WONG IS RIGHT

by Michael Wong

[wongisright]

blippi could never

[wongisright]

Pick Your Own Produce Dates

Did you, like me, miss out on summer berry picking dates? Well guess what: We're fucked.

Hope you've been lifting this fall because if you're tryna take your boo out to a pick-your-own-produce date (which by the way is the laziest shit I've ever heard of from farmers), you're looking at picking up big ass pumpkins at a patch, or picking bushels of apples which, newsflash, are heavy as shit.

Now I'm not saying don't go out and do this. On God your Instagram is about to look hella ‪#‎vsco‬ (triple digits prolly depending on how mean you are to people). By all means do what you want to do. I'm just saying, you prolly aren't gonna eat a bushel of apples. Be real. When's the last time you at one full apple? And grandmama only has so much time to make pies before she stops cooking for good (see: dies).

Just saying. You're gonna be pissed as fuck as you, super sore, drag the burlap sack to your Camry wishing it was a Delorean and you were picking berries in July instead.

In summation, consider doing some Tae Bo or equivalent hard workout before subjecting yourself to the strenuous labor, I mean, a "romantic date", that is fall produce dates. Apples are fucking heavy yo. We'll do better next year.

[wongisright]

Hi Kayla,

We at Lunchables are very sorry to hear your child has had an issue with our product. It is our utmost concern to--Wait, never mind, we just re-read your post.

Kayla, with all due respect, WTF?  On behalf of Lunchables, we ask that you please get your shit together and eat a real adult lunch. We suggest "sandwiches” or “salads”.

Does your boss know you  use company time to post complaints to Facebook brand pages for children food? Did the Gushers people care about your preferences on food touching other food? Let us know.

Just kidding. Don't, because we don't care.

Unless you're high as fuck at work or got the Benjamin Buttons, let's reserve the Lunchables for kids like your 8 year old self, and the bitching for someone who will listen.

-Lunchables

PS If you're gonna be embarrassing and eat Lunchables at work, at least opt for the cracker sandwiches. We make the nachos for the dollar store.

[wongisright]

Thoughtful kid

[2004] Mom: Michael why is the browser history cleared...? Me: Mom I'm shopping for your Christmas gift Mom: It's fucking February Michael

[tastefullyoffensive]

(photo by rockthemike)

[wongisright]

This is me y’all in the Internet flesh.

I wrote my university thesis about my time as a Disneyland Cast Member. It's now a really fun blog series on tumblr. I talk about my interview and my nipples in pt.1: http://wongisright.tumblr.com/.../two-years-a-cast-member...

[wongisright]

Two Years A Cast Member Part One: Conception

There are 30,000 people, four horses, and at least three turkeys working for the Disneyland Resort in Anaheim, CA. Somewhere between around the 27,056th person and the third turkey, I was hired. 

September 2011:

As a brand new college student in Southern California with a passion for eating out and buying shit, I really needed a job.

My resume was something special. I had listed six months of experience as a super market bitch (“courtesy clerk”) and ASB President, which by the way is a great piece of experience to add to a resume if you are an asshole.

With that, I assumed I was probably the most qualified eighteen year-old in Orange County, ready to jump head first into the job market and emerge magically employed. The postings I found were slim pickings: a stocker position here, a VP of Marketing position there, and enough sign-twirler gigs to last me a life time. But late into my third night of searching, it came to me, like a calling from the job-hunting gods above: an attractions operator position at Disneyland.

When I was in elementary school, my teacher asked the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. I remember some kids wanted to be firefighters, astronauts, and doctors. Some wanted to be firefighting astronaut doctors. But when I was a kid, I just wanted to work at Disneyland.

Second to the churros, what always made Disneyland special for me growing up were the dedicated employees who made my visits so magical. I was often jealous of them, with their cool costumes and awesome phrases (”Please drag your bodies away from the walls...”) So of course, the idea of joining their ranks really excited me, but incidentally also threw me into an existential crisis.

“What if working at Disneyland ruins Disneyland for me?” I’d ask my poster of The Rock that I’d won mistakenly at Washington’s state fair years before. Unfortunately Dwayne’s glinting, omnipotent smile offered only two-dimensional comfort, no answers at times of need.

I sat with the application filled out for a good five minutes, carefully revising my choices. I spent a solid ten minutes deciding my position on the statement “I am an organized person”, before finally changing my selection from “4: Agree” to “5: Strongly Agree”. After I was finally satisfied, I sent in my application late that September night.

