What I Learned From Getting Fired From Burger King
notes on desire, pudding, distractions, and brighter days ahead
In the late spring of 2005, shortly before I turned eighteen, I was unceremoniously fired from my very first job at Burger King. You may be wondering: “How does one get sacked from a job that was literally designed for sieve-brained teenagers like young Father_Karine?” Well, I’ll get there. But first, let me start with the basics: I actually liked my job at Burger King. Of course some of that statement can be attributed to nostalgia doing its job: softening a memory’s jagged edges into broad, soft brushstrokes until it becomes nothing more than a impressionist painting of a snapshot in time. One where everything seems copacetic, if only because you can no longer make out the expressions on anyone’s face.
At 38, I can’t see or feel the jagged edges anymore. But even through the blur, I can recall never being more more depressed than I was at fifteen years old. On the cusp of womanhood, my already unperfect life was upended by my mother’s sudden decision to divorce my father and relocate with a new partner (and his kids) some distance away. After she left, my father, whose humour always skewed melancholic, slumped into one of those nasty, all-consuming masculine depressions. One that left heaps of filthy dishes and cigarette-burned WWII literature in its wake.
Seemingly overnight my childhood home became a cold, unwell, and oppressive place. At the time, my friends of divorced parents offered me some hollow reassurances and muttered something about twice as many Christmas presents. That certainly never happened. Even the faint silver lining I had expected from the divorce — that my father would finally move out of the living room from whence he had been exiled like some gloomy, drunken Napoleon — never came to fruition. He continued to occupy that space as his bedroom, and the nucleus of my home became a sad man-rodent’s nest.
What a terrible feeling it is to live in a house that isn’t your home. To feel confined to a room, like some caged, stray dog at an underfunded SPCA. Anyone that’s ever been in a toxic roommate situation, failed cohabitation arrangement, abusive situation, hoarder home, etc. knows it well. Looking back on it now, I still remember the feeling— intensified by the throes of adolescence and then softened by the passage of time. I can’t help but feel it’s colored every moment of my life going forward. Now, when I wake up in my own space, calm and tidy, I find myself thinking: how could anyone ever want anything more than this?
Luckily, I was able to redirect my energy from being unbearably emo about being trapped in a terrible living situation to a more philosophical emo-ness about about being trapped in one of the shittiest small towns in America. At less than 1,500 people, this Appalachian asscrack of a town felt unbearably claustrophobic. Everyone seemed to know each other, either biblically or familially—sometimes both.
My sophomore class had less than 70 students. The number dropped every year. Drugs, teen pregnancy, a drunk driving accident here and there. People seemed to disappear overnight, but nobody new ever seemed to show up and and nothing exciting ever happened. Unless, of course, you count that time my married civics teacher was caught professing his undying love to a fourteen year-old female student. I was only a year older at the time, a virgin through and through.
The leaked emails spread like wildfire among the students. They were replete with this middle-aged man’s unbearably pathetic, juvenile proclamations of love for this child. When I read them, I’m ashamed to admit my first thought wasn’t an appreciation for how messed up it all was. It was: damn, would a teacher ever be tempted to fuck me? What about one of these hicks I went to school with? Certainly no one in my calc class wanted to fuck me, but what about one of these special “no child left behind” boys who spent the entire 7-hour school day in woodshop, bansawwing wooden turtle and duck foot stools for their 25 cousins? What about some of the Mennonite boys who got lashings when their pa found them playing Halo at a friend’s house?
Who wanted to fuck Father_Karine?
Desire is arguably more potent than any drug. It seduces with its absence; the wanting feels more intense than the getting. It thrives on distance, on fantasy. When my friends started getting boyfriends, I was envious. Specifically, I was jealous of their ability to connect with these guys. I certainly couldn’t. They weren’t into books, music, or film. They hunted buck and played football. Some of the deeply closeted ones wrestled and received great acclaim in our little town, in addition to the secret, reciprocal handjobs they received in an old, broke-down RV in one guy’s backyard. They spit dip and waxed lyrical about Johhny Knoxville and Stone Cold Steve Austin. They just weren’t my type. Any time one of these guys would say, in that terrible Pittsburghese dialect, “I seen yinz at the game last night,” my teenage pussy would pucker up in disgust until it probably looked no different than a rival wrestler’s unsullied butthole.
