Hamtard the pug-eyed human hybrid: Dish Troll Last night I worked with hamtard again. My other girls, all normies, dread her arrival.  Let me tell you, listening to her stumble through an order with a customer is painful for everyone. She asks way too many questions, mishears all the time, doesn't know, STILL, that you can make anything a combo. "What's a hotdog basket?" Bitch I've told you at least 10 times in the last 2 months what it is. Anyway, between 2 and 4 I'm trying my best to keep her away from customers, away from food, away from everyone and everything except the simplest tasks, like filling ranch cups or wiping tables.  When 4 rolled around and my other girl got in I sent hamtard immediately on break. She buys herself an extra large pop and fills it to the brim, then begins her slow waddle to the door. It's a miracle she drives. It's actually a pretty terrifying thought. When she gets back from her break I send her to the dishes. This particular pile of dishes would take a normal person about 30 minutes. It took her 30 minutes to wash 3 pans.  But whatever right? Anything to keep her away from me so I don't snap on her.  Literally 2 hours later and she still isn't done. She's resting against the sink, doing dishes so slow they're growing mold. It's beyond belief.  I went to check on her and happened to be throwing something away when I notice the trashcan was one quarter of the way full of water.  "Hamtard, you can't dump water in the trashcan. 1 gallon is 7 pounds. Last time you did this shit it took 3 of us to lift the can to the dumpster. You have like 8 gallons in there!"  HT: (O-O;) "oooooook. I'll take it out when I finish these dishes." About 45 minutes later, after 3 dishes and a slow shuffle to get the dolly for the can, which means it took her a grand 20 minutes total to cart the can out and dump it, she comes in and says "I've learned my lesson." As if it experienced a life lesson that rocked her world. She stared at me, I stared back, then shook my head and told her "go finish your dishes." Peace for the next 30 minutes. Then it happened. "I cut myself..."  "ON WHAT?" I thought maybe a knife?  HT: "On the plastic tub for the chicken breader."  (Proccessing) "............" It was just a tiny nic. Very small. I put neosporin on her little fat thumb, put a bandaid on it and shooed her back to her lair. Another 2 hours goes by and she cuts herself again!  "HOW?"  HT: "on the bottom of the tea urn. Can I not do dishes anymore?"  "........" (fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck) I agree. I have to direct her the rest of the night to be at least somewhat useful. Try scrubbing a grill, cleaning a kitchen, then counting drawers and doing paperwork all while having to keep an eye on the dish troll to make sure she isn't waddling around with that blank pug eyed stare of stupidity on her face doing nothing but guessing at her next task.  I know not everyone has common sense. It's not something you can learn easily. But she has absolutely no sense at all. It's absolutely gut wrenching watching her little gears turn in her head when you explain something to her. "I need three pans, all with lids, and one needs a rack."  HT: (O-O;)  "Hamtard, hurry up."  HT: "ooooookaaaay." Fucking. Shoot. Me. We weren't busy last night. There was no reason behind everyone getting out at 10.30, except for the fact that hamtard is literally useless. It's like instead of us having 4 to Close, she not only subtracts one but 2. Because everything she does you have to go back and redo it. Every. Fucking. Time. By the way, I didn't get out until 11 because Fucking fatass overfilled her fatass cu,p DIDN'T PUT A LID ON IT, then dribbled pop all down the hall towards the door. So I had to mop that up behind her. It's not like I have a life. It's not like I wanna come home and spend time with my man, kiss my kids, and check on my dog and her 1 week old pups. I left a note for the store manager though. "PLEASE SCHEDULE HAMTARD FOR 4 TO 8 ONCE A WEEK FOREVER."