To my surprise, early the next morning, I received an email letting me know I got an interview. “That sounds rather quick.” I know. But I figured that with so many people who apply, that must just be how Disneyland operated: automatically.  I shrugged off the thought and let the excitement set in.

After twenty minutes with my inhaler, I gathered myself and texted my mom to tell her the good news.

Me: “MOM! I got the interview at Disneyland!”

Mom: “Who is this? New phone lol.”

The Interview

I spent the days preceding the interview preparing: watching Disney movies, visiting the Disneyland parks, and eating Disney character inspired foods, like Peking Duck. I used Aladdin’s “Friend Like Me” like Rocky used “Eye of the Tiger”. I wore sweats a lot too, but that was because I was unemployed.

The night before, I combed every piece of information I could find online about interviews with The Mouse. Here’s what I learned from forums:

“If you talk about how much you love Disneyland and Disney movies, they won’t hire you.” –indianajack, MousePlanet

This was a major eye opener for me. Why, when I interviewed for my grocery store gig in high school, all I could talk about was how much I loved food and bagging groceries. I waxed poetic about how stoked I was to push carts. This time, I’d have to actually rely on my “skills”. Nightmare.

“Whatever you do, don’t work in Tomorrowland.” –FedoraTheExplora, Reddit

I already didn’t plan on it, but for some reason, hearing it from FedoraTheExplora made it more important.   

“Don’t dress like you want to suck Mickey’s dick”       –jcruise86, MiceChat

This was a serious blow, as it ruined my plans to wear the sexy clear heels that have been collecting dust in my closet since last Thanksgiving, but I rested easy knowing I would do anything it took to get the job (yes, including suck Mickey’s mouse dick.)

Armed with the new tips from my friends online and enough Disneyland trivia to bore even Walt Disney’s cryogenically preserved mind, I retired to bed that night with confidence. Today, I was a normal Asian, but tomorrow, I’d level up to Disneyland Cast Member Asian. Hell yeah.

The next morning, my “it’s a small world” alarm woke me up, signaling my brain that today was important. I ate a good breakfast (which for a college student is nothing, literally) and put on an outfit I hoped Mickey wouldn’t find too suggestive. When I jumped in my car, I turned on the “Aladdin” soundtrack to get in the zone, and was off to go give a shot my dream job.

Interviews are hosted at “Casting”, Disneyland’s hiring department. It’s a bright yellow building tucked into the expansive campus that is TDA, or Team Disney Anaheim, the HQ of all Disney parks related business this side of America.

A video played explaining a bit about Disney heritage, shit I already knew, like employees are “Cast Members” and Disneyland is a “show,” etc. It featured a young and smiling Hispanic woman (♪ “Diversity!” ♪). That was not her name, but the imaginary tune that rang in my head every time she’d slip her accent into her spiel. 

At first glance, most of the crowd looked normal, with only a few apparent Disney nuts in the mix. 

Now even though I consider myself a serious fan of Disneyland and its heritage, I have never tolerated hardcore Disney-philes. You know, the folks who are ready to spout out a thousand unsolicited facts about the Parks or Walt at a moment’s notice. They’re also the folks who look like they’ve been dipped in butter and rolled around in a Disneyland clothing store back room. I have always been a much more private worshiper. 

One such Disney-phile was seated next to me: a portly, nostrilly man named Gary. Watching his nostrils flare open with every breath reminded me of timelapses I’d seen of flowers blooming. I knew his name because he wore a replica personalized Disneyland name tag, a service they’ve since discontinued. I noticed him notice that I was noticing.

“Great nametag,” I lied.

“Thank ya!” Gary said, mostly with his nostrils. He polished His Precious with the cuff of his shirt. “I wanted to show ‘em what I would look like with a name tag on, and that I know my memorabilia.” 

I tried to hide my intimidation, but I was sure Gary could smell it.

Except it said “Gary”

Enter Hannah: interviewer dressed plainly in business casual and a real name tag, saving me from having to feign interest any longer.

“Michael Wong?”

All eyes in the room turned to the lone Asian fellow, me. As a joke, I looked at Gary (not Asian), who shook his doughy head. He didn’t know if my name was Michael because I wasn’t wearing a Seven Dwarfs name tag like an asshole.

“That must be me then.” I followed Hannah and gave Gary a wink.

I expected the office to be a Disney lover’s room of worship. A framed opening day ticket here, a Mickey altar there. Maybe Walt’s opening day speech playing on a loop as happy, white noise. But instead, the office was normal. Aside from a few, and I mean a few, Disney mementos occupying a good 15% of the total desk space, the office was an office. Office AF, if you will.