And yet I longed for one of these dimwitted country boys to pay me any attention. To pass me a note in class. To hoist a ladder to my window like an episode of redneck Dawson’s Creek. To invite me over to his dank, basement bedroom. To share a kiss while we watched Bam Margera—still healthy and boyish—bust through the bathroom door and beat the everloving crap out of his dad on the toilet.
But none of that ever happened. Instead, my anxious brain looped incessantly around the same, boring question: would I be unwanted forever?
In his Pensées, French Polymath Blaise Pascal wrote about how humans fill the void of feeling unloved with divertissement (distraction)—entertainment, ambition, busyness—anything to avoid sitting with the unbearable, crushing silence of being unseen and unloved. I know everyone reading this is like “yeah, duh” but back in the 1650s this was pretty cutting edge stuff. He wrote that “all of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Absolutely true. It’s why everyone advises to keep busy in the wake of a break-up, the loss of a loved one, or any misfortune whatsoever. That is, because they’re worried you’ll eat a bullet if you ruminate on your circumstances for more than two minutes. So, next time you read one of those smug-ass Substack notes on here that sounds something like:
“Modern life has become a constant escape from silence. We drown out our inner monologues with endless streams of digital noise—TV, reels, music, and podcasts—fearing the stillness. By perpetually plugging in, we’ve lost the quiet courage required to simply exist alone with our own thoughts.”
Please refrain from smashing the little heart button like your mind’s been blown by some modern day soothsayer. It’s nothing groundbreaking; this was all well-established before true crime podcasts, Ivy Wolk’s sex diaries, and whatever the fuck “the Pitt” is were invented. The poster isn’t some visionary. It’s likely not even one single poster. It’s likely six to eight dudes holed up in an internet cafe in Jamtara using AI to engagement-farm likes and subscribers from the self-aware sect of the chronically online.
At fifteen, I was no different than the 16th-century everyman in Pascal’s Pensées. I couldn’t bear my quiet room. Certainly not back in those days. Thankfully I had just found my perfect divertissement: slinging whoppers at the Burger King in the weird mountain town adjacent to my own.
I felt no shame in getting a job at a fast food restaurant; I’ve really never felt above any type of work. Besides, shitty jobs were so standard in my milieu there was no social stigma to it at all. My good friend worked at the Subway next door. Oh sure, she liked to pretend her job was more glamorous and feminine than mine. Something about the layers of unfurling cold cuts (symbolic of the yoni) versus Burger King’s sweaty meat conveyer and grease fryers, all lorded over by a 9’ tall bearded potentate. But, at the end of the day, that bitch permanently reeked of toxic plastic yoga mat bread, I stunk of onion rings, and we were both equal in the eyes of the lord.
The Burger King was well-staffed. At the helm of the ship were three middle-aged managers: Shandra (the Tyrant), Gary (Gary), and Mac (the Absentee). The rest of the ranks were full of teenage wastoids from neighboring communities, halfway housers looking for a fresh start, and the occasional intellectually handicapped individual who outperformed us all by every measure.
I made friends with almost all of my compatriots, none of whom went to my small school. I had worked there nearly a year when one of my coworkers — a Christian youth leader named Nick who didn’t seem to take anything, even God, seriously — confessed that he had a crush on me.
I wasn’t sure if he was serious. A few months prior to this, Nick had pulled me aside and told me that our creepy middle-aged manager, Gary, had asked him to snap some photos of me in exchange for free food and shift adjustments. “Yeah, he asked for feet pics. I said no way,” he said, quite proud of his integrity. “We already get 50% off whoppers so like, it’s not worth it. But I’d watch out if I were you. I heard he’s asking others,” he warned.
I ate that shit up and immediately went full Perry Mason mode, grilling all my co-workers on whether Gary had hit them up for photos of me in exchange for cash, food, or other benefits. Most of them said no, but a few smiled and said yeah, fanning the flames of my indignity.
A week later, I was abruptly pulled into the tiny 6x6 foot manger’s control room by Shandra, the senior manager. The control room was surreal. It was the only place one could properly sit in the entire employees-only zone of the Burger King. And I do mean only “one” could sit. It was stuffed to the ceiling with files and tech equipment, and of course, a single seat for Shandra. It was also the only private area, so anytime an employee was to be chewed out it was to be done here. Because the room was so small and cramped, just being inside with another person felt like a punishment in and of itself.
