission for several days. If I don’t go, infection is likely. Ok, fine. Here’s the kicker: I call the house and voice my concerns about the fact that I will be without work for an indefinite period of time if I go get stitches and how will I then pay the bills considering the fact that workman’s compensation doesn’t pay out well to tipped employees. You know what Pumblechook said? He said, and I quote, “Don’t go down that road.” As if I were threatening him. What an ass!
So after much pontification, and with the help of an RN that works at the Grill, it is decided that I need stitches and that the company will pay the $3000 insurance claim over a fucking $2 glass. I call the house back and let Pumblechook (who’s an MD himself) talk to the RN and the manager on duty as they try to explain the situation to him. You know what he tells me? “Go get the hand sewn up, tell the doctor that you need to get back to work as soon as you can, then communicate that with you manager.” “So what about the interim? How am I going to get some cash flow to pay the bills?” “Stop making a scene.” “Ok, I’ll go get the stitches and then I’ll go look for a job in the morning.” More asininity from Pumblechook.
Moral of the story? Three stitches later, I’m told that it will be a week before the stitches can come out, hence, no less than a week before I can return to work without restrictions. In the meantime, the speculation on the part of management is that workman’s comp nor insurance will let me come back at all until I have a doctor’s note saying that I can. That is, of course, after those asses pontificate about it. Oh well, I guess I’m going to have to go around town and see what odd jobs I can do for about three weeks to get some cashflow.
I hates Pumblechook. I hates it, I hate.
Comments (5)
Dont be hatin’. Pumblechook loves you very much and it’s just painful for him to see you acting like an idiot all the time. Oh, and I can tell you how to soften him when you talk to him. Tired of Pumblechook speaking to you as if you’ve just THREATENED him? Speak to him with respect. Everytime. No matter what. Don’t raise your voice, ever. Speak with respect. Oh, he may not notice immediately, or even 3 months from now, but he will. Trust me. Frustrated at Pumblechook? Try this and take the blame off of him. Or aren’t you strong enough? Also, GOOD JOB on use of the word ‘asininity,’ it’s one of my favorites!
Oh come on Eric. I was so hoping to recreate the “Paging the President” scene in Man on Fire
I WISH YOU HAD MORE TIME.
I’m sorry but look, I have no clue who you are really, and have no clue how to take your comments as a result. What did you mean anyway by your last comment?
And I’m curious as to why you keep coming back…seeing as you don’t know me either.
Me too.
wtf?