I lost my job at the hot chicken sandwich company today. They called it a “strategic restructure.” I called it getting canned from a place that sells spicy bird meat.
They pulled me into the “Cayenne Conference Room” — aka the breakroom — and told me my “passion” wasn’t a good fit. Translation: I ranked our worst customers on a whiteboard and started a petition for bigger sauce cups.
I packed my ranch packets, flipped the “open” sign to “closed,” and walked out smelling like ghost pepper and poor decisions.
Hot chicken? Sure. Hot mess? Absolutely