“I’m going to ask you to stop circulating these damaging rumors,” she chastised from the comfort of her $79.99 ergonomic Staples chair. “It’s inappropriate and it’s making Gary and the other team members extremely uncomfortable.”
Rumors? I thought. It really hadn’t occurred to me that this could have been untrue. Or, worse, maybe I was just in denial that it wasn’t true. Maybe, deep down, my teenage ego yearned for the attention, any attention, no matter how depraved.
After she finished speaking, I sucked what felt like all of the Earth’s oxygen into my lungs so that I could tell my side of the story. So that I could explain to Shandra that I was really the victim in all of this. But as I physically and mentally prepared for what I’m sure would been a remarkable, authoritative teenage soliloquy, I looked down into Shandra’s eyes. They were sunk deep into a weary face, one attached to an equally weary body that was permanently glued to that wheely, cushioned throne. They were tired, untrusting eyes that said “best not to say anything, because it will later be held against you.” I didn’t know it then, but I’d see those eyes throughout my life. Eyes of bosses, lovers, judges, rivals, friends, and family. Learning to recognize these eyes has been a skill, the importance of which I cannot stress enough. When you encounter them, one must simply evoke the Fourth Law of Power: always say less than is necessary.
And so I said nothing. I just stood there, slack-jawed and humiliated by own my gullibility, as Shandra scolded me from the comfort of The- Chair for starting weird quasi-sexual food rumors about myself. Although I took her lashings standing up, like a woman, I have to admit that of all the rock bottoms of my life (there are many), being reprimanded for creating a hostile work environment for Gary was definitely on the leaderboard.
When I angrily confronted Nick about this mess, he just tossed me an impish smile. “What?! I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually believe any of that.” He had a point. Another lesson, I suppose.
A few months after this incident, Nick confessed his feelings for me and invited me to hang out with him and his friends after work. If you’re thinking “no way she’d go out with the guy who gaslit her into starting the food4feet rumor about herself” you are wrong. This was around the time the Mennonite kid in my grade got caught on the receiving end of a blowjob under the bleachers, and half of the wrestling team got exposed for having a “stranger party” in the RV. That’s where they all sat on their dominant hands until they went numb because they unanimously decided that it wasn’t gay if they couldn’t feel themselves actually touch another guy’s dick (big if true).
Ah yes, it felt like everyone was finding romance in this nothing-ass town but me. So I was open to anything. Besides, Nick was charming. Hell, he would have almost been cute if not for his hormonal acne and teeth that badly needed braces. But none of that mattered to me. He could have been anyone.
“A double date,” he called it. And so, one Friday night in spring of 2005, I found myself in a shitty old car with Nick and another couple that, quite hilariously, worked at the McDonalds across the street.
If you’re wondering where two young rural Pennsylvanian fast food couples would even go on a double date, the answer is always this: the woods. For a minute my mind, warped by media’s lofty portrayals of teen romance, thought we might see a movie or maybe even patronize an Applebees, but no. That crappy car just hurdled deeper and deeper into the woods. When we cranked the windows down, the stale insides of the car flooded with cool, wet mountain air and the chorus of spring peeper frogs. As the wind blew through my hair, I felt it in my porous teenage bones: tonight was going to be fun.
Over the radio crackle, the boys traded quips about McDonalds guy’s little brother. I gathered that he was a dweeb. “My little brother loves pudding,” he said. “Yeah, he loves pudding so much everyone calls him SnackPack,” Nick added, tittering like a schoolgirl. When I asked for any elaboration, the subject was abruptly changed. Hm.
When we finally pulled up to the house, I was impressed. Not at the home, but at the size of the lot and the sheer amount of junk crammed onto it. The lack of neighbors in any direction made discerning the ownership of all this yard-scrap an exceedingly easy task.
We lingered on what felt like the far perimeter of the property. At once point I asked if I could use the restroom inside, to which McDonalds girl cautioned “Ummm, I wouldn’t.” So, there I was—squatting in the dark woods, trying not to dribble piss on my shoes, thinking “sure beats being home.”