I sat down in a normal chair. We went through the basics: “Tell me about yourself,” “What’s are your strengths?” etc. Though I was ready to answer these, I was expecting more. More Disney, more magic. I played along, and before long, the conversation turned Disney.

“So why do you want to work at Disneyland, Michael?” It was a really good question, one I had thought about all week, molding and revising until I had the perfect answer. 

But I had forgot it.

“I mean…” c’mon… “I just…” almost got one… “…really love Disneyland a lot.” Fuck. I could feel indianajack’s disappointment as the Disney love slipped out of my mouth.

“Well great, we love people who love Disneyland!” Yeah, you don’t know shit indianajack. “Do you have any favorite rides, somewhere you could see yourself working maybe?”

“I’d love to work at the Jungle Cruise,” I said, this time with more confidence and honesty. It’s because I’m funny. “It’s because I’m a huge fan. But really, I’d be happy working anywhere, but Tomorrowland.” I remembered my training.

She gave me a curious look. “Hmmm. What’s wrong with Tomorrowland?”

Things stopped for a second. My heart fluttered and I started sweating profusely. I looked around the office for a hint. Was Hannah a former Tomorrowland Cast Member? Did she love Tomorrowland? Did she have a lover that worked in Tomorrowland? Did she get proposed to in Tomorrowland?  Was she born in Tomorrowland?! WAS HER DAD WALT DISNEY?

“I mean, wow… Tomorrowland. What a great place. Where do I start? It’s just that, you know,”…racking my brain for something… “I just enjoy the theming of Adventureland more.” I could almost hear the buzzword gods “Huzzah!” from the Job-Hunting Heaven above.

“I could definitely see you in Adventureland!" She smiled. And then so did I.

Hannah gave me the job that day, and I couldn’t have been happier. On my way out, I flung her door open with stupendous strength, my nipples aroused I assume because of the thrill of it all, or maybe it was the cotton blend of my shirt. All this caused the room of interviewees to look at me, full of nerves and anxiety, now newly intimidated by my joy. Their faces nonverbally asked for consolation, for help, for a promise that they too could get the job and have hard nipples like mine. My face, smiling and triumphant, nonverbally whispered “No.”

I got my assignment: October 1st. Training, called “Traditions.” Adventureland. 

I’d have to wait a week, just a week, but a week would end up being the most fucked up week imaginable.

[wongisright]

This is a real person. Err, was.

[wongisright]

Password Strength

[wongisright]

Double Whammy

My first job ever was a courtesy clerk (AKA supermarket bitch) at Top Food and Drugs in Lake Tapps, WA.

I took the job very seriously. Not as serious as TSA officers, but serious nonetheless. The job was a coveted position among students of the nearby high school who, like me, had resumes limited to qualifications like "C-Team Baseball Captain" and "Taking 4 AP Classes." Eventually, I wanted to move up to the head courtesy clerk position, which, in hindsight, was basically a glorified title for the teacher's pet of the courtesy clerks.

Most days at Top Foods were not special, but there are some days that I cannot forget.

It was a hot July day at the store. I clocked in and checked the daily courtesy clerk duty sheet.

You probably know that courtesy clerks push carts and bag groceries. You may also be interested (but most likely not) to know that we also: 

Put back the perishable items you changed your mind about. That means I have to walk all the way from the registers to the dairy aisle because you remembered last minute that Greek yogurt makes you gassy,

  Hazard the perils of switching an empty propane tank for a new one. Oh you're having a summer cookout with your friends on a sunny Saturday afternoon? Chill, let me go move this eight ton fucking gas tank into your Miata for you so you can go do that while I work... and as many angry patrons speculate,

Putting milk cartons on top of people's bread when bagging groceries

My first duty on the list was pushing carts. Reluctantly, I walked to the courtesy clerk area and put on my reflective vest, which of course works best in the sunlight. But before I go out to the carts, I have to do my bathroom check.

A bathroom check consists mainly of looking the bathrooms once over to stock the paper towels, empty the trash cans filled with paper towels, and make sure there are no messes, usually of used paper towels. You quickly begin to hate paper towels as a courtesy clerk.

I opened the door of the men's bathroom, checklist in tow. Immediately, I could sense there was a disturbance in the restroom force. I check the paper towels. Stocked. Then I check soap dispensers. Soapy as fuck. Finally, I opened the stall's door, and my nose found it before my eyes.

