These are the times that try men�s souls.

First of all, it should be noted that I�m in a mood, and I don�t write well when I�m in a mood. If you don�t believe me, read the last entry, which went up yesterday.

That entry is going in the school paper, where my column has run concurrently since its inception. Those of you who care probably already knew that. But entries like the one from yesterday just make me want to run up to everyone who reads them and say, "I don�t really write that poorly! At least, not all the time. Sometimes my writing is funny or at least mildly entertaining. Failing that, it�s at least grammatically sound most of the time."

I wonder whether that would do any good. The people at school already think I�m crazy. They can think what they want, because they suck. I hate school. I think I would hate school less if there were actually some sort of return on the time spent there, but that is obviously not the case.

You would think that, after thirteen years in the education system, during which time English courses are a requirement each year, students would be able to write a complete sentence containing both a subject and a verb that was devoid of punctuation errors. The most recent layout week at our school�s paper proved otherwise.

I don�t usually talk about school on the site, because, for one thing, it sucks, and for another, I don�t want any crazy person from Idaho to come stalk me and wait outside the building after class all "I can�t find my lost puppy. Will you help me look for it?" because I�m a little too busy trying to escape this prison legitimately to have time to be a kidnappee, and if that did happen, I�d at least hope the kidnappers would have better organizational skills than those in the Bad Teen Novel, but then again, why should I expect that when we can�t even put periods at the end of sentences? (And yes, I know that was a run-on, but that�s okay because I know it was a run-on. Once you have learned the rules, not to mention the difference between formal and informal writing, you have at least a little bit of artistic freedom.)

See, and that�s the other thing, because that entire last paragraph was wind-up, and even I thought it was going somewhere, but then it didn�t. Damn it.

I did want to share my little triumph of customer service. I have worked in customer service for nineteen months. That�s almost two years, which I�m told counts as double when you work in food, which I do. That�s right. I�m the customer service guy at the pizza place. What now, bitch?

Anyway, every once in a while, you get a really annoying person that you just want to kill barehanded. Monday was one of those times.

A man came in and asked for his order. I knew from the second he gave me his last name that we didn�t have his order, but I went through the entire song and dance anyway, looking for it by his phone number, his order, and his last name two more times just for good measure.

When we were both sufficiently convinced that there was no order in the system, I offered to take a new order. He called his wife to inform her of the delay, at which point we learned that the wife had spoken to a girl. And that�s when I knew they had called another store (when you�re part of a chain, this kind of thing happens all the time), because no girls had been answering phones that night.

I took his order anyway. I took his bullshit about how we don�t know what we�re doing. I even gave him $5 off for his "trouble" (read: stupidity). I put up with his whining about how we need the phone number and the ZIP code for a credit card. I put up with all of it, and I let him think he was right.

As soon as I had a moment free, I started calling the other stores to try to find the original order. I hit it on the second call, which is pretty good when there are sixteen in the phone book. My suspicions were confirmed, but I didn�t say anything the entire time. I was doing my job and doing it well. I wasn�t spiteful. I wasn�t mean or rude. I was apologetic and patient.

And later it hit me. That�s nothing to be proud of. That�s my job. That�s what I�m supposed to do every time a customer complains. The customer is always right, especially when the customer is wrong. This picture sucks, but it�s the only one I�ve got right now. I did learn a lesson in customer service, I suppose, and I got to be the bigger person for a change, which is good work when you can handle it.

For once, a bad customer put me in a good mood. I smiled as I handed him his order, and he said that if this was the only time we screwed up his order in his history of being a customer, that was pretty good. I kept on smiling. I smiled well into the next hour, when another regular customer with a deep-rooted hatred of bubbles in his crust came to the drive-up window with his credit card...and proceeded to steal my pen.

***

Did anyone see The Practice the other night? This is really bothering me. I can�t believe the audacity these people have, to sue an alcohol brewery for their son�s alcohol poisoning death. And they won! A jury straight from DEK�s pen awarded the family $25 million in damages. At least Bobby didn�t get into any fights and Lindsay didn�t shoot anyone. Oh, and I thought Ellenor wasn�t going to take any more death penalty cases after that one two years ago. What happened to that? Bitches. I've got to stop watching that show. After part two of this week's episode.