When I got back, everyone had huddled around a small, newly ignited bonfire. There was no drinking, smoking, or music. Not that we didn’t want it, we just didn’t have it. There was only us and fire. My date carried the conversation, his friend chiming in every so often with a “huh” or a “yip” as he stoked the fire while McDonalds girl just giggled. In those pockets of uncomfortable silence, it felt like we were the last four living people on Earth.
But suddenly there was one more. At some point, McDonalds guy’s little brother apparated out of nowhere. It was as if a billion particles just instantly congealed together into the shape of a dork. He shyly said “hey, how’s it going,” clearly wanting to hang. I wanted to make him feel welcome, so I leaned in for a friendly handshake. With my arm outstretched, I uttered four words I’ll never forget: “Hey. You’re SnackPack, right?”
When I said it, the boy glitched like an old school video game. Then, deep in the depths of his pupils, I saw the cartoonish explosion of two atom bombs. I didn’t know what I had done, but I knew I had made a mistake. What a peculiar feeling it is to inadvertently set something into motion. To be part of a comedy of errors. I felt a bit like young Briony Tallis from Atonement. What had I said? What was my crime? I wouldn’t understand the weight of my words until later.
The boy exploded. In a split second, he turned to his brother and screamed, over and over again, “YOU FUCKING TOLD?!” Told me what?! SnackPack then attempted to tackle his brother, who had a fifty pound advantage. McDonalds just swatted his kid brother in the head like a mosquito, at which point the boy’s wire frame glasses catapulted off his face. They flew at least 10 feet away and I’m 100% sure I audibly gasped when it happened. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, this lil guy didn’t even pick up the glasses. He just immediately launched into the fastest Naruto-run towards the house, complete and utter Looney Toons roadrunner Meep Meep’d it for the length of half a football field. SnackPack made it inside so quickly I’m fairly sure my arm was still outreached for the unrequited handshake by the time the house lights snapped on.
“Aw shit,” said McDonalds. What?! What was happening? In the distance, I heard what sounded like large household items being thrown violently throughout the house. This poltergeist activity continued for several minutes until a completely naked, very angry man emerged from the house and jogged toward us.
Out of all the adversity I was dealt in my early life, exposure to the sight of old man penis has been one of the the roughest. My father had a terrible habit of sleeping naked no matter the season. That preference combined with his insistence on sleeping in middle of the living room made me yearn for a pair of equestrian horse blinders every time I needed a glass of water at night. And any midnight hunger pangs were immediately quelled by the fear of spotting my nude father lumbering about the house like a wayward, depressed sasquatch.
What a great shame that the first two real-life penises to which I was exposed were hanging off ugly, unkempt middle-aged men. We all have our cross to bear in this life. Mine was apparently witnessing a flaccid dong turtling-out from under a gut painstakingly built by keystone light and scrapple. As I stared deep into the brambly groin of McDonalds Senior, I knew in my heart that heterosexuality was not a choice, but a curse. What woman would willingly choose this? Good god. If the sight of this strange man’s gnarled, pendulous scrotum did not quash my budding heterosexuality and transform me into a massive carpet-munching dyke on the spot, nothing on this earth would. I learned at 17 that I was, regrettably, probably straight.
“Brandon, git yer fuckin ass in here! Everyone else git off my fuckin property!” the patriarch screamed. Of course his name was Brandon, I thought. At that point, McDonalds guy had to tuck his tail between his legs and go explain to his belligerent, half asleep naked father that he still needed to drive us all home, which went over super well.
As McDonalds pleaded with his dad, I asked Nick what the fuck just happened. He nonchalantly responded “Oh yeah, [McDonalds] caught his brother having relations with a pudding cup on two separate occasions.” Once the shock wore off, one question kept chewing at my brain: if the kid was caught twice, how many times had he actually done it? I suppose that’s between SnackPack and his god alone.
At that point I realized that because of my reference to his nickname, SnackPack had assumed his brother was just casually telling everyone in the entire world that he was a serial pudding-rapist freak, which I can imagine is probably a big deal for an adolescent boy. Critically acclaimed German actor and psychopath Klaus Kinski once astutely noted that “one should judge a man mainly from his depravities. Virtues can be faked. Depravities are real.” And at that moment, SnackPack’s depravities were quite publicly laid bare.
