Chef Poophead

‘If you’ve ever met a psycho, you’ll know what I mean’.

Poophead was our head chef at Cafe Fig Tree, and God knows why. Poophead had been there for years, and like dead wood everywhere, he believed he was a law unto himself. He never listened to anyone, especially not the people paying his wages. Some people can get away with being dickheads, but the rule is the goods/skills etc you bring to the table has to outweigh the bad/dickheadishness. That’s why Gordon Ramsey is allowed to be a foul-mouthed prick, what he brings to the table outweighs the smattering of C*%#’s that flow from his mouth like water from a fountain cherubs wang. Unfortunately, like X-factor rejects have proven time and time again, the most talentless schlubs are always the most convinced of their uniqueness and giftedness. Poophead was the type of guy who thought being a prick enhanced his aura of specialness, but he lacked any redeeming features to back-up his narcissism and arrogance. Have you ever met a weed smoker who thinks their stoned ramblings make them profound? Poophead was a meth smoker, which is like a weed smoker on well, meth. Poophead was unapproachable and unpredictable. As the managers, Christy and I were both entitled to, and expected to make changes to the menu. We were expected to adjust the menu in response to the changing wants and needs of our customers, and to ensure customer satisfaction by returning any meals they were unhappy with to the kitchen and arranging replacement meals. We were also according to our contracts, entitled to a lunch off the menu during our break. Poophead, did not like to do any unnecessary work, and in his eyes any work was unnecessary, but particularly any work that did not feed his idea of what he was worthy of. Preparing meals for the café managers was one of these tasks he felt was below him. In the tradition of all great passive aggressive he would expend great effort doing the shittiest job possible, far more effort than it would take to just do the fucking job. We suspected he was spitting in our meals, so Christy and I decided to started putting our meals through as customer orders and wiped them from the system later. Once Poophead got wind of the game we were playing, his rage at being denied the chance to spit on our food couldn’t be contained. He reported us to Don, which only made him look more pathetic than he already looked. When your manager has to design elaborate charades just to get you to do your damn job, you rarely receive the sympathy you are expecting to sooth your sense of betrayal. Poophead didn’t scare me, I have met plenty of bullies in my time and as far as bullies go, he was pretty impotent. Spitting is pretty gross, but quite frankly your average pre-schooler eventually moves on from spitting to the really savage stuff like loudly pointing out women’s moustaches so in the scheme of things his methods were pretty stunted. Yes, the kitchen is the Chef’s domain, but if no-one wants the food you cook, you are lording over an imaginary kingdom. Unfortunately, like even the most remedial of pre-schoolers Poophead slowly learned how to be more of a dickhead. Peoples tyres were being slashed and deflated in the parking lot. More specifically Christy and I were finding our cars with flat tyres far too often to be an unlucky coincidence.

Poophead had bought a tire-turner from Super Cheap Auto and was unscrewing the caps of the tyres so they slowly leaked air out over a couple of days until the tire went completely flat. You would refill your tyres and it would happen again, so you thought you needed to buy all new tyres. He got caught in the act playing this malicious and potentially fatal game and didn’t even have the dignity to be embarrassed at being caught, what a petty piece of shit. This was a man who would tamper with someone’s car because they wanted to add or remove something from his menu. I wonder if it was the drugs or if something in his brain was just broken. Poophead had a young daughter and a partner, another confusing paradox of hetero relationships. I’m not saying everything’s unicorns and rainbows in gay land, but gays don’t get preggers so accidentally finding yourself tied to a fertile psychopath is less of an everyday danger. Hopefully Poophead’s family one day sees him for the psychopath he is and escapes to safety. Eventually the bosses could no longer ignore Poophead’s behaviour and finally fired him. Straight out of the narcissists play book, Poophead fought back against this affront by smashing beer bottles against the café door, damaging our cars and an assortment of other delights that are part of an abuser’s repertoire.

We decided to take the matter further with an A.V.O at Parramatta Court. Our case took a few months to register but once it was submitted, we were assigned a hearing date. We turned up eager to see this arsehole whimper before a judge but of course it didn’t happen. Like the pathetic coward he is, he didn’t show up. The judge declared that if Poophead did not appear on the second requested date the case would automatically be ruled in our favour, and an apprehended violence order would be granted. Two weeks later at the second court date there was again no sign of Poophead. The judge granted the AVO. Poophead now had 3 separate AVO’s placed against him. There is something wrong with the system when a man can inflict a reign of terror upon so many people that 3 times people are prepared to go through the whole rigmarole of taking out an AVO. It’s not an easy process, yet 3 times people thought it was worth the time and effort to pursue it. 3 times the court accepted that he was an abusive dickhead who needed to be legally warned not to be an abusive dickhead, yet there he was still walking the streets. I really hope Poophead is in jail by now, or dead in a gutter from an overdose. The world does not need that kind of poison out there.