Today, she strutted into work like a pirate, a parrot perched regally on her shoulder. “Meet Sir Squawkington,” she declared, loud enough for the entire produce section to hear. “Legally, he calms my anxiety, my friend :)”

The bird immediately let out a shrill squawk that echoed through the store, sending customers scrambling. One toddler dropped his juice box and began wailing. Kalisha? Completely unfazed. She made a beeline for the breakroom, cooing softly to Sir Squawkington, “You’re my emotional rock, baby. You keep mama safe.”

By midday, Sir Squawkington had caused more chaos than a Black Friday sale. He’d bitten two customers—one of whom threatened to “sue this clown circus”—and pooped on the self-checkout machine, turning every transaction into a biohazard.

When Karen #47 demanded an explanation for the “avian feces” smeared across her receipt, I knew I had to escalate. I stormed into HR, where Tabitha was entrenched in her natural environment: surrounded by fast food wrappers, her KFC bucket poised like a holy grail.

I barely got out a “Tabitha, we have a problem—” before she raised a grease-coated hand. “Evan, do you want an ADA lawsuit? Do you want to be held personally liable? No? Then stop being a goddamn Karen, do your fucking job, and get the fuck out of my office.” She didn’t even pause before adding, “And close the door—my favorite daytime TV soaps are about to start.”

Meanwhile, Kalisha spent the rest of her shift stationed near the bakery, tossing crackers to Sir Squawkington like he was some feathered deity. Every time a customer passed, the bird let out a menacing “Bitch!” or “Fuck off!” to the delight of Kalisha, who proudly declared, “He’s got a sharp tongue, just like me!”

At one point, Karen #47 returned, demanding I personally escort the parrot out. “This is a grocery store, not a goddamn petting zoo!” she shrieked. I apologized profusely while scrubbing the latest batch of bird shit off the self-checkout. Sir Squawkington watched me work with unsettling focus, then squawked, “Do better!”

Clocked out late, hands raw and reeking of bleach, leaned against the mop bucket, and whispered, “Yes, friend. This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630891&forum_id=2/en-en/#48314974)