A few days later, Nick informed me of two critical developments:
First, I learned that McDonalds had been relentlessly bullying SnackPack for “being into black chicks” because the pudding was chocolate. This should give you some idea of just how terribly bigoted my podunk hometown was. You know you’re in deep ‘merica when the color of the pudding you fuck matters more than the fact that you’re fucking pudding.
Second, I learned that McDonalds got grounded for TWO months for snitching, while SnackPack was grounded for a mere month for his crimes against custard and generally being a huge sperg. I’ll let you decide how to feel about that.
A spectacle-less SnackPack occupied my thoughts for the next several weeks. For some reason, it gave me this profound comfort to think of him balls deep in the pud. Prior to that fateful night, I had fancied myself the loneliest teenager in the county, maybe even the entire 814 area code. I felt suddenly relieved when I compared my situation to his. At least I’m not that desperate. But deep down I knew it wasn’t a fair comparison. I hadn’t been born male. I had no appendage with which to defile pudding, even if I wanted to. Eventually I found myself plagued by a very Freudian question: if I had a dick, would I be down bad enough to dip the tip in the pudding whip?
Exactly how depraved would I have been if I had been born to the rougher sex? Would I find myself amongst the Klaus Kinskis, the SnackPacks, the JD Vance sofahumpers of the world? Would I be among the men I wrote about in this piece of Gonzo journalism? Maybe I’d just be on the wrestling team. That’d be ok. But in the end it was all just speculation. Fate spared me from such perversions, and I praise Gaia every day for incarnating me as a woman this time around.
After PuddingGate, I was restless. It wasn’t just me. With summer gnawing at our heels, all of this Burger King’s filthy, horny teenage staff became increasingly mischievous. We were especially ornery on those nights when Mac, the fun manager, dipped early to “pick up her kids,” entrusting a handful of bird-brained teenagers to close the entire establishment.
On one night, Hershey pies were thrown into the deep fryer for reasons never revealed to me. “Just wait,” the fryboy said as we watched it melt and fizzle in the now-ruined grease. What exactly we were waiting for I’ll never know. During another of these unsupervised closing shifts, I felt the spirit of the not-yet-formed r/anti-work subreddit, musty and craven, enter my teenage body. It suddenly possessed me to grab a marker and write “BK SUXXX” in huge, graffiti-style block letters on the oversized dry eraseboard near the soda fountain. I didn’t even believe that BK sucked at the time. I still liked my job. I just wanted to rage against the machine in apparently the lamest way possible.
Two nights later I arrived at work to find the whiteboard and the offending artwork exactly as it was left, save for one distinction. The board had been dislodged from its original spot near the soda fountain and relocated outside of the manager’s control room alongside a handwritten note that simply read “WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?”
I quickly learned Shandra had launched an official investigation into the identity of the perpetrator of this heinous act of treason. Over the next week, my colleagues and I were relentlessly badgered with questions about whose hand had blasphemed the King and, consequently, undermined Shandra herself.
I honestly didn’t think anyone saw me write it. But then one evening, my fifteen year-old, shaggy-haired stoner coworker approached me and said meekly said “Hey, um, Father_Karine, I was thinking that maybe you could turn yourself in. All the managers think I did it for some reason so maybe you could just talk to them and let them know it wasn’t me.” It was so sweet, so innocent. Unfortunately I had absolutely no intention of doing that and responded “Ehh, maybe we all just keep our mouths shut?” Hilarious that my teenage brain thought these random kids even had the capacity for secrecy and loyalty, let alone that they owed it to me. If prestige TV like the Sopranos and the Wire have taught me anything, it’s that we’re all born snitches, every single one of us blindly grappling for any opportunity to betray our fellow man.
And betrayed I was. I once again found myself in the control room, pressed up against the wall as Shandra asked me, from the privilege of her padded pedestal, if I “had anything I wanted to tell her” about the dry eraseboard.
If there are any children reading this: first of all, welcome. Congratulations on your impeccable taste in literature that brought you to my free Substack publication. No, I don’t really know what it’s about either. Second, here is my advice to you: if any person ever pulls you aside and asks “Do you have anything you’d like to tell me?” The answer to that question is yes. You’ve done something, even if you’re not fully cognizant of it yet, and let me tell you: that something is known. Choose your response wisely, and never forget the fourth law of power: always say less than necessary.