Feces. Poop. Shit. Everywhere. Wall-to-wall. Floor-to-ceiling. I'd watched enough CSI up until this point in my life to understand the splatter patterns. The poor soul who administered this was in pain for a while, probably stuck in line before he could get to the restroom, and when he got to the throne, he couldn't hold it in any longer. Poor guy was probably buying Pepto.

Even more fucked up was that it was apparent to me that this Jackson- Pollock-poop-painting had been here for at least an hour. It was beginning to dry. That means my asshole buddies and coworkers had skipped cleaning the shit knowing that someone else (me) would have to take care of it.

And so I did. I figured that if I wanted to become head courtesy clerk one day, I wouldn't let some poop get in my way. On my hands and knees, I scrubbed hard, holding my breath as one does when they pass certain people. I felt like Cinderella, before the fairy Godmother and after her stepmother shits all over the chamber floor (I think that's a part of the Grimm Brother version).

I busted out the restroom like a cowboy through saloon doors. I threw away all the evidence, sanitized the skin off my hands, and went to go tell my boss about the job I just did. And for my efforts, my boss gave me a... buckle your seat belts... $5 gift card to the store. Bless her soul. Not a promotion, but definitely $5 closer to one.

And so it got hotter. Only one more cart pushing hour before my lunch, so rather than put it off and put away perishables, I decided to get the carts, and the bathroom check, out of the way.

On the walk towards the restroom, I saw some water splashed on cardboard and I get 'Nam style flashbacks. I stood at the threshold of the men's room. "Lightning won't strike twice, Mike," I tell myself in consolation before entering. "Quit being a bitch." Before I can say another word, the door flies open and flattens up my face. The guy apologizes, and I nod to negate my embarrassment and pain. Upon entering the bathroom, with caution, I take a good look around. At first glance, everything looks bueno. Paper towels looking good. Urinals fabulous. I bravely look into the stall as well. Perfect. Shitless. As it should be.

With my chin held high, I venture into the women's restroom and go through my checklist. Paper towels. Stocked. Urinals. Nonexistent. I opened the stall door and...

More shit. I stood there staring at another heap of human waste for a while and couldn't believe my own two eyes.

The first occurrence was obviously an accident. I've taken enough power poops to know that. But this time, it wasn't everywhere. This time, the poop sat in a neat, calculated pile in front of the toilet. Meditated. Purposeful. Mocking me. There was no brown trail leading from the point of impact to the toilet bowl to suggest a misfire. Instead, the person who did this knew what they were doing. This shit was intentional. This shit was personal.

The shit sat still, staring at me, goading me with its many folds and ripples to clean it up like the courtesy clerk bitch I was.

"I'm not a bitch!" I barked. Quickly, my anger and disbelief turned into confusion. I began asking lots of questions, like "What lady would do such a thing?" and "Why isn't anyone telling me about this shit!?"

Wasting no more time, I once again donned my latex gloves and makeshift hazmat suit and began to scrub away. I was quickly realizing that wiping shit off linoleum was not my life's calling, and I decided then that no head courtesy clerk position was worth cleaning any more shit. With each poop smear I wiped away, a bit of my courtesy clerk passion wiped away, as well. I left a part of myself on the floors of those bathroom stalls that July day at Top Foods, a part I knew I'd never get back.

Feeling dually defeated and victorious, I threw my gloves into the trash before letting my manager know I had to clean another shit from the bathrooms. After a hearty guffaw, my lovely manager strolls down from her upstairs office and hands me another envelope containing a gift card. This time, the gift was worth... buckle your belts again...another $5, to the store. One would expect the value of the card to increase, if not doubly then exponentially. But it didn't.

I decided to spend my $10 on a late lunch that actually came out to $10.87, so I had to shell money out at the end of the day. Lots of coworkers were dicks about the whole thing, making poop jokes in my ear, which are never ever appropriate in any venue. A veteran cashier joked, "Wow. Twice in one day? That's a double whammy!" And so it was christened: Michael Wong experienced the first double whammy in the elusive and interesting history of Top Foods. That's one for the resumé.

Before I left for the day, I took a really nice poop in the employee restroom. I took special care not to miss. I thought long and hard about the days events and of my future at Top Foods. I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, drying with a paper towel that I ended up leaving on the counter (the thug life had chosen me that day).

I walked out of Top Foods that day with a clear mind, an empty bowel, and a decision made: I would quit this shitty job before the month's end, to pursue less... shitty... opportunities.