I confidently responded “nope” — a very wrong answer. Perhaps the wrongest answer there ever was. As soon as that word dripped off my lips, Shandra barked “we have you on video, Father_Karine” In my wise old age, I realize that was likely nothing more than a rookie cop interrogation tactic. There probably was no video. But I was still very stupid at 17 and I took her words at face value. For some reason, I thought Burger King managers couldn’t legally lie to their employees. Kind of like how cops have to tell you they’re cops if you ask them.
The thought of Shandra supposedly having video evidence but continuing to conduct her power-tripping investigation absolutely pissed me off. I had reached my limit. I simply couldn’t control myself any longer and blurted out what had been lurking in my mind since the start of this ridiculous fiasco: “Oh my god, just fuckin’ ERASE it!”
The outburst shocked us both. I could tell Shandra was apoplectic, but she still didn’t rise from the chair. A good sign, I thought. Certainly she wouldn’t fire me while sitting down.
Alas.
I watched as Shandra morphed into a grizzled, old Mets umpire and yelled “that’s it, yerrrrrrr out!” at me from roughly 26 inches away. Because she refused to ever let her ass separate from the wheely chair, her words never reached my face and brain. Instead, they smashed directly into my throat chakra and caused an intense blockage that rendered me powerless to do anything other than say “ok.” And with that, I collected my things, mumbled goodbyes to people I’d never see again, and walked out.
Things have a way of ending when you’re ready for them to end. In the post-covid era of quiet-quitting and frictionless, soft living, I can’t help but feel we’ve forgotten the value of flaming out. People warn against burnt bridges, but sometimes they’re psychically necessary to propel you into the next phase of your lifepath. Sometimes you need to nourish your soul by telling your boss to fuck off, a customer to eat your ass, your sister/lover/coworker to shove it. The key, of course, is being prepared for the fallout.
When Nick found out I had been sacked, he called me at home on the landline. We chatted for some time. He laughed and said BK just wouldn’t be the same without me before graciously offering to hook me up with a job at McDonalds, yes—that one. That was the last time we spoke.
The concept of submitting a job application at virtually the exact same company directly across the street from your prior employer is comedy gold. What do you even say when the interviewer inevitably asks why you want to switch from Burger King to McDonalds? “Uh, yeah, I always thought it was pretty fucked up how they put ketchup and mayonnaise on the whopper. I’m a single-sauce type of girl. A big mac sauce type of girl” [this is where I lean in for a high five, or maybe a kiss (I’ll read the room)].
It’s hard enough coming up with any compelling reason as to why you should be hired at a fast food restaurant in general other than “me alive. me want job,” but now you gotta create some narrative about why one particular fast food job just wasn’t for you without exposing yourself as a Swiss cheese-brained idiot. Of course, the interviewer knows there’s only one answer to why someone is switching fast food jobs: they dun goofed. They only ask the question to amuse themselves before saying “Welcome to the team. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The thought of spending the next few months before college working at the rival McDonalds with the elder SnackPack and his girlfriend absolutely made me want to die, so I resolved to let the patchy-bearded anti-work spirit possess me once more and make peace with temporary unemployment.
As a brief aside, I hate being unemployed. I’ve learned that having a job—even a kinda shitty one—is essential to my mental health. Maybe I’m just too much of a boomer, but I simply can’t relate to some of those “I’d rather be poor than work most jobs” thinkpieces I see on here. For the record, though, I staunchly support a living wage. These dead-end jobs are hard, thankless work: the pay is shite, you’re on your feet all day, customers can be assholes, your coworkers gaslight you with stories about bartering your private myspace pics for a BBQ Angus burger. It is absolutely insane to me that any American can dedicate 40+ hours a week working these jobs (or any other) and not earn a wage sufficient to provide housing, utilities, food, medicine, household supplies, and some modest entertainment. And when I think too much about it, I realize I’m ashamed to live in a such a developed country where a basic living wage is becoming some new, twisted version of the American dream.
In an effort to replace both my Burger King income and my precious divertissement, I poured my energy into buying and reselling fake Louis Vuitton handbags from wacky online Chinese marketplaces. The internet was absolutely the wild wild west in the early 2000s, and for the first time in history the international trade channels were open to depressed teenage girls in rural Pennsylvania. Amazing.
I bought and resold at least 100 bags over the next few months. I had them delivered to our local post office, and the beleaguered old postal worker there absolutely hated to see me coming. My home was a total package mill with exotic boxes constantly pouring in and out like it was an Amazon distribution center. Thank god my dad was drunk as hell the entire time or else he probably would inquired, at least once, “ayyyy what the hell is goin on here??” before grilling me about who my mom was shacking up with these days.
Once I received the bags from China, I would resell them domestically on Ebay at a 3x to 5x markup. Yes, it was against the ToS to sell fakes, but back then you could get away with it by setting a low buy-it-now price and staying under radar. Of course, I was constantly getting reported and banned, but I would always rise like a phoenix from the ashes with a new username and the same shitty counterfeit bags. Even today the name registered to my Ebay account is, for some reason, “David Lancaster.” To be clear, David Lancaster is not my name, nor is it the name of any of my known associates. Years ago, my now-husband saw an Ebay alert on my phone and candidly asked: "Who is David Lancaster?" I told him the truth, but when I saw his reaction I regretted not responding with some lie that I was just cheating on him, like a normal woman. c’est la vie
Before you crucify me, I used real photos of these bags — not stock photos/pics of authentic bags. I’ll sink to many levels, but baiting-and-switching is not one of them. What you see is what you get with me. Frankly, I don't know how anyone could ever think these bags were real. They were utterly grotesque. If you showed any modern woman these bags in 2026, every single one would say “no thanks, I’ll stick all my belongings, including my car keys, directly up my ass and carry them that way.” My top selling model, a replica Louis Vuitton cherry blossom papillion bag, was the by far the most hideous.
The authentic bag (pictured above) was tubular in shape and smattered with smiley face cherry blossoms. It retailed for $925 USD, but after a few sightings on celebrity shoulders, the price was driven up to several thousands by our old friend manufactured scarcity.
Words can’t describe how fucked the $50 replica version of this bag was. Each one smelled flammable as hell, like a single extra electron could cause the cherry blossoms to spontaneously burst into flames like faulty lithium batteries, sparks shooting from their deformed eyes and mouths. And when I say deformed, I mean it. Melty smiles, lumpy heads, the occasional missing eye. When I spotted the latter, I would do a little quality control and boop the second eye back on with a black sharpie. Only the best for my clients. But the biggest flaw was that these bags were so laughably misshapen. The authentic bag is supposed to be perfectly cylindrical, but the replicas would always arrive floppy and deflated with a sinister tapeworm-esque quality to them.
You may be wondering, “what idiot would buy this?” One of these bags once arrived so misshapen that I stuffed it with a bunch of old socks and underwear so that it could appear somewhat cylindrical when I took pictures for Ebay. Of course I forgot to remove everything before I shipped it. In a totally wild twist, the chick who ordered it left me positive feedback that said "A++++ and thanks for the freebies!!!!” I was like “freebies??? This bitch cannot be talking about my old sweaty gym shorts?” But she was. God bless her and her $250, all of which went directly into my “Getting the Fuck Outta Here” fund.
I occasionally think of SnackPack and Shandra. Their ghosts remind me not to be so hard on everyone, including myself, all the time, something with which I’ve always struggled. We all can’t bear our quiet rooms. We all have our divertissements. For me, it was cashing out the BK register and flipping counterfeit bags. For Shandra, it was running a tight ship and busting everyone’s balls. For SnackPack, well. You know. All of us equally owed a little human grace.
Even now the deformed Chinese bootleg Louis Vuitton cherry blossoms visit me when I’m feeling lost or low. They dig me out of the trenches and urge me upward, onward. Their crimson, gaping mouths — shaped like the last quarter moon — speak to me in the voice of Chinese military strategist Sun Tzu. “To be warrior is to be like water,” I can hear them say. “When the path is blocked, do not stop; simply change your shape.”
The sort of writing that makes me wonder why I even bother. Thank you but also please get worse.
“I have a dream that children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their pudding but by the content of their character in relation to said